O soil of Gaza, within your belly lie their souls,
Their flesh you consumed without a conscience,
Their blood runs deep into your hidden streams,
Yet you boast of swallowing their tender bones.
You paved a path for their deformed limbs,
Without pity, you grant their innocence a bed.
We weep, yet you pretend our tears are sweat,
While you take joy in burying our children.
The bombs they hurl on your blossoms explode,
Cutting lives short, dismissing their future.
You turn gun-shattered bodies into your fertility,
But of what use, when their limbs lie withered?
O soil of Gaza, vomit out the souls of these children,
—
in innocence they entered your gluttonous belly.
Their days are better above you than within you,
So why did you allow your greed to take them away?
SOIL SOAKER*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
rain
weighty, intense
piercing, soaking, saturating
refreshing earth’s firmament
soil soaker
*Note:This poem was first published at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted (poetrysoup.com › poem › soil_soaker_1738878) This is my original poem.
As I lay on mounds of a shoreline,
weightless in eyes' astounded spirit
blending with angels, dirt, and crosses;
my soul bears this emptiness
in writhing streams omnipresent for day
and twilight's heavy float-- hours change
beyond primitive instincts--a landscape
of bittersweet cycles appear, and below it,
the fluidity from incandescent waters lap
on mouths of frozen stars requesting patience.
Here am i sprouting below, above and under
their flesh; fulfilling my need for deliverance
out of some needled pinch :
awash by whimper of rain , all senses
moored and fashioned so lamely
on brittle soil of life unlived ,
seeking a depth of quiet within myself
time rippling upon this decayed shell undersea...
yet nothing came except a leaf falling.
fertile ground was found
the soil a rich deep dark brown
the seeds were welcome
Weep Africa, weep on.
The battle with death is one we dare not to fight,
For the call from the great beyond is outside the scope of our existence.
Just as our known hero Ngugi Wa Thiong'o has fallen,
Like countless unknown heroes forgotten to time,
We shall all follow this path of no return one by one.
Fight Africa, fight on.
The foot prints left on the Sands of Time by Ngugi Wa Thiong'o are known to many.
As we follow his foot prints,
We are alive to the fact that there are other foot prints,
Though known to few,
That we must follow.
Trapped within the soil
Told stories filled with turmoil
Carrying the weight of black history
But it honours their memory
By always remembering
By never forgetting
Soaked by the tears of the enslaved
Waiting, hoping, praying to be saved
The ground an unknowing witness
To them being worked to death
But in awe of their perseverance
Throughout the years
One thing that remains clear
To the soil is that just because things have progressed
Doesn't mean life for black people is perfect
Racism still exists
It went from slavery to incarceration
To it being prevalent throughout the system
Racism just evolved through each generation
We the soil see everything
And hold the key
To untold black stories
The voices were not kind again,
looking for weakness
planting seeds of demise.
darkness is warmest.
Soil we prepared.
dreams we amended.
Waiting for trees of life.
upended.
Moonlight weeps on rusted stone,
Where once I danced, I crawl alone.
Roots with hands now draw me near,
Feeding on my deepest fear.
My shadow speaks in shattered rhyme.
A ghost who bleeds through endless time.
The day, the soil lab took care of him, and I sighed
Categorical exclusion, You were there, but almost Nye!
My outspoken, my hidden, my own darker trace
My grace, rancid disgrace, my song and my own mess
Did I ever tell you? I loved you with all my heart, I loved you all!
I had no desire, there, my nihilistic call, they are not an easy Pickthall!
I startled, I stumbled , I ran, I walk and I snore, sneeze and yawn!
I craft and in my propeller shaft, I fly, with flying try, I try simply not to frown!
These are not all stemming from me, these are the imprinting gemstones of praying tea
You are a done deal only to compose , not to take heed before you even try to say, once again to me!
These are white lies, your sweater moment drops on your life, legend and universal truth
And all they say is to look after your giggling imagism before it handles him too, to soothe beneath the bluetooth!
April, 2025
(Twelve beautiful lines )
When we are deprived
of the feel and touch
of soil we become diminished -
it's as if our nature draws
nourishment and meaning
from what it holds -
our history, our beginnings.
Children know it
and plunge fingers into earth,
sometimes lifting it to their mouths
out of an instinctive need
to take in the mystery.
Parents are horrified
and rush to stop
the tasting.
Soil becomes dirt.
When we lose contact
with soil, a sacred connection
to the world is lost. Our upward
gaze to the heavens or the inward
focus on ourselves can blind us
to what is below,
the medium out of which
life and our very souls grow.
I buried the past, yet flowers still rise from the soil of forgotten memories,
Roots tangled in dreams and longings that stubbornly refuse to die,
The earth retains traces of pain, transforming suffering into petals of grace,
Even shadows need light to dance at the edge of silent brilliance.
A silent reminder—not everything that disappears is lost, not everything that haunts comes to harm,
I step forward, but echoes follow me like footprints left in the sands of time past,
Proof that I was there, that I lived and felt, that I still am, still remain,
In a world where past and present weave an eternal dance, a song of what once was.
I wish to forget, but flowers grow, living memories that bloom in the soil of my heart,
Roots stretching, binding me to moments that refuse to be forgotten, refuse to fade,
Each step forward is accompanied by the shadows of footsteps left on paths of old,
A dance between what I was and what I am, between light and darkness, between yesterday and today.
Food — The gift of soil and hand,
A miracle that sprang from sand,
Quenching hunger, warming souls,
Is the bite and sip from steaming bowls.
The ripened fruits and tender greens,
Eaten with crusty loaf of grains,
With flavours bold, textures sweet,
Making every bite a rare retreat.
A vital force that flows within,
Building bones and mending skin,
Is the dance of taste and nature's art,
Stitching and weaving every part.
A silent thanks, for juicy sips,
And every morsel that graced the lips.
Sweating in the rustic dusts of Nazareth, you laboured.
As a farm labourer, ironsmith, weaver, and shepherd,
You ploughed with the peasants, who were curious yet loving.
They were teachers from whom wisdom, like clear streams, flowed, gushing.
You walked, pondering over the Sea of Galilee.
Where fishermen struggled like lilies amidst barberry,
The breeze, amalgamated with the Abba message, blew.
With you, the fraternity of the folks, day by day, grew.
You read about all philosophies and theologies.
Small or great, each one therein had unique ideologies.
The rich, though they seemed strong, bent in the winds of faith like reeds.
You held all of them in the same balance, mending their creeds.
Each herb, shrub, plant, tree, blossom, fruit, and weed imparted wisdom.
In the soul of each seed, the lord of lords founded the kingdom.
Spring Sonnet
The microscopic lifeforms in my soil
Sense the rising in degrees Celsius.
Old Summer’s red wiggler worms now uncoil,
While hungry birds look down most odious.
Most showers now done, the weeds envelope
The surviving herbs, flowers, plus veggies.
Like the weeds, slimy molluscs interlope,
Quitting the shadows with their progenies.
Scooping composted chicken & steer
Into my orange Home Depot buckets;
Troweling in costly mineral grit -
Then turning the soils, crushing silt nuggets.
The difficult tasks done, seeds in the grounds –
October pumpkins will surround the mounds.
The Bitter Soil, Gaza 2024
Earth, Gaia, mother of us all
wars defile her sacred gifts
we sow the dead like seeds
reap a harvest from our guns
in this shattered land
charred by hate and want
hospitals plant mass graves
no dignity in these deaths
infants wrapped side by side
flowers of their native dirt
plucked newborn buds
where only wreaths are grown.
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