Best Soil Poems
Under Moldy Soil, Red Moon Overhead
Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
lay millions of corpses, wars wasted dead
No bands playing, no sweet angels singing
only ghostly echoes, slowly ringing.
Cools winds blowing across such resting grounds
on dark nights, ghost-whispers its only sounds
Low moans, raging regrets of battle cries
rebukes of those that sold such deadly lies.
Sixth of June, sands give up soft wailing pleas
from beach desert devoid of any trees
Earth laced with spent cartridges , red blood and lead
painful memories, of that war's lost dead.
Under moldy soil, red moon overhead
how we may wish that peace had ruled instead.
R.J. Lindley
June 7th, 1976
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 102
Old Note- War is a necessary evil because mankind needs blood letting to soothe its savage soul.
And thus, is far too often a necessary reaction that insures the survival for the party that is first attacked.
New Notes-
1. SLIGHTLY EDITED TODAY TO MEET TEN SYLLABLE COUNT ONLY.
2. Mankind can not give up making war until it can purge ALL evil from its mortal soul!
Only one way to do that exists..
3. I want to thank the poet that suggested that I go ahead and share this poem from my private writes.
As it deserves to be read, I now agree with you my good friend..
Never felt obliged
To ask the soil for her thoughts
Before I planted my seeds
Watered and weeded and fertilized
With hands guided by my heart
Not only do I doubt
If she would have given consent
I honestly don’t know
If she would have welcomed
My yearning soul into her home
Of warm, brown earth
Softened by sun and rain
Breathing only precious beads
Of dewdrop dreams
And autumn leaves decaying
Into the depths of her tenderness
Never once did I feel the need
To ask this loam for permission
To plant the flowers and vegetables
The fruits and scrumptious herbs
Which gave me so much sweetness
To feed my palette and vista
I wonder what she would have said
If I’d only asked, possibly pled
For the chance to plant a seed or two
Give into the soil’s longing for compost
To nourish her and give her sustenance
Cuisine made up of manure and muck
Meant to provide her with nutrients
Food to enliven, enlighten and brighten
Her dreams of good things so she’d thrive
Still, I remained silent in my guilt
Stealing her dirt with my shrubs
Never giving her the opportunity to say
If she was ok with my cultivating
Plowing and growing in her reservoir
Of soft, warm soil meant for a nursery
A garden of hopes and dreams and ideas
Gentle lights fading into the shadows
Behind the oaks and pines, where I grew
Truths that remembered to pray
For the sunshine and the rain
The food that would sustain
My stolen garden, grown without consent
From the heart of the earth’s glorious gifts
vivacious roses pose
in air
oxygen free from the stem
arising like balloons
resurrection of rosies
blushing brides at peak
before their spoiling
before their mistreat
their passionate gowns sweet
wormy stems
await greening apples
Eden’s eschew
the ladies wave bye-bye
preferring the troposphere
fear of flying
ain’t there
angels, palms up,
invite their climb
up golden stairs
heaven is a lighthouse
waves crash on dry and crusty land
petals fall like rain
dowry to the grooms
wives look nothing like the brides
kites tied to home soil
desperate for heaven
a few grooms
smooth
the bed
water the roots
the rose thrives
2/24/2021
*Salvidor Dali’s Bleeding Roses
Caressing Virgin Soil, With Soft Caring Hands
In her garden, wearing old pants and her long tresses
caressing virgin soil, with soft caring hands.
Generous to a fault, kind heaven blesses
she a gem of far away Asian lands.
Dawn's early rays would sparkle in her eyes
as she rose to smile at the rising sun.
In her thoughts up and away she flies
to have herself some harmless wishful fun.
Landing between heaven and joy on earth
she would pray sweetest happiness for all.
Later with piety pray aloud for all her worth
remain silent waiting for return call.
Angel wanting others joy above her own.
ONE MORN, FOREVER AWAY SHE HAD FLOWN.
Robert J. Lindley, 11-29-2016
Materialize before my eyes:
Amorphous clumps of clay
In puddles of brown broth
Walk around with empty mouths
That house ravens of despair
Silent stupidity and empty
Sockets follow blindly
A path hewn ages before
They even existed in weary
Acceptance of fate unavoidable.
And I follow slowly;
Crawl on elbows;
Claw with hands that grab
Mud as a last rope
To pull me away from
Emptiness shown on
Their faces while they step over
Me in strange indifference
To continue their way
My head rests on hands
slick and silt with tears
spilt for their mute life
where words have no
weight but what is put
in one outpour of grief
They say from darkest soil
Lightest flowers grow
Salty water sprinkles
Where my knees touch
My lips softly kiss
Lovingly, in hope.
***
March 11, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
THANKSGIVING ON FOREIGN SOIL thanks
It was November of nineteen seventy
At an orphanage in Vietnam
A group of weary soldiers
Served a dinner so sublime
The orphans were excited
This was a first for them
The soldiers were delighted
Up to now, things had been grim
The smiles on the face of each child
Was a blessing to behold
They were well behaved, not wild
They never received a scold
Now forty nine years have flown by
But I will never forget
My Thanksgiving in Vietnam
It was my very best yet
thanks
30 October 2019
For the contest sponsored by Regina Riddle
I am black and you
are white... of course;
my blood is red, what
colour is yours?
I am an African, you are an
American,
The Sun is my skin,
why do you tan?
''I am white, you are
black'', well said!
I have one head, have
you got 'dash' heads?
Oh you are well read,
you swim in books,
from where comest
these niggas in thy nooks?
I am black, you are a
Briton; that's right,
your speech sparkles
like stars at twilight.
You have two hands
and one high heart,
why crave this my
ancient African art?
I am black, I have this
simple sack,
Hey whiteman,
it seems you do not
lack,
I live in a hut, built
on a humble hill,
I see those misiles in
your power mill.
I am black, you are
white, that'swow!
You did not create
your skin-colour...why
cow?
You call mea monkey,
I eat sweet Bananas,
You look like a racist
with lustuous lacunas.
I am black, yet in my
eyes I see the stars,
from your white skies; you
see but scars...
You are so different,
why do you lament,
I am indifferent, you sound
like... accident!
I am black, but you are in a
black list,
You seem to be a
terrorist, yes a racist!
We will all be burried
someday... in a black soil,
create a white soil,
it is worth the toil!
fertile ground was found
the soil a rich deep dark brown
the seeds were welcome
The Rich Soil Which Yields My Food
Making a living from the earth is tough hard work and it is often done in extreme conditions. The shimmering rays passing through the open bedroom window awakens me with the warmth of the sun on my face. Lying a little longer enjoying the comfort of my bed, looking out the window before my day begins, enjoying the view of the blue sky while the clouds slowly move forming shapes. The light creeps through the leaves like water in a running stream through rocks. Listen to the gentle rustle movements of the leaves enjoying the cool morning breeze and the singing of the nesting birds in the trees in soothing harmony. My dog runs and jumps on my bed with some snuggles and a slight whimper to get me to rise to another long, tedious, exhausting, hard working day that’s ahead of me.
work morning till night
hustle behind a tractor
numbing exhausting
A farm takes pride in and being passionate about growing crops. It takes a special person to be a farmer.
farmers taking pride
rich crop triumph of hard work
always gives back more
© Eve Roper 7/28/2015
Know
Yoooooooou
Love
Lord
Some fell along the hard path in the field,
and so were left for birds to peck and eat.
Some fell on shallow soil; therefore, the yield
was sparse, for many withered in the heat.
And some were cast among the thorny brush
which choked and killed the tender shoots in time.
But still, some fell on good ground, rich and lush,
where splendid crops achieved a fruitful prime.
Which soil are we for seeds of Grace to grow
to harvest? Hard? Or shallow? Thorny? Good?
A little of all four, for sure, we know.
But if we soften, deepen, pull dead wood,
God's gracious work will germinate and thrive;
in spite of all, His glory will survive.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Premiere Contest No. 110
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Judged: 11/09/2017
~2nd Place~
Contest: English Sonnet
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Form: Shakespearian Sonnet
Judged: 11/05/2016
Ref: Matthew 13:3-8 - The Parable of the Sower and the Seed
Soil
Alive, Fertile
Feeding, Thriving, Growing
Gardens, Agriculture, Beaches, Deserts
Eroding, Blowing, Stinging
Dead, Empty
Sand
The Soil Expert
Frank Halliwell
She strides across the paddock,
steely purpose in her eyes,
Surveying likely spots
with the detachment of the wise.
The coming decision will surely be
the most vital of the day,
No mundane things will be allowed
to stand in nature's way.
She approaches her task as one possessed
Of total dedication,
Aware of responsibility
for the future of the nation.
There can be nothing casual
In this meticulous inspection,
To gather relevant data
for the soil content correction.
'This seems the correct size and shape,
and texture, scent and feel.
I'll give this bit a little nudge,
to make sure that it's real.
I'd say it needs a trifle more,
just up there to the right,
And maybe to the east a bit,
but I'll do that to-night'.
The barren soil awaits renewal,
quiet, unafraid.
At last, she takes three steps ahead
with the decision made,
And with her tail held high and straight,
in somber salutation,
she makes todays deposit
to the rebirth of the nation.
And then, and only then,
her patriotic duty done.
She returns to join the other donkeys,
grazing in the sun.
***
after winter’s cold
shooting up past barriers
a tulip now grows
Spirit of the night
Spirit of the night soil man
Spirit of the night soil man is awake
Spirit of the night soil man is abroad,
Here, the emerging mystery, more a sinister from a
dungeon,
When twilight sat on sad rooftops,
Lurking eyes, creeping limbs in the damp backyards,
To Loo looking gunt in the gloomy moonlight
Where broiling broths in chamberpots and bedpans are
emptied.
A structure of planks led upstairs
Ushering to crouch in a crouching mode,
Over hot hole on the pedestial,
Displaying buttocks lob over poe
Began the winced and windy screeching sirocco,
Screaming complaining bass and solo guitars,
Can be irksome when catch unawares
Of habitual sacrificial ritual of defecating,
On other hand, when afflicted in fora,
Go gawky limping along all the way
Any convenience found,
Unleashed mixed vortex of dark diarrhoea,
Ascendancy of curl buxom python laid,
Windy circular terra-cotta thin rope
And from top, short brief beef cake grenade drop,
After, some bruisers clean with dry cardboard
Or old newspapers that headline "Hard Times"
All add up sure riches to wealth,
Well soughted out after in heap chest.