"tilled" poems
But can you love me in the deep? In the dark? In the thick of it?
Can you love me when I drink from the wrong bottle and slip through the crack in the floorboard?
Can you love me when I’m bigger than you, when my presence blazes like the sun does, when it hurts to look directly at me?
Can you love me then too?
Can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?
Can you love me when I am howling and furry, standing on my haunches, my lower lip stained with the blood of my last ****
When I call down the lightning, when the sidewalks are singed by the soles of my feet, can you still love me then?
What happens when I freeze the land, and cause the dirt to harden over all the pomegranate seeds we’ve planted?
Will you trust that Spring will return?
Will you still believe me when I tell you I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your dreams and call them to the surface of your life?
Can you trust me, even though you cannot tame me?
Can you love me, even though I am all that you fear and admire?
Will you fear my shifting shape?
Does it frighten you, when my eyes flash like your camera does?
Do you fear they will capture your soul?
Are you afraid to step into me?
The meat-eating plants and flowers armed with poisonous darts are not in my jungle to stop you from coming. Not you.
So do not worry. They belong to me, and I have invited you here.
Stay to the path revealed in the moonlight and arrive safely to the hut of Baba Yaga: the wild old wise one… she will not lead you astray if you are pure of heart.
You cannot be with the wild one if you fear the rumbling of the ground, the roar of a cascading river, the startling clap of thunder in the sky.
If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny room — the night sky is not for you.
If you want to be torn apart, come in. Be broken open and devoured. Be set ablaze in my fire.
I will not leave you as you have come: well dressed, in finely-threaded sweaters that keep out the cold.
I will leave you naked and biting. Leave you clawing at the sheets. Leave you surrounded by owls and hawks and flowers that only bloom when no one is watching.
So, come to me, and be healed in the unbearable lightness and darkness of all that you are.
There is nothing in you that can scare me. Nothing in you I will not use to make you great.
A wild woman is not a girlfriend. She is a relationship with nature. She is the source of all your primal desires, and she is the wild whipping wind that uproots the poisonous corn stalks on your neatly tilled farm.
She will plant pear trees in the wake of your disaster.
She will see to it that you shall rise again.
She is the lover who restores you to your own wild nature.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
seeds spread by whirlybirds
couples who take on thirds
love flying everywhere
trusted not and the scared
a puff, a blow, and then you go
fuzzy flight to and fro
**** ball picked and his wish
to feast upon a dreamy dish
yet a breathy breeze decides
where scattering of seed shall hide
in the fields, or cracks of pavements
lovers bound in their enslavements
to one another's dreams
dandelion dreams it seems
always never completely fulfilled
dandelion will be tilled
from immaculate and pristine lawn
or in a forest by a fawn
nourishment it is for me
its root bound deep, not free
like those dandelion seeds
rest my head upon cement
men I've met will not lament
sprouts doubts of dandelion's needs
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
i.
the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like
us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.
ii. (at the dinner table)
there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down
back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn
and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs
and the japanese
iii.
my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****
city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they
used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.
your grandfather and his grandfather and i
iv.
awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew
up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts
and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.
v. (back at the dinner table)
i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,
preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:
“pa,”
“ma,”
v.
it is not cowboys that give us our names.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Under the amber sky she flows as far as the sea
her bank on the other side is shrunk as eye can see
I have seen joys rise like tide tears mingle in hers
she is Ganga the one river mother of all rivers.
On her ceaseless journey from high up to the bay
melts snow in her flow springs life from her clay
worshiped as holy mother yet spoiled by her sons
she is ravaged time again slayed by evil demons.
For ages she has nurtured life tilled green her shore
around her have sown hopes its timeless folklore
her soils have sculpted cornfields and images of goddess
she is now an ebbing tide end's shadows on her face.
Hear once her moaning waves her ripples' silent sigh
from the silts clogging her breast her beds going dry
dying groans of the mother poisoned in effluent
choked by her people's waste killed without relent.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Sunrise, Sunset.
Another Day.
New birth, Old death.
Another Life.
Music composed, Music heard.
Another Joy.
Soil tilled, Seed planted.
Another Miracle.
Wheat grown, Crop reaped.
Another Season.
Bird song. Silent wood
Another Tragedy.
Death in the surf. Plastic bag.
Another Pollution.
What's the solution?
God Knows
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 5:33 AM UTC
I stood flat-footed upon an eroding hill
Here the sweet peas, on tip-toe for a fight
With wing of coarsest black o'er delicate night
And spiteful fingers grasping at all beauty
To bind us all in deeds unworthy
Oh, toxic wind and fertile rain
Disperse the fragrance of this pain
In healing gardens root a seed
Sprout the bliss we sorely need
This tiny pulse of life we hold
Thrives in soil tilled with love
And tender vines create a bower
Of sweet pea tended, brought to flower
I stand bare foot on an erupting volcanic mount
Here the sweet peas, on tip toe for a flight
With wing of justice verity o’er delicate sight
And nails that compassionately snowball serenity
To bind us all with concord and altruism
Oh, acidic rain share the tears
Wash thy tainted eye-sight
Then crux us in the high-yield land
As we germinate to heaven’s height
The seed so robust and fertile
A shell encased with human forms
The greenness of reflected sextile
Oh Sweet pea, our mirrored storm
*Inspired by a stanza from Keats' poem:
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill
Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
With wing of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings."*
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 9:11 AM UTC
681
Soil of Flint, if steady tilled—
Will refund by Hand—
Seed of Palm, by Libyan Sun
Fructified in Sand—
2.9k
i tried to write a poem
a poem just for You
but when i sought to find the words
like hummingbirds, they flew!
i tried to bake some cookies
a dozen, just for You
but before they hit the oven
we'd shared the yummy goo
i tried to paint a picture
a picture just for You
but the colors all ran out of line
like sunlight through the dew
i tried to plant a garden
wildflowers, just for You
but when i'd tilled and sown the soil
too tall for me they grew!
i tried to find a treasure
a treasure just for You
but when i looked inside the chest
i found a gift from You
i tried to tell a story
a mystery, just for You
but when i lost the villain's trail
'twas You who found the clue
i tried to catch some fireflies
green starlight, just for You
but you smiled, and set the lightning free
when i brought my lamp to You
i tried to find the perfect shell
a conch shell, just for You
but all i found were little stars
who tickled like You do!
i tried to find an angel
an angel just for You
but when i told her who You were
she said "you can't have two"
i tried to catch a falling star
a wish, made just for You
but when i did, You said "My dear,
all I've wished for is in you…"
i tried to write a poem
a poem just for You
this time i found all the words
to tell the world of You
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
a river runs through a ghostly town
soaked clay red with the blood of the earth,
the land is marked with tire tracks like an addict's elbow crease
sweating oil and electrical wire,
fields tilled with the claws of a paper beast
sprout telephone poles and generations of debt
amongst indigo coffee beans,
rotting tin roofs striped with rust
creak folklore in the pouring rain,
muddied palms clinging to trust on mala beads
are stung with poisoned ink leaked from shrines golden and winking,
an ornate temple carves god sharp into a clouded sky
its steeple piercing his hands
shards of bone spilling ash onto upturned foreheads,
sun scorches unsuspecting soil and it cries exhaust fumes,
the sputtering song of a motorbike is answered
by the howl of a stray mutt in an alleyway
reverberating pleas to a clenched fist,
an unremitting flame sweeps ruin
across leaf barren trees
wind choking on smoke coughing up skeletons,
and the planet heaves
and the planet heaves
weezing on humanity's delirious daydreams
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
fallow lay in a field, neath soil well over-tilled,
the bones of explanations, excuses, and desperation,
a singular self-destructive but upward thrusted commandment,
compose a poem of revelation,
a poem of destiny and unknown destination
of thee, I write, ashen standing,
with the poker face of a lying son,
before the father confessor mirror,
stand with palms facing outward,
with perfect calm and utter fright
for every nominated error listed below,
when confronted,
hopeless the innocence,
easier now to admit,
with perfect clarity, your innermost
confabulatory familiar friends,
rise to the fire,
first and foremost
belabor not with supposed ratiocinations,
put aside, your ration of
conjured up-for-all, and-all-for-naught excuses,
the prosecutors charges, so thoroughly distinguished,
it disables, speech, vision, all reason extinguished
as the lips and fingers silent move,
the hopeless knowledge of a pardon of 99.9%,
untenable, ransacks,
for what passerby criminal thought
has not resided in your head,
the hearth of who you are?
you,
write of nature, love, celestial notions,
the Etcetera's of life, but to me,
leave the exposure of our uncompressed,
here revealed sinning,
for among those who
unashamedly acknowledge
the intertwining nature of
human failings, and for the balance,
uncap our divine imagery
you write at of those other
nuanced pleasures,
nature, love, celestial notions,
while the sinners wrestle with
the angelic demons of
confrontation and revelation
for your own sake and saving,
do not wrestle with me
for sinners love, welcome
company
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
i’ve let ghosts grow
inside me for too long
in a greenhouse of self-deprecation
i fed them sunlight in the
form of grief, water in the form
of tears, and tilled soil with heartbreak
now, i will cut them at the root,
tear at the stems with my voice
until my hands are bloodied by thorns
i will no longer be diaphanous,
i will let my limbs stretch
and take up space
i am human
i am an original orchestration
of carbon and screams;
i was made to survive
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
A farmer went to plant a crop
In his ready field
He threw it through and through the land
Preparing for his yield.
Some of his seed fell impotent
Upon a hardened ground
This seed was taken up by birds
Who quickly flew around.
Some seed fell on shallow soil
And sprouted quickly there
But there was no room for roots to grow
So the heat took up that share.
Some it fell in fertile loam
But there was other seed
As it grew it was choked out
By briars and by weeds.
Some of this land, however
Was harrowed quick and sure
The seed fell deep within it
And so the crop endured.
We all know this parable
That Jesus gave the crowd
They did not understand it
For they were not allowed.
But his stalwart followers
Asked the meaning of his words
They were of his kingdom
So this is what they heard...
The trodden soil was as a hardened heart
Which could not accept the Truth
And so it was devoured
By Satan. Foul. Uncouth.
This second soil was spurious
A sprinkling of dirt
Upon a rocky soil beneath
And so their Faith was hurt.
The Third had fatal mixture
Of good seed and of bad
The weeds were a distraction
And so the fruit was sad.
The final ground was fertile
Tilled by God's own hand
So 30... 60... 100 fold
Was the Harvest of that land.
The Word of God is like this Seed
It has much to offer
The Holy Spirit is its Wind
And Jesus Christ its Author.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/11/2016
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:18 AM UTC
Wind whistling,
Snow glistening,
We try not to,
But we're all listening.
Loud screams,
Bad dreams,
It's very far,
But close it seems.
Sad day,
Lost our way,
All we can do,
Is simply pray.
Innocence gone,
Life no longer long,
We may not know,
But we're all doing wrong.
Joy lost,
The Holocaust,
We look to see,
Hearts covered in frost.
Wars fought,
Sins taught,
Making mistakes,
Hoping not to be caught.
Not taking blame,
Pushing for fame,
As advanced as we are,
We're still all untamed.
Too much pride,
Needing a guide,
We will deny it,
But behind lies we hide.
Hurting others,
Betraying brother,
Many forgetting,
To appreciate mothers.
Lies are fed,
Filling heart and head,
Through all of these years,
Innocent blood has been shed.
Children abandoned,
Lonely and stranded,
We're all wasting the life
That we have been handed.
Taking from the poor,
We're loving no more,
Fight to be free,
End up starting a war.
People starting fights,
No longer enjoying the sights,
While mere mortals are taking
Our God given rights.
Soldiers killed,
Void can't be filled,
Pay close attention,
For pure souls have been tilled.
Need to find peace,
Work together like geese,
But greatest of all,
The hate needs to cease
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
Poem Analysis
1st read, I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius. billy
your poem comment-dissects my poem
my process,
a marathon interview for a new poem pole position,
limb by limb, word by word,
chewed and re-chewed,
like a tiring piece of bubble gum,
the flavor remaining ebbs, but is not extinguished,
and can live in your mouth,
forever
and the praise and this poem,
not a rodomontade,
for your comment dear Billy,
is the process description of a poet’s labor,
from word first to a baby’s birth,
gibberish into genius
emergent from first pain, then pushing, then tilled, at long last,
the dirtiest immaculate conception beautiful
billy reads my rambling, silly abstruse^ & wrote me:
*1st read I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius*
this is a much loved critique
for I well recall each step of creation,
a summarizing parallel
that your words+genes replicated so well,
forgiving you a minor typo, Billy,
it was genus, not genius that you meant
(but then again, why quibble over a miscellaneous, harmless, delighting, tiny little extra i...not me, said he, my muse ego )
Billy has gone gray dotted, but his dot, his comment,
with gratitude,
in me, he,
lives for ever
I feel gibberish coming on...
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
She is descended from strong women.
Bronze women. Stone matriarchs.
Pioneers. Immigrants. Fighters.
Hand in the earth, sun on the brow,
salt in the sweat, beautiful strong women.
Her ancestors rode ships to new horizons.
Forging destiny for their children's children
by riding waves to new lands.
Her grandparents tilled earth.
Beat back the scorching sun
and grew life in rows.
They sowed a future like seeds
for their children.
Her mother provided.
Giving hands full with
life wielding cast iron pots like
weapons. Fighting back
hunger and want.
She kept full bellies so her daughter
might have a full future.
She.
She has given her life to loving her family.
And has been lifelong devoted to that endeavor.
Never failing a step.
She has walked through foreign shores,
trailer parks, brand new hearts, and broken cycles.
She has cobbled together Christmases,
shattered hopes, family meals, lunch money, and hope.
She is tested.
She has walked the path of her ancestors.
She is a Pioneer.
A tiller.
A provider.
A fighter.
A warrior.
She is my mother.
And she will beat cancer.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
I'll write a poem a day,
and maybe that way everything will be
okay.
I'll look up at that oil covered sky,
that peculiar black stained shade of grey,
those wisps of condensation tilled out,
like fields of wheat and
creased tightly through golden streaks,
of setting suns' last gleams,
and I'll sit lack jawed, if just for a second,
and wonder if truly my existence is worth it.
So much doubt running,
so very deep.
Yes, I'll write a poem a day,
as if...
nothing,
really.
Aye,
Eureka, I know my meaning,
Yes I will express that frustration,
of an infinite empty feeling.
That little almost insignificant voice that says to you,
It doesn't matter, none of this is real,
Well for each and every one of you I'll feel,
quite intensely in fact,
that ignominious void,
the elephant in the room,
and with tact and poise,
I'll illuminate it for you,
so you can live, and I can dream,
Sweet fruitful dreams of nothing.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC
This is a place where you can see everything coming
from far away;
a place where people come
to leave;
a place where people pack in the middle of the night,
and wake the children
while it's still dark out,
hoping for hope in the cholera
of a sunrise
and the 5 a.m. Greyhound;
this is a place where there is no flea
market, just a strand of people
on the side of the road
a table and a parti-colored distress,
while their kids play in grass lots;
this is a place where factories are built,
clandestine factories; factories with no
signposts, and no barbed-wire fences;
this is a place where there is always something green
in the tilled rows crowding up against the road,
not necessarily growing,
but maybe the signs of an arbitrary decay;
this is a place for old trailers and rust tears;
telephone poles more than a stake in humanity,
communication rather than introspection,
redemption more than salvation,
revitalization more than pleasure,
insight more than hope,
promise more than dreams,
this is a place where a father rushes up to the bus,
pushing the kids,
as he ushers his wife on board,
the little children hopping up each step,
as he says
"Get on, and we outta here."
This is a place where families don't have belongings
where you don't belong to anything.
This is a place you can leave easily,
because it is a place with a name
you can't remember.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
I lived a childhood of dirt:
my beginning and end, my friend, my
frontier. Dirt was the reason why
when other kids were always sick, my antibodies
made me a demigoddess, a mud-pie,
sand-cookie, dirt gourmet
crunching lightly-rinsed carrots wiggled
straight from the ground.
It never hurt, never hurt at all.
Warm dirt under my knees and hands,
my nails blackened, feet buried like I
could root myself in the soil -- I was lettuce
with dirt at the center of each lacy skirt.
Horseradish, deep in the ground and bitter,
wanting to become something sweeter, a new
tree or rosebush or better yet a veggie,
like the wild dirt-skinned potatoes
I dug up in the yard.
But tubers don’t have moms who give
***** looks and shake their heads,
examine your hair and your nails.
She sighs at the dark stain of your
feet, and banishes you
to a white tub, where she scrubs
the back of your neck, muttering
“Dirt, dirt, dirt,” as if
she doesn’t know what you are made of.
So give me the dirt, because I know my onions.
Always digging for gossip, flipping up
the neighborhood skirt, curious whispers
the way cornstalks share their childhood
tales before being tilled down,
becoming rich, dark dirt.
Ashes to ashes, I recognize some
for what they are, just fertilizer
for the imaginations and vibrations of others.
I may be half dirt but don’t
treat me like it, full of grit and
covered in sand from my hands to
my elbows. But what I am won’t
put up with your ******** Dirt is
a mother, to feed and flourish, dirt
is a woman much like me, and you
will never know the dirt under my
fingernails the same way I do.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
A seed
That was what your love was like
It had to die to grow
Watered by memories
Tilled by todays
And all our hopes for tomorrow
My heart still blooms with love for you
And that's where your garden still grows
Nov 15, 2023
Nov 15, 2023 at 3:33 AM UTC
I heard my mother's song,
Sounds of breakfast,the kitchen radio,
Smell of bacon on the rattling stove,
Heard the slapping wood and wire screen door.
Window open to the sounds of birds:
Liquid flute-songs of meadowlarks,
Chirruping robins on the lawn,
Raucous coughing calls of crows,
The rooster bragging out his strutting call.
Breezes lifted the wet scent of sod,
The ever present smells of earth fresh tilled,
And musty odors of last year's hay.
Life on the farm moving twilight to day...
Everything conspiring to call me to play.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 7:21 PM UTC
Another heady day blooms and gathers pace
Spring dawns at 5 a.m. with a gargle and spit in the dark
Big rain drops and falls
Soft blood red wet cherry stones of bath salts
Splayed across my ageing face
Autumn showers then walks
The spiderweb of ragged birdsong feathers and
Threads through the branches
Of just November trees
Autumnal hymnal
Singing through the dying darkness, whispering
Don’t capture the light
And walking jogs thought
Factoring rebuke as Information unwanted
Proof then reproof
The tarmac fields of youth
Tilled by broken hands with
Broken men mending pipes and wires
Time leaves a presage- a butterfly mark
Autumn leaves their signals sending winter’s mark
Beauty colours death
Dec 15, 2009
Dec 15, 2009 at 1:29 AM UTC
The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.
A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.
Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.
But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.
Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.
And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.
Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.
And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 4:57 AM UTC
illusions soil damp with summer rain
we are silence creeping softly
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter tea and stale buttery breads
our stealth footprints leaning to the shadows trail us
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
turn to whisper your hush-now's and stifle the laughter
tis serious things afoot in the majestic night
seed lain with casual grunts
by the farmers son come of age
till foolish boy reckons what hes done
but storm riding in and no time to dawdle
bread in the basket and skittles in the cookfire
whats to be done whats to be done
he sweeps his mistakes aside and plows onward
like his pappy would have done
illusions soil fertile
and fools will take to heart any tale
so we have come sneakin' and creepin'
to harvesting our due
in halflight carrying a farthings worth of sugar
for his bitter teas and stale buttery breads
feed the fools mind with all manner of delusion
and while we sit and sup in the heavenly scented field
the thick scents of tilled earth
and the fresher faster scent of rain
he will be singing and dancing a madwoman's jig
under a lunatic moon
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
*If I had one long wand
That reached far up to the sky
Would have poked it in the cloudland
Can’t see the earth so dry!
Can’t see the earth so dry
Scarred and deeply hurt
If I had a wand to poke the sky
Would have torn the clouds apart!
The parched earth is crying for rain
The soil is a desert track
Need a long wand to break open
The clouds to heal the crack!
The peasant is waiting on his tilled ground
May not his toil go waste
It’s time for the clouds to be earthbound
Save the season’s harvest!
O god give me a long magic wand
To dispel this summer’s looming curse
Force the stubborn clouds to melt and disband
Come down on earth as showers!*
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC