a strange thirst grows
for an undefinable nectar
to irrigate arid emptiness
blissful melancholy pulsates
heart is vibrant but alone
we feel no lack and yet seek
that elusive mist soul uplifting
caress of love divine sublime
The ancestral savannahs of my people
Are still alive in the unseen horizons
Our grandparents have told us many
Wonderful things about our tribe
Before they arrived, we were here
On the banks of the rivers and streams
We stood and saw their ships
North, south, East and West
Your blood flows in my veins; Only we
Can irrigate the fields without profits
The sick mentality of favour doing
Need to be hang or put in the electric chair
We are not anyone boys or lessers
Our ancestors were kings, queens, and nobles
There was so much to eat and drink
The blood of our sweat, the sweat of our labor
Elements of stability; Rise Up Africans
Like a corpse, bury the weight of opprobrium
No more trembling, red blemishes
Shine in the middle; go nowhere
Africans, wise, and strong
Young and old; be a stimulating tree
Be part of the newfound springing up Africa
Amid the pale and faded flowers, we rise
Deliberately, and earnestly, we rise
With Habakkuk Kargbo (Rabbi)
©Poem Makers SL (18/04/24)
It’s an almighty responsibility to irrigate the land.
Sending April showers when torrents are in demand.
To control cloud bursts with symphonic precision.
It takes all my skill and planning to make a decision.
I rain for children to have fun, play and splash about.
I send deluges of much needed water to eradicate drought.
Glorious precipitation when ceased creates a vivid rainbow.
Water to cleanse the cities and for flowers and crops to grow.
When I rain in the Summer my glistening falls are well met.
If I join the storm and signal its onslaught it’s grumbling I get.
I especially like to rain crystal droplets where rivers are flowing.
I rain over lakes keeping wildlife growing. I am special, its worth knowing.
Thou airy ship, thou whitish mist!
Thou float on ocean and the dale
Thou art a painting by my Lord!
A painting which is not for sale
Thou sooth the hearts of all on earth
Thou heaths and meadows irrigate
Thy castle is in airy field
From earth and heaven isolate
O sailing boat, o shroud of earth
Thou child of sky and forlorn sea
Thou fly with gales soon after birth
O thou that in a wink can flee
Slime is a subtle stage for blame I can’t stay stuck to your ways/
I’m a little vague so your game I’ll ante up to plague/
While a tirade goes for their bane they played and waged/
I’ll abrogate woes to lurk away more straight/
Compile and appropriate foe’s to contain your plate/
The trial of a pirate goes on to con tame and irrigate/
Denial of a tyrant that strove along to drain and irritate/
Then dial a vibrant cat to move strong and plain annihilate/
A senile re-brand that drove a pronged strain to acclimate/
The tribal withstand fought a shove from one that longed again to act just or right/
Sir it’s vital to know the zone read was a wrought lot and would attract a prejudice overnight/
Survival of a homestead sought above tact and when injustice is worth a fight/
Sure is final now just like a home’s bed brought to a spot held at last a permanent site/
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's a dramatic ebb and flow in our system now,
And the turbulence leaves the weak in its wake.
As the roots between liberal and conservative,
Have spread wider across a barren landscape.
The growth of weeds has limited the harvest,
Choking off the discontent and seeds to survive.
While efforts to irrigate and allow growth to prosper,
Have been victimized by drought to deprive.
This climate has been changing for some time now,
With weather slowly reaching new peaks.
Yet many of the storms have been realized,
And the damages have extended beyond weeks.
Although seasons change, at times, without warning,
Our nature has a firm preference to predict.
Where we critique and draw upon the truth,
Applying wisdom before deciding to convict.
When it's believed the only constant is change,
Where the pace requires bipartisan support.
Maybe then, we can confess to the rational,
And get back to governing, without those to extort.
Our soul is but
A drop of celestial rain
That
Is born out of the vapors of spirituality's ocean
Destined
To irrigate materiality's arid planes of ignorance
So as
The flowers of wisdom blossom in our hearts and minds
For
Their aroma guides us onto the path of love and compassion
That God for us has traced,
Before
It evaporates and returns to its divine home!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 October 2022
What is not worth aiming at
survives to pull a thousand more triggers.
Squib rounds from damp pop-guns
later are recorded as wisdom.
Hacks have a smaller target
on their backs than original thinkers.
No use to wail or gripe,
mud churns
worms irrigate, self-mate,
the odd unique bloom
grows unnoticed
until stumbled upon
or trampled over.
This year the farmers are celebrating
the greatest full moon harvest
they ever had in the past hundred years
with a special field they sowed
to be reaped before the arrival of winter,
in the meantime, off in the distance
the church bell rings by way of a clapper
who strikes the bell with a farmer's hammer
signaling to the villagers it's time for work
they all line up in procession
with grit and determination
with weather beaten faces
turned into rawhide skin,
with shovels over their shoulders
they march to the beets and to the yams
to the fields loaded with rich phosphorus deposits
that washes down from the hills into streams
that irrigate the crops into super giant
beets and yams the size of watermelons
just bulging out of the rich soil,
the farmers came to dig and dig.
They worked fast and furiously
to beat the first frost digging reaping
and piling up the yams and the beets
into several mountain peaks of yellows and purple
The Birdsong of Ludovico,
New to my agnostic ears,
Commences unrestrained
From a godly source
To irrigate my fields,
To rearrange my clouds,
To tantalize my doubts,
To render my cathedral..
His royal nest of birdsong notes
Fills my congregation
With an unknowable truth:
Yes there is a source,
I can be sure,
I am not lost.
It's laborious to elevate
on the scale of life,
much easier is
come down the stairs
from the cliff...
so simple to walk
with the head
in the clouds, than
with feet aground..
It's not tough to follow
ahead... it's simple
move backwards...
All Must cross
the cruel sea of the world,
stroke without drowning
in shallow water,,,
So quiet to be in the middle
out of nowhere to stay in
middle of everything...
The truth is that no matter how much
slow and insecure
let us be,
however indolent,
anyhow...
we are always going round
in body and mind...
even stopped,
rivers run through us,
channels do irrigate,
synapses link us
while atoms spin...
O pilot of my whole being! O Soul! Spirit! Atma!
O, you that leads me to the absolute Paramatma!
O, I yearn to connect with you! Communicate! Converse!
O, I long to touch you; feel you; in you to get immerse!
I'm as weak as a jellyfish; unable to hold me,
I try all the ways, to go within, like novice rishi;
I explore my self - like a saintly sage - my past, present,
I try my focal point; to this my energy I spend...!
Do I, like greedy rich, lean on my material wealth?
Or, like hypochondriac, overanxious about health?
Or, as orthodox mice, raffle-rousing, terrorizing?
Or energy wasted thinking of adversely acting?
Now, like an alchemist, I tread into my magic lands,
Like a researcher - study, synthesis, weigh wetland sands;
Like a naturist, explore beauty; ponder! Contemplate!
Like farmer, plow; manure; cultivate; irrigate; harvest!
I examine my frequent existence; stop, look, and walk!
I wait for signs from within; only inner voice I talk!
I place my hands, on my heart, and question my intentions,
I make my yatra within; walk moved by intuitions...!
02 January 2022
In our other life,
we will learn the sand language.
So, return to your ashes.
And tell your remains that it's all over.
It's a difficult moment to be bleeding.
And let a cloud pass through your grave.
She will squeeze her heart to irrigate the desert that has formed.
Then...in your head.
You'll notice when it stops.
Regarding hearing the news.
That this life isn't worth,
an empty cola can,
You stomped on it with your leg!
Allow the wind to blow as it pleases.
I don't even own a ship.
Without question.
We'll get together.
After a millennium.
In a gas tank.
Written: August 23, 2021
A Brian Strand your choice Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Glass of my life is with elixir of truth
I choose its pious bitterness
Over to the sweetness of lies,
To activate my neutral taste buds,
To irrigate dried cells of my throat,
To enlighten my naive soul,
To quench my thirst for life
I want to be true on reality of soil.
Let poison of truth eliminate illusion,
I choose its mercy on me
Over to storms of destruction,
To destroy specks of misconception,
To block veins, they flow through,
To remove flesh with faulty deeds,
To amend falsified becoming me,
For union with the honesty of soil.
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