Best Irrigate Poems
The Lake of Charity
The hill stood tall and stately,
Wind soughed through its sparse trees.
Below a lake spread, at times calm,
At times quite horribly stormy.
He knelt in meditation and asked for:
Prayer, the source of renewal,
Patience, the capacity for tolerance,
Pardon, a grant of friendship.
Three rivers flowed down the hill
and joined together as they swirled rapidly
towards a cascade of heavenly mercy.
Remember O man, that the name of that hill,
Never forgotten, is called Golgotha.
The waters irrigate our devious hearts
And change it into a lake of charity.
There'll be no rain the forecast said
til January's wounded pride
erupts upon the bloomless beds
and weeps a pewter morning tide.
There'll be no rain for many weeks,
just plenitudes of overcast
that burn away as daylight peaks,
when noon's anemic sun is cast.
There'll be no rain, no wet respite
to irrigate depleted earth,
just flaxen grass in withered plight
that dampens all my yuletide mirth.
There'll be no rain this Christmas Day,
just arid hillsides' umber splay.
It started with an apple in paradise or was it a date they consumed
Had they kept their clothes off laundry day would have been easier
The smell of seduction and no fake news
Honestly who cares whether it was pure sex or sweet requited love
Darwin had his way and they followed a journey to un-heavenly bliss
Candied peel from a fruit of nibbling temptation
It was a Saturday and procreation their Christian duty to comply
With the rule of nature to mix seeds in fertile pastures of joy
Russian roulette from a gene pool of ancestral relief
I hear you say its the parents’ fault that happiness mutated
Into a warm gun with too many bullets to the beat of a drum
Golden delicious pipped kernels for conquest
Peaceniks taken to task for one simple innocent transgression
A nudist colony abandoned in the name of belligerent arrows
Collateral damage and indiscriminate targets
The story stemmed from every one begetting each other’s brethren
Breathless cohabitation under the watch of place time and poppies
Fig leaves of duty and denuded trees
Kalashnikovs draped on the snake’s slithering sleaze and corruption
Corporates bonking for virginity and testimony of final selection
Dripping deceit like custard on rotten flesh
Under a mushroom cloud hell fire dispenses irrefutable evidence
That the emperor’s garments are ragged down to a lice infested core
Adam and Eve seek asylum in a mental ward
Bedlam bound in shackles to the jester’s snide mocking applause
Psychotropic injections to remedy catatonic results of one violation
Rape pillage and plunder and Satan as a voyeur
Field brothels and comfort women un-sheath prickly pears in disguise
Persimmon dishes out passion steeled in sharp blades of the paring knife
And so we choke on what should have been celestial food
Pious and devoted to whipped cream and second helpings of anger
We feed on desolate fields and irrigate fear suffocation and slaughter
Eves of destruction and her toy boy sheds venom and pain
25th January 2020
Just 38 Cents a Day
Throughout history food has been used as a
Weapon of Mass Destruction. The Romans
would pillage and plunder – then burn the
fields of the defeated, punishing all who
survived. The Apache are alleged to have
poisoned the water holes when retreating
through the desert – a form of death by
desert inflicted on the pursuers. Sherman
marched to the sea punishing all to break
the will of the beaten confederacy.
Today, trucks stand idle, food supplies
rot in the heat at checkpoints that keep
those in the “ghettoes” confined and
dying. Children and the elderly scavenge
through dumpsters for simple sustenance
as armed “thugs” loot and destroy the
“humanitarian” aid denied them.
We preach “mindfulness” as we plow crops
under to satisfy the calculus of a subsidy,
divert rivers to irrigate golf courses,
preach nutritional values to the malnourished,
gasp at the news footage of starving children
as we prepare “gourmet meals” for our pets.
Our consciousness only aches when WE
are hungry and is soothed when WE are
sated by the saturated fat of a fantasy
wherein the solution can be purchased -
for just 38 cents a day.
John G. Lawless
7/1/2015
submitted to – Food Can’t Live with it can’t live without it – poetry contest
sponsor – Debbie Guzzi
By Ombuge Moses
Mama!
You sleep on a crack ground
Empty is the stomach
Hot is the sun
Nothing to quench the crack
The thirst is killing
Cracked is my throat
Helplessly you lay
You sleep on a crack ground
Baba!
Your cry is echoing
My ears cannot stop
My tears cool my cheeks
My face is running dry
You sleep in a crack ground
Forever never to see you again
Mama has followed you
Death has come
It’s so helpless
Who to run to
They promised food
They brought food
They promised water
They brought water
We need food
We need water
We are dying of hunger, of thirst
Who will take care of me the orphan?
Will I die before the next food come?
Will I die before the next water come?
Will I die like Baba?
Will I lay helpless to death like Mama?
Heavenly GOD
Your mercy
I cry indeed
In need
Not In want
When they saw us dying
They brought canned food
When they saw us dying
They brought bottled water
This is a customary issue, problem
Death of hunger
Thirst to death
The solution is death, for me
For you, solution- canned food, bottled water
We need a source
Give us a water source
To plant the seed
To eat from our labor
Weeding, Oh! How is it done?
Irrigating the plant
Nurturing the crop
To live to see a generation
A healthy life
An ordinary way to live
To this
Mama!
You sleep on a cracked ground
Baba!
You sleep in a cracked ground
Dead, you are gone
I your son,
Tonight, I sleep on a cracked ground
If I see tomorrow, I will bury you Mama
I will water your grave Baba
If they give me a water source
Bottled one, I will quench
The thirst that killed you Mama
Use the source to irrigate
Plant a seed, to grow food
A generation
A future
A healthy mind
Never to sleep
On,
In,
A cracked ground
God, to guide
A Kenyan, for a generation
In desert that is poor and dull
On soil that is scorched with fire
The Upas-tree stands as a hull
as guard who's one who knows no tire.
The prairie's nature had a thirst
begetting Him in day of fury,
It filled dead green of branches first,
It poisoned roots these give no curing.
The poison flows through pale bark,
Noon smelts with heat His poisoned dripping,
The Eve congeals Him like a mark
as limpid pitch on trunk - He's sleeping.
There are no birds to fly to Him,
No tiger walks to tree, just swirl
embraces tree of death with scream
and runs away with toxic evil.
And if the cloud will irrigate
His ancient leaves and pause its motion,
Its fallen rain flows down as fate
along the branches like deadly potion.
But crafty man had sent a man
to Upas-tree with glance of power
And man had walked according a plan,
He brought the bane in morning hour.
He brought the bane - the deadly pitch
And branch with faded leaves of Oro
And sweat ran down the brow and bleached
it with cold streams in silent sorrow.
He brought. He's weak, he has laid down
under the arch of the tent on flooring,
The slave has died in feet of crown
that knows no loss that knows no longing.
The Lord fed arrows with this bane,
They are obedient to his power,
He sends the death, he sends the pain
to neighbors in decisive hour.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Alexander Pushkin
There are quite a few essential things our bodies
need when scarcity hits the beautiful land of fruits,
of wheat and cattle; today no rain has fallen on furrows,
drought shows cracks in the soil with uprooted trees!
These lands weren't arid like hot deserts...
birds warbled, flowers bloomed, trees swayed!
Nuclear plants nearby have polluted
rivers and streams, we can't irrigate our farms!
No abundant crops this year, nothing to drink;
shortage of everything including sweet milk,
don't think about tasty home-made bread...
look out! Very tough times are looming ahead!
Hear the elite politicians who swear while folks rant,
" Soon, you will have water and bread! "
Their concern should be focused on the environment
and be guided by wisdom, not by greed!
Tears of a woman,
can move mountains;
Everest can migrate
across the Pacific
and settle on the Rockies
The Kilimanjaro can fly
and squat on Andes
because of her tears;
the tears of a woman
can irrigate the Sahara.
Her tears can create oasis,
where nature could not
Tears of a woman,
can be a blessing
tears of a woman
can be a curse.
Empires have risen,
empires have fallen,
the impotent have risen
the great have fallen
due to tears of a woman.
A woman’s weakness
is her strength,
and her strength,
her weakness
Come along and listen
Put your hands
in your mouth
let your eyes twinkle
with wonder and dismay
This daughter
of the universe
has mystery
in her eyes.
Her life spells
impossibilities,
but the world
tinkles on and on
not without her
Tie a rainbow on your heart
the power of eyes
like an arrowhead
keep focus on
beautiful colors
but a heart
sharper
than the eyes
sensitively
give a birth
of a lust
to swallow all
the colorful hopes
life is a rainbow
coated layers of
beautiful colors
Look at those birds
Smoldering color
spread peace
look at those dripping sweats
irrigate our green fields
look at those sparkling stars
luminous
stroking darkness night
they are part of our rainbow
decorate each page of
our passing days
tie a rainbow
on your heart
to bind tightly
every beautiful hopes
don’t give a chance
to the host laments
to come and take away
even a piece of
the color
tie a rainbow
on your heart
~ (c) Sukmawati Komala ~
02 June 2013
SEED
Every talent is a seed
And every seed has its need
Whatever the seed will be,
Depends on the farmer-holder of the seed
If the farmer discards the seed,
There will be no need satisfying the seed,s need
But If he decides to sow the seed,
Then he is burdened with responsibilities
The seed needs a fertile land
The farmer can,t waste its time on unfavorable environment
The seed needs a determined and willed hand
It needs care and warm treatment
The seed needs a favored rain
For much as the farmer,s diligence can irrigate,
That alone can,t determine the seed,s fate
What comes from above nothing can drain
The seed needs a graced sunshine
For that keeps the seed fit and balanced
The farmer,s ability to reap that which is great and advanced,
Is dependent on factors which are divine
Finally, the seed needs focus and consistency
The farmer ought to earmark ample time for its success
How matured the seed will be should be his business
For without that, there may be plant without fruits- lifeless
Every talent is a seed
And every seed has its need
Whatever the seed will be,
Depends on the farmer-holder of the seed
The clouds -on which angels stand
Lurking and pursuing the rubble-
Are directly above the human land,
Whispering about some stubble;
When they glimpse the scattered lavender.
Tracing it becomes their task,
Until they glanced a traveler
Holding the flowers, veiled behind a cask.
The angels were finally called for duty
Striving to collect the traveler 's tears.
They couldn't help but notice her beauty,
Together with shreds of her lamenting years.
She was whispering to them while sobbing:
" O, angels above, I had a dream once,
I dreamt I was a harpist,
Performing in front of my loved ones.
I dreamt life would be fair
But I'm selling lavender for a living,
There is no one else with whom to share-
O, angels above, please be forgiving."
By the time she was done reciting,
They had filled a gallon of her tears,
Her cravings- they were also writing,
Determined to wipe all her smears.
They took her tears to irrigate the human land,
That grew into trees with lavender
One of them stretched his hand;
To seat a harp under.
And suddenly the horizon twinkled,
Because a star was made by the angels in the sky;
To lead the girl to a tree -with her feelings mingled
In order for her to see the harp lying under- with a sigh.
Fighting famine starvation
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
As a poet should I write?
Words in this world!
That is not right.
Words on paper for you to read!
Do they bear weight?
Will these words intercede?
Famine now rears its ugly head.
Men, women, children cannot be fed.
As nothing is grown to make living bread
Fighting as I write you know.
Causes families to start to flow.
Away from danger, they do you know.
Killing, raping, has mankind gone insane?
For everywhere, it seems the same.
Will life ever be normal again?
Fighting must cease, irrigate the land.
Feed all from the seed, sown by man’s hand.
Live together in peace do.
Help each other, you must, it’s true.
As only then you will survive.
With food and water.
You’ll surely thrive.
I know no one fleeing strife will read this . But with such bad news just sending money seems so inadequate. Hope someone can channel the abundant free water from places that have too much to those that have none. as without water, well less said about that. Oh by the way I am cancer free, how about that? A little good news amidst the world's doom and gloom. Stanley (TnmA)
Leaving banking, I am thinking about banking. When the red humour from the human system drains off, we irrigate the haematic fluid inside through vein-channels. ‘Blood Banks’ with sanguine loans come to our rescue. In cases of renal malfunction, we ransack kidney colonies for mercenary donors. Or don’t we eye greedily at the safest vaults for the bean-shaped organ - at the healthy kidneys inside the frames of our beloved ones? For grafting damaged skin, happily we become clients of ‘Skin Banks’. Those banks supply us with new apparel – bio-RMG, culled from the *****sapiens. In needs cellular, ‘Tissue Banks’ help us consummate the transaction. Aren’t ‘Eye Banks’ the last resort of the visually deprived or underprivileged ones? To cater to cerebral needs, there are ‘Brain Banks’. ‘DNA Data Banks’ through gene cartography help us circumnavigate the vast continents of bioinformatics. Oh that we only had a ‘Philanthropy Bank’ to supply us with liquefied humanity for intra-venous infusion into the sadistic, misanthropic minds!
FOUNTAIN : LIQUOR BOTTLE SHRINES...
Intoxicated and driven,
Staggering to a higher purpose where they buy their souls
Meeting with their Maker as they peak and overflow
Seeing all these empty faces file in and out in dance to the tune
No need to protect the treasure if it stifles their zenith
In and out of bodies they seem to leave
No flow from the fountain from which they drink
Stagnant, waiting to satisfy their insatiable thirst
With unimaginable haste gulping from the core as if a first encounter with an
oasis
Dripping down the contours of the mouth from the aggression
‘Drop off the gratitude before leaving the shrine’
The unholy water whispers after it quenches
Dressed in robes of fine cotton another traveler enters
With such poise and dominance that leaves the ground shaken
Unwrapping the cloth from the perfect curves
Ready to take a sip and maybe indulge
Let loose and even contain some in the silver chalice
Slowly ...steady does it
Starting off with a lick then a slurp out of impulse
As if tasting the finest wine making sure not to miss a drop
For the water it is a forever ago once forgotten
The delicacy
Hand upon lips to wipe away the resistant drops
The evidence of true of the luxury that should have never been
The water forgets
Until he leaves a fine too hefty even for indulgence
Eyes blood shot and teary from the wind
With the force of a hurricane marching towards emancipation
There is a need to irrigate the death
Ripples can be seen in the water while the typhoon swallows
It is an impact so strong that everything else is rendered inert
There is a spilling and maybe even a leaking
A time out should be called for the forces that are to repair
It is not a damage alien
Maybe add some yeast and watch it ferment
Sprinkle perfume and delude the nostrils of the parched
A measure necessary for the uplifting of all spirits
Nickels and dimes left in the fountain as the swagger out with satisfaction
Maybe tomorrow will be a good day to experience the bliss
Yet again and then maybe again and again
An ephemeral source that should be exploited
Expiration is imminent and thirst is persistent
Until they stumble upon another gift of the rain
They will drink
Till drink is no more...
At last, long last
I saw him leave
Leave for good
And a stern stare
That followed him
Saw him turn not
Towards me
Not once
I swear!
For if truth be told
He turned not at all!
But hurried forth briskly
To a point north of here
To his dear mademoiselle!
My tears will not cease
To irrigate my bosom
My stare will not decrease
For in the midst of all this
I dare not my strength
Discountenance, dare I?