Best Fertilise Poems
Heart is a neglected garden,
diseased by an epidemic of weeds.
Breathless, pining for your breaths -
breathe passion into me
so bees, birds and butterflies return.
Cultivate soul with tender hands,
propagate seeds sensually.
Fertilise fragility with soft kisses,
form a vision of Eden
so bees, birds and butterflies return.
Upon dawn's delight of delicate germination,
intimately indulge deep into sensitive roots.
In storms shelter in an evergreen embrace.
In drought replenish like sacred drops of mercy
so bees, birds and butterflies return.
In what has become a monochrome existence,
paint a masterpiece of magnolia meadows,
flowing with amber, clementine, crimson and lilac petals.
For this body is yours, do not let it linger in decay
so bees, birds and butterflies return.
Sunday simple musing
Silent One
5 April 2020
for F. A.
You, in going a little way from yourself
Have gone a long way from my gullible ilk.
« I’m trying hard not to like you, » you said
The breaths of several men surging in your nostrils
And the stench abraded in your flesh :
« You are unshaven. »
You took proper care to remember the right words :
« Why are you so far away, I cannot reach you. »
The ****** you probably tried to fake –
Thanks for the repeated protestations -
Blew all the other exhausted noises through.
« I think it’s all this lack of sleep and all that, » you said
Trapping me with your alien scents.
You have gone away more than a little from yourself.
I have felt and avoided the humiliation in your voice :
« Turn out the lights. I’m afraid
You’d never like me again. »
These are bothersome words.
Only constant repetition make them less wearisome.
One whole week you waited and watched.
One by one you chalked us down.
We fled, not so much from you
As from ourselves, not knowing which
You or the condemned flower to take :
« Why don’t you tell me something about yourself.
I’ve said enough, » you said and came closer
Wraithed in your trapper's overflying airs.
Now that you have prospected a little
Confiscated my intimate thoughts, coaxed my ego
Applied the guileful balms which embolden
A man in bed and made of the future a promise
And turned and sighed like the unwanted thing
Now that you have preyed in my sanctuary
Gazed long in wistful silence my empty shrine
How can I let you go – take my scent
And mix it till it roots in other flesh
And wandering, I’ll not know why someday
I might fret in the company of familiar strangers.
« What about the lad ? » Alone and wishfully loitering
« Oh, let him toss and turn. Why shouldn’t he ?
He’ll write better then, » you said, for once
Rippling the nimble calm embossed on feigning face
That poised flutter of your lips when words you wield
Assume a dextrous innocence
Little wonder then the sensually provoked blushes
Cross-fertilise the loping lurk of your poems.
You in going a little way towards me
Have gone a long way from yourself.
Before you go a little way prospecting
Leave leave a little of yourself in your safe.
©: T. Wignesan, 1965 (from the collection: tell them i'm gone, 1983, rev. 2012)
Tomorrow where are you ?
I am a child of mzansi,
A child of a nation raised by a struggle of apartheid, as I emerge as a wound
Meant to glister, advertising the anguish of my fore fathers
Raised to cease all the nation’s bounty in their name,
As their pain can still be felt through the cracked township tar roads.
I am the promised future,
Born of tireless protests, teargas and blood
Blood washed clean of the judgments of my skin colour
And left to germinate on this waste land called poverty
As mothers fertilise this land one clean toilet at a time.
I am the repressed grievance of the people,
Who’s voice never transcended beyond the ballot paper
Trapped in a subliminal blackmail of before 1994
And feed grand promises of a better tomorrow
As two decades waste way I still ask “Tomorrow, where are you?”
I have tripped and fallen into the lonely abyss on occasions,
walked with rain as strangers passed me by, just like the song.
For loneliness is not the domain of the young or poets solemn,
but a pitfall on the path as we savour life’s amazing adventure.
What cheers you up is but in the opening of an eye, inner or Optec,
Seasons flow and ebb, rage and calm, twist, turn blaze and fade.
And there, waiting for the unseeing to graze upon and freshly taste.
Not sulk in black selfish despair or rage at the happiness of others.
But enjoy the natural wonders about you; be enraptured by its awe,
Fertilise your senses, cultivate your heart. Let nature Sheppard you
towards contentment’s deep well, where blossoms bloom the mind.
S.de B 2012-08-01
I remember when my Aunt
wanted a divorce,
said, "at last my time is mine
I shall live on the Golf Course".
My Uncle never played
he gave the game a snub,
thought it pretty pointless
to hit a ball with club.
He only wanted offspring,
to fertilise her eggs,
but she was bloody adament
he would never part her legs!
She never wanted family,
He wanted Son and heir.
So they found that life
became too much to bear.
So it was they split,
my Uncle he played Bowls,
Auntie she liked golf
she loved those eighteen holes.
One day while she was playing.
A great Storm began to brew.
Thunderclaps were shouting
with Lightning Bolts that flew!
She had just teed off,
then was walking past a dyke
when Thunder blew a fuse
then lightning it did strike...
( When my Uncle heard
my Auntie had been zapped,
the only thing he said was...)
"Well aint that very apt!!! "
Oh my giddy Aunt!!!
It was the ultimate birth control!
Guess where she was hit?
Between the first and second hole!
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/fruit-a-peel-2
Blueberries, bananas, apples that fall
Berries and pears, we love them all
Fresh rainwater, summer heat
The part of plants that we can eat
Inside the fruit, contains the seeds
Found on bushes, grown on trees
Tomato plants, of heights will rise
With soil and compost, fertilise
Seeds we scatter, seeds we sow
All around the world they grow
Celebrate at food events
Cities, countries, continents
Supermarkets, stalls be manned
Frozen, dried, fresh or canned
Varied fruits ripen with time
Fresh fruit salad, shall we dine
A complement of any meal
Fruits to blend and fruits to peel
Expectations to surpass
Blended poured into a glass
Garden fruit and fruit in tins
Daily fibre, vitamins
Large vineyards, where growers take
From tiny buds, to blossomed grape
Strawberry smoothie, raspberry jam
Tomato sandwich, cheese and ham
Assembled fruit upon the plate
Master-chef provide your rate
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
How busy, busy is the life
Fat-arsed but Oh so humble Bumble Bee
He has no worries. What a simple life
Unhappy. How can he be?
He trundles round my garden where my roses grow
He is so gentle and slow
He always checks each blossom missing none
He drinks the nectar. Even stops to hum
Not like his cousin the Honey Bee
Which dashes here and there Shaped like a wasp
and therefore most carefully watched
Is safe in his hive and lasts the winter through. From cold he is free
The temperature tumbles
Alas the Bumbles
No hive as such
The Queen her Workers and the independent Drones
Will die
Mind you, the drones live high wide and handsome
Once hatched they leave the nest in mid summer
Their only function is to fertilise the Queen who bids them welcome
The baby Queens live with their mother
Only the newly mated Queens will live
And start the cycle off again
His new wife proclaimed, ‘Oh my God’
I think I’ve just wed a tripod
I now understand
Your steps in the sand
You left a third trail where you trod
Those newlyweds lay hand in hand
Their union sealed on the sand
The sand made her sore
But she wanted more
And, oh boy, did he make a stand
Abstaining so long was a drag
She can’t think why he didn’t brag
Their first time: alfresco
By moonlight they let go
She thought it a pole for a flag
She cried and she started to beg
Please fertilise my willing egg
As she grabbed his member
He begged please remember
Go gentle with my middle leg
As I sit and watch, I notice
that colour is creeping back.
Buds are ready to burst into life
promising a good crop of fruits.
Birds flitter around collecting
twigs and other nesting materials.
Soon they will lay their eggs and
then sit on them until they hatch.
By then the garden will be teaming
with all sorts of insects and larvae.
Flowers will be in full bloom casting
colour most pleasing to the eyes.
What a wonderful time of year it is,
everywhere I look I see new life.
Butterflies starting to appear and
coat the garden in yet more colour.
While the bees start to fill it and
I can enjoy their busy buzzing as
they collect nectar from flowers
and fertilise each as they feed.
Full cycle as Spring blooms and
the lands warm up heralding the
approach of summer with warm
balmy days and scent filled nights.
This was the way it was
In my childhood days
With ancient and tried
Crop farming ways.
Up to the ankles in slurry,
Muck fork in hand,
Ready to spread manure
To fertilise the land.
No tractor and spreader
Just an old ‘oss and cart
Out in the early morning
For a good start.
Fold yard’s been cleared and
Cart filled from manure heap,
Fertiliser is expensive
‘Oss and cow muck is cheap.
It doesn’t take that long
To get used to the smell
But Ammonia secretions
Make the eyes run like hell.
Up and down the furrows,
At the end of the day you find
You’ve spent a few hours just
Watching an old ‘oss’s behind.
A nice steady pace as the ‘oss
Plodded steadily on and on
Until another field’s finished,
Another long day’s gone.
Sometimes as just a kid
I was so tired and dead beat
Took all me time to stay awake
Long enough for me to eat.
It’s all mechanical these days
With chemical fertiliser spread
Soil crumbly and friable
Insects and worms mostly dead.
So, the world has reached crisis
Caused by the modern ways
Organic farming’s coming back
With more natural fertilisation ways.
Tractors and muck spreaders
Nowadays play their part
No more standing being pulled
Behind an old ‘oss and cart.
My world’s changed for better
But I really regret the loss
That these days you seldom
Catch sight of an old shire ‘oss.
The way it was for my Dad and all those other
Farm Labourers before WW2 nchanged things.
The mundane affairs from morn to night
Lack spirit and are taken for granted
Like a machine we are switched on and off
While the plateau of thoughts send reflex actions
Dedication and diligence become a second nature
Challenges dress my comfort zone in a new garb
A lot of mental sparks, excitement keep me rolling
It's like a stream finding new virgin lands to fertilise
A lot of planning and creativity goes on during my walks
To reach a level of perfection that fills my heart with pride
June 6, 2016
For Lewis Raynes
https://m.soundcloud.com/user-921599710/natural-wonders
The emergence thereof, a cycle begins
Of different forms – developing
Exceeding growth of varied rate
Conditions there to germinate
To reproduce they fertilise
New plants to materialise
Protection of the embryo
Seeds produced, equipped to grow
Soil with moisture and daylight
A season with conditions right
Outer case of seed to split
Cells divide at the root tip
Food produced with sunlight caught
A stronger stem for base support
Grass re-growth of no delay
Species grow in the same way
Creeping plants that climb a wall
Taking shape and growing tall
Carbon dioxide, water involved
The minerals are then dissolved
Tree exposure strong and willed
Healthy cells of which to build
Plants and trees are all around
Natural wonders, calm surround
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Walk and talk affection
In conducive tones
That fertilise attention
To concerns affecting real folks and their comfort zones
Where each critical move you make
Adds to their happiness in tough times
As for them you bake a friendship cake
To improve climes
In which they operate
Daily
As support and back up you generate
Weekly and monthly
When they feel low
As life circumstances conspire
To deal them a huge blow
That deflates their confidence tyre to retire
Their self confidence
Which sometimes oscillates
In a distorted cadence at a glance
That vacillates
Between positive and negative
Vibes
Sometimes exclusive and punitive
When scribes
Predict their imminent downfall
As life’s clock chimes
To call
For the removal of mimes
Folks can’t lip read
Without expertise
In decoding the love creed
Whose consultation fees
Folks can’t afford
Cos no price is high enough
To convert the discord encountered into a promising accord
Between the meek and the tough
Until a Reggae ambassador intervenes
To iron out pesky issues
By using Reggae means
So no affected party in a court of law the other sues.
Childhood.
I read, in a newspaper, with following black white & photo
of children used as slave labourers many years ago, I was
one of them, but I didn’t share the misery described.
I was sat with my little suitcase on a bus that trundled through
a flat landscape, told to sit there until a man called my name.
It was a small farm and the farmer’s wife gave me a thick slice
of bread with strawberry jam on. Then I was shown my room
a tiny loft span with straw mattress and it was bitterly cold.
I started work at six next morning, with a glass of milk and
a slice of bread, my job was to muck out the cows shed shuffle
the residue down a hole in the wall, the manure was later used
fertilise the land. School was every other day and a bit bothersome
till I hit one of my torments with a brick over his head and poise
of fear was restored. I quickly got the hang on the farm work,
got on well with the farmer and was spared the dirtiest work.
Years I spent on the farm, but then my mother came home from
sanatorium I wanted to be near her; apparently it was not legal
to just leave like that but I left anyway. One day many years later,
feeling nostalgic I went back to the farm, it wasn’t there anymore,
had been turned into a housing estate. Poverty, struggle, need and
were all forgotten incidental as life itself, but I owe it to them,
after me there will be no one left to tell the story
Before we go to bed we vegetate
No need for teacher but a compost heap.
And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep
While in our dreams our little mind debates
But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark
Where God himself may manifest at will.
His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still
And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.
But in the morning ,we come back to strife
Take up our work and suffer every stroke.
From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak
Each must choose again its proper life
Every look we cast at others strikes
Reflects and shows us what we have become
And when there is no movement, we are done
Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.
So in our end we vegetate again
And no more rise to labour in the day
We fertilise the fields passed on our way
We show the end of woman and of man.
A daily round becomes our life and death.
We live because we’re breathed by sacredness.