"rural" poems
He pulled and parked the supply red wagon,
then climbed the mast to the captain's cabin.
Captain Red is ready for adventure.
A quest to collect the world's best treasure.
His pirate crew is renowned far and wide.
They're rough and tough and they don't ever cry.
But none of them boys has the captain's stuff.
So don't mess with him, man, cause he don't bluff.
This motley crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
whales, whirlpools, storms, mermaids, krakens and kings.
"Set sail," squaws the boss as he munches lunch
and the Ocean Destroyer leaves port Wunche.
These rolling green hills are now ocean waves.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Benjamin!" beams the first mate Susanne.
Impeding the journey that just began.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The first mate trumps the captain, Ben will learn.
...
Her spacesuit crew is renowned far and wide.
They're smart and nice and they don't ever lie.
But none of these girls has commander's stuff.
So don't mess with her, girl, cause she don't bluff.
This brainy crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
aliens, black holes, stars, and martian springs.
"Lift off!" beams the boss as she munches lunch
and the Star Chasing Rocket leaves base Wunche.
These rural backyards are now rocky space.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Susanne!" beams the pilot Benjamin.
Impeding the flight before it begins.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The pilot trumps commander, Sue will learn.
...
Boys and girls grow up and out the front door.
Those children’s games evolve to adult chores;
those kiddy lawns to grandparent’s domain.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
“Being a farmer is like being a priest;
you take a vow of poverty
and make a pact with the Lord
that no typhoon will come
and destroy your crops.”
In the rise of sedentary human civilization,
The nation’s agriculture
Became the key expansion.
Its history dates back thousands of years,
With its development,
Has been driven and defined –
By different climates, cultures, and technologies.
The Filipino farmers:
Are they now a dying breed?
Numbers of small farms has dwindled,
With workers opting for city life.
But this trend could exacerbate food insecurity!
Yes, in an import-dependent country –
Already struggling to meet current food demand.
In the face of growing losses,
And from volatile weather,
To new-fangled farming tech,
Limited education makes them less receptive.
What took such toll on the agricultural sector?
Maybe the farmer themselves,
The investors, the buyers – maybe.
Now, it’s due to the government policies,
Our programs are good, yet so weak.
There’s excessive reliance on agricultural imports,
And corruption on the upper level.
Compounding the problem
Is a younger generation –
Largely, leaving rural areas nationwide,
And depleting the pool of potential agricultural workers.
They say it’s too late to do something;
But the mind-set of the younger generation
Still we can change
And make farming appealing once again.
(9/8/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:02 PM UTC
Establish a research and development facility tasked with recycling 100,000 commonly used household goods or packaged products back into the original base material needed to remake it into new product packaging. Pass legislation requiring all companies selling products with packaging to buy their source materials from a registered public-private venture allowing any firm willing to participate to do so. Companies must then manufacture packaging locally using source materials supplied by one of the public-private companies. Companies will also be required to hire locally using a diversity and economic income model incorporating or locating the participating companies in the poorest rural counties in the state.
Society grows great when Old Men plant trees. -Socrates
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
choreography
is taking off
in rural areas
cows are moving
and grooving
fabulously
on hillsides
and in creek paddocks
you can see cows
shaking
their four legged frames
WOW
WOW
WOW
those cows can dance
their hypnotic steps
put one in a trance
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Four old friends
Dead of winter small town
Germany.
Smoke rising from chimneys
From cigarettes, and pipes
From trains riding the rural rails
From city spires
And factories
From airplanes
Airplanes
and Airplanes,
From Airplanes.
Smoke dancing and laughing
Stinging and coughing
Smoke in my hair and jacket
In the pores of my skin
Smoke in my eyes,
Up the hill
And through the woods
Dead of winter
Small town Germany
Four old friends
Walk two by two
Three by one
Four and four.
Walk by the church,
Down the creek,
Up the hills, the hills
And through the woods
Small town
Germany four old friends
Dead of winter
Cigar smoke and beer
Cigarillos in a chain
Smoke from crystalizing breath
And fireworks
Smoke from bonfires
And tailpipes
Smoke from airplanes
Airplanes and airplanes
Smoke from airplanes.
Smoke stains and cigarette burns
Little circles in my jacket
Germany
Four old friends dead of winter
Small town
Smoke tears
Smoke promises
Smoke memories that linger
Like the faint nausea
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
I watch the **** end of your last cigarette
Crumpled and fading
In the ashtray of that Badischer bar
And your eyebrow twitched
The heart-wrenching shiver
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
And I whispered:
(airplanes)
airplanes and airplanes
I whispered airplanes.
That’s what the hell.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
the bus poets
we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!
once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases
we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!
no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw
books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers
if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you
tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 7:53 AM UTC
*I began
as an accident, but what I know is no accident.
I sprouted up
in rural America as a white girl-child so what I learned was learned through white girl-child eyes.
I grew to become
a liberal white queer woman so what I perceive is through liberal white queer woman’s eyes.
I thrive
as a creator, a dreamer, an artist, so what I experience is experienced as a creator, a dreamer, an artist.
Who are you to say what I merit?
Who are you?
You began.
You sprouted up.
You grew to become.
[I hope] You thrive.
Who am I to say what you deserve?
Who am I to say?
I am me to say.
I am not to say
for you.
You are not to say
for me.
For you are to say
for you.
and I
for me.
And that,
dear friends
should be no privilege.*
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
Fiat lux and
Then I stand and see how it looks out on
Gnothi seauton psychologies of a naughty automaton he is
Out speeding on the autobahn while she is
Now sleeping on futons in peace it's
Not pieces that need to be re-ordered yet
Since he's reckless but wrecks less when he's courting it's
A sport, you see a ticket's his master trophy in-
Deed endorsing his Porsche-speed matrimony down master row and she's
Driven to this racer who makes her en-
Force things, they later make her take her lead like lead's erasing then vanishing
Banished from whatever it is they're drinking and it's cleaned
Running from the pitcher as if it's her fantasy
Love who's the catcher who has her and
Now you see
It's not lack-lusting but luck-lasting because lastly
Down the street
Is where I swear we're running faster from crashing, finally
Into this dreamcatcher's hazard
Our dreamcatcher's hazard
Oh have you heard
It's absurd that the whip cracked
Yeah the Porsche was hacked baby transformed back in two and back into a nat-
Ural rural state where the horse power level was more morally sta-
Ble biblically faith-
Ful foolishly a-
Ble but yeah we take over whatever we face-off and baby we're faster so we'll have to chase after our
Dreamcatcher's hazard and
That dreamcatcher's hazard's a
A madness that is learned
And it's absurd
So say the mattress is glowing it's holy
Matrimony, so don't look lonely it's only
Master Roshi, to say to chase your dreams
It's you and me be-
Cause for you my blood is flowing
For you my blood is glowing
For you this blood is flowing
And too the flood is blowing
It's true our love is growing
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
*And lo, with evening shadows comes the twinkle of the stars.
Yonder is the rising moon and further west is Mars.
How wondrous is The Milky Way, away from city lights.
The silence seems to deafen me on sultry rural nights.
Oh, I could sit upon the porch and listen here for hours.
Indeed, the night reflects the subtle magic of nature's powers.
Play on, oh evening symphony and with this starry scene,
Delight my senses off to slumber with a summer dream.*
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
Golden Valleys, Growing Naturally
<>
This is a Logo in Ireland, Dairygold™
is the company.
I would safely say, that there is hardly
an acre in rural Ireland devoid of some
form of artificial fertilisers, pesticides,
herbicides or fungicides.
(Ireland is riddled with consumer cancer)
If the Logo was written as follows,
a comma between Growing & Naturally
plus an exclamation mark ! which should
really be a question mark ? (in the absence
of the comma between Valleys & Growing)
i.e.
Golden Valleys, Growing, Naturally! or ?
Then it might pass.
Let's see if we can force them to change
it and by doing so, it will highlight the
fraudulent practice of duping consumers
with blatant grammatical omissions and
the wordplay illusion by clever marketers.
(Well, perhaps not as clever as they thought)
ps.
I spent all morning, wondering should they
be a comma in the last paragraph, in the
afternoon, I removed it. Oscar Wilde.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 3:27 AM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
It is the 30th day of the months in Kenya
State and corporate capitalist have now paid their workers
Wages or salaries or stipends or emoluments all being remunerations
While the rural bourgeoisie and urban bourgeoisie have also paid ex-gratia
To relatives come over-aged workers who have declined retiring
For the fear of looming starvation if at all they go home, where they were born,
Nonetheless; proceed they receive will do nothing whatsoever
As it will be stifled by the monster of desperate consumerism;
So fat and gullible in this tiger of land in the region called Kenya;
The terror peddling rent, courtesy of ruthlessness of the landlord
Bills of electric power in their full monopolistic gear
Bills of water devoid of quality, indifferent dysentery monger
Wages for maid who keep on usurping the food of my child; milk
Bills for gas, all of it redolent of comprador bourgeoisie in fashion,
Hotel and bar bill - a surreptious one, as the bar girl only knows
Airtime and renewal, TV channels and other screen capitalistic ploys
Family trip to local resort in a feat of foolish consumerist venture,
Money to the old mother at home and, sometimes depraved but patient father
ARV’s money to my *** aids stricken sister at the village, my aunt also
Tuition fees for my son at the kindergarten, who goes to schools but learns nothing
fees balance which my wife has to pay at the tailor to ransom out her dress,
M-Pesa and M-Swari loan repayment, this only for Kenyan 30th dayers
They know the agony of dealing with Kenyan mega-capitalist safaricom ltd.
This consumerism and **** consumerism,
It is the menacing bane of the Kenyan poor
It is the avaricious tube which siphons back
The hard earned money from pockets of the poor
Back to despotic account of the pitiless world pigshotry.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
The world's a bubble; and the life of man less than a span.
In his conception wretched; from the womb so to the tomb:
Curst from the cradle, and brought up to years, with cares and fears.
Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
But limns the water, or but writes in dust.
Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd, what life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools to dandle fools:
The rural parts are turn'd into a den of savage men:
And where's a city from all vice so free,
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, or pains his head:
Those that live single, take it for a curse, or do things worse:
Some would have children; those that have them none; or wish them gone.
What is it then to have no wife, but single thralldom or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please, is a disease:
To cross the sea to any foreign soil, perils and toil:
Wars with their noise affright us: when they cease,
We are worse in peace:
What then remains, but that we still should cry,
Not to be born, or being born, to die.
6.3k
Rural fairies with their soft hands plant the corn
To make the black earth green
And turn it into a delightful scene
The green corn turns yellow in the morn
The corn sprouts from the earth
Like Jesus gets eternal re-birth
The farm becomes greenery
I wonder at nature’s nice scenery
The earth becomes a green carpet
And becomes astonishingly beautiful to look at
Plantation of corn is nature’s great citation
It becomes a golden carpet in rotation
I wonder at the beauty of plantation
It is more beautiful than Keats’ quotation
More enjoyable than any musical sensation
I think it’s God’s mysterious revelation
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:28 AM UTC
1466
One of the ones that Midas touched
Who failed to touch us all
Was that confiding Prodigal
The reeling Oriole—
So drunk he disavows it
With badinage divine—
So dazzling we mistake him
For an alighting Mine—
A Pleader—a Dissembler—
An Epicure—a Thief—
Betimes an Oratorio—
An Ecstasy in chief—
The Jesuit of Orchards
He cheats as he enchants
Of an entire Attar
For his decamping wants—
The splendor of a Burmah
The Meteor of Birds,
Departing like a Pageant
Of Ballads and of Bards—
I never thought that Jason sought
For any Golden Fleece
But then I am a rural man
With thoughts that make for Peace—
But if there were a Jason,
Tradition bear with me
Behold his lost Aggrandizement
Upon the Apple Tree—
5.7k
She was carefully crafted to be fragile but choose to be a diamond over a coal.
Her skin reminds me of bed where I can be both vulnerable and secured.
A place to rest my head.
She may not know it but to me
her hair smelled like home on a summer night.
Her hands were so small yet when she holds mine,
she holds my whole world along with it.
She loves cats, vintage cameras, Ed Sheeran, the beach
road trips, the rural life, Harry Potter, of course she's a potterhead
These are the things that bring color to her.
Then fireflies emerge from their slumber to gather around her.
If I were to paint just her eyes I'd get a night sky
And in it lies her vast number of quirks in which,
more often than not
I find myself lost.
Her voice echo with melodies beyond what I could comprehend
But this is love, not logic.
I believe I was not meant to understand her.
I believe I was meant to love her.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
The left of center
are in north bound throes of a dupe
and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel,
in the morrow
my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal
While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills
a power rain this sobbing has spilled
No longer to be contained based on sheer will
Attacked by neurotic transcending
While sifting through files and photo stacks
Came across multiples of your smiling face
From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back
No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace
Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears
control lost during transport steer
Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest
Could make great sense to don a life vest
Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose
Shattering cascades diamondize the windows
A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake
If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make,
turning tragedy into a foolish mistake
people will curse and laugh
Paved over roads now films unseen
when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed
Elements effected by incidents
Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65
All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
1) Violence. She'll convert the rural scenery in your head into a forest fire.
2) Adventure. She'll fall off the face of the earth trying to catch a star for you.
3) Lust. Simple as that.
4) Love. The ripples inside you will become full grown waves. Love her.
5) Felicity. She'll fill your world with happiness and wonder. She's the darkness in a world of light, but the light in your world of darkness.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine
A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator
Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******
One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive
Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.
I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener
Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan
Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.
"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied
On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
A blood red sunset drips over
the black asphalt city skyline
somewhere in a lost part of America
where the dream has
long been dead and buried
and hate and fear rule
the rural streets that are protected
by peace keepers
that practice ******
more often than upholding the law
It has been declared open season
on any crow the color
of a starless night sky
and the dove has become
a symbol of
to protect and serve
their own kind
birds of a feather
that cover for one another
justice is blinded
by the snow covered truth
and the color of corruption
is coincidentally the same
as the color of money
the poor have little choice
but to trade their bones
and their hopes
to the corporations
of the new land
of the free
to be owned by
and controlled by
a minimum wage
that only guarantees
to keep the poor
poor enough
to work another day
and another day
and another day
until there bones are
nothing but powder
and their beds
are nothing but coffins
for the barely living
and life somewhere
in a lost part of America
at the end of everyday
the sky turns red
and the color of blood
runs through the streets
as the doves go along
with their business
of the murdering of crows
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Health reflects plateaus,
Thick tears running like rivers,
Arthritic mountains,
Wrinkles ripple at beaches,
Plains welcome the exhausted,
Suburbs look peaceful,
Rural childhood decomposed,
Urban amnesia,
Roads outline the senile brain,
Destination: nostalgia.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
I had a big stage.
Set to the grizzly backdrop of rural Stephen King.
Posts for streets and persecution for people.
But I've seen the suns light bend to the curvature
of the sky's massive hands.
And share the illumination like they were
gifts from no one in particular.
So, bright and light yet pregnant with inspiration
that the ideas refracted off the green grass
and stretched out for the rest of my life
and yours.
The people grew branches
and bloomed blossoms and
smelled of crisp forgiveness.
And you were there, and you and you.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
Sprang forth with no branches or leaves. Small roots.
Bore mangoes, papayas,guava and bananas. Hybrid, mid limb grafting.
The trunk is a figment but it stands non less. You see
my family tree never was and always will be.
A roadside shade with low hanging fruit.
Was never planted.It was a deposit from the bowels of an exotic bird
of the jungles that sampled at leisure the offerings of the rain forests.
The Hardtack and marmalade came on ships with the kings business
Mixed with the Nigerian Fu-Fu ,the Aztec maize the Mayan legumes.
and all points of the compass.
Old Joe Denegri, The Blancaneaux , The Cattouse, The Melado, The Pinks
The Flowers,The Orozco and more. And boundless from the ***** of opportunity.
Piecemeal and untethered. But it is the tree that I must cling to.
However rough the bark.
The sap runs heavy and slow in the humid Belizean heat.To meet the earth.
Cool breezes blow a haunting disharmony. A sweet unity in chaos.
The soil is rich,pungent and forgiving. Soon, A bell tolls in the distance.
The Sea mists my dreams.
A stairway of coconut fronds to azure skies.
Nighttime smells like creation.
The still slackened pace.
The small rat race.
Tempest in a teapot.
Urban-rural.
Coolie gal.
Creole boy.
New Chinese.
Old African.
Ubiquitous Espania.
Garinagu. Mosquito coast.
Children of Mennon.
Old Basque faces.
Things we call races left with small traces
of what?
My tree, her tree, histree.
I am you and you are me.
I see me in your face and you see me.
We are and will continue to be.
Blended.
a hybrid. An orchid wild.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
Gates climb
News and paraphernalia
Modern communication
Internet on vacation
Today, rural Australia
Goes awol in valleys, hills
As seeking when hiding
Frustration biding
Trees, various pitfalls
An Insufficient population
Say Cannot build towers
Excuses bely hours
Trying, for connection
Work with what's known
Try cavalier solutions
It's the execution
When, creativity shown
First try computer waving
Above head I'm shaking
Signal not taking
Despite, the swaying
Next option lying on floor
Hint of access, fleeting
Patchy greeting
So slow, won't store
Then stand on top of bed
Try to reach high ceiling
Wobbly feeling
Response, still lead
Despite heat, go outside
The temperature violent
Connection silent
If Home far, just beside
Time past, similarly stung
Found access best rate
The paddock gate
Balancing, top rung
Troop to gate hopes keen
As Searing heat, metal
Stand and settle
Tightly, cradle machine
Process long, time lost
A Connection success
Finally access
But who, counts cost?
Eventually, its loaded mail
As Balancing hold keen
Humorous scene
As Sway, in light pale
Internet access by Gates
Not Bill, Steve, Microsoft
Hung steel aloft
So basic, surely debates
Climbing for a signal now
Is the practical response
Sadly ensconced
As Rural, area know how
But surely it must be time
When access essential
Internet critical
Yet today, gates climb
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckled breast!
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce reared above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy ***** sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betrayed,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On Life’s rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrenched of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruined, sink!
Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine -no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!
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