Long Arable Poems
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Written 20 February 2024
I AM Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
I Am
I am a toy tied to a string
Pulled by an invisible hand
That sings to the tune of His will,
Bewares of foes and hurtful friends;
I am a toy tied to a string
Overseen by far distant eyes
That swings in line with His commands
And draws light from the distant sky;
I am a gentle speaking toy
That does utter the sound of “OM”
Every morn and at every dusk,
Whether in the shade or at home;
I am a nimble walking toy
That toils the hard arable field
And moves amidst grasses and thorns
Whether on the plains or the hill;
I `m a toy with a shining heart
Though severely shattered by storms
Extends a helping hand to toys
In awful need and held in scorn;
I am a little thinking toy
That scribbles some sparkling verses
Silently whispered in the ears
By mysterious divine forces;
I am a meditative toy,
An imprisoned storm stricken soul
Staring at the far distant sky
Yearning to reach the Supreme Whole.
The planet isn't dying, but it is responding to all of us.
We are all for the most part plundering this planet in the name of profits.
Soon temperatures will rise during the day to 120 degrees plus,
and then plummet below freezing shortly after dusk.
Sea Levels are rising worldwide and once arable land is now dust.
Our planet isn't dying, it is fighting back with great vengefulness,
but that won't be the reason for the assured extinction of all of us.
Everyone is too preoccupied with providing and surviving,
in this obsolete competitive profit driven monetary system,
which we blindly follow and accept without any question,
generation after generation, after generation, after generation,
which is counter productive for everyone struggling to make a living.
Most don't have the energy, thus no desire for any self educating.
That sadly will be the reason directly responsible for our definite extinction.
Our grandchildren of the future will look back upon us in disgust wondering,
"Didn't you see it coming? How Could You Just DO NOTHING!?"
INFERNO
As I watched from far away,
Under the sun sending down its rays,
Not willing to stare any longer,
And about to find my way out,
I noticed the earth trembling,
Followed by a cacophony,
Temperature rose in a flash,
Behold it was a volcano,
Red molten flowing down from its cone,
Arable down destroyed,
The reddish molten was like blood,
Blood of Slavery.
When will hearts of men be one?
Being different from none,
Humans being callous to another,
For exploitation of others,
Like a lion that turneth not away from its prey.
Captured with alluring promises,
With goodies and pleasantries,
Men became victims of circumstances,
Minds anticipated life with good fortunes and feature,
But least they never knew,
That their thoughts were all fiction.
Disastrous like a sirroco,
Blew the winds of the deserts,
Their human nature became weary,
Without any proper attention given,
Covering many miles,
Of which some lost their lives.
Seeing the anguish of men,
I rhapsodised about the fate of lives,
That were experiencing onslaught,
My heart was deeply exasperated,
Seeing how lives were siphoned like liquid,
The famished ones died away,
And the sands of the desert buried their bodies.
On the Mediterranean they voyaged,
Endangering lives of youthful age,
They were like unpreserved cabbage,
Experiencing the sporadic fierce tempest,
The extreme cold nights,
Accompanied with empty stomach,
Leading their skin to take the hue of an oak,
In juxtaposition with a mahogany.
Nostalgic feelings came,
The care and love shown to them at home,
Created in their hearts a hole, Which can only be filled by hope, Their condition was like perdition.
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
So many times you’ve shuffled the deck,
I don’t know which card will turn up next
So many times you’ve poisoned the well,
I don’t what lies you’re going to tell
It’s not fair --
Your keepin’ us all in the dark
It’s not fair --
The snuffing out of every spark
So many times you’ve dumped your oil --
A truly dead sea and no arable soil
So many times you’ve tilted the table,
With a heart of steel you made our lives unstable
It’s not fair --
You promise renewal and repair
They’re not there,
But to you everything is fair
Fair game
Against your false visions
And lying divinations,
Let us raise up our hands
As a unified nation
So many times you questioned our minds
As though it were us and not you who is blind
So many times you’ve tilted the table,
Your heart of steel made the machine unstable
It’s not fair --
The way you shattered our promise
It’s not fair
‘Cause it’s too easy to be dishonest
The thuggery & skulduggery we must disable
The fable that we are all from another stable
Reliant on corporate giant bland brand label
We should be able to sit at the same table
Could grow our food in our neighbourhood
No creeds just deeds sow seeds that feeds
Heeds our needs not greeds edible weeds
Chairs of reeds in a row stood around wood
Two hands & one mouth the triangle of life
Spans across lands fans of no fork or knife
North to south eat together beat the strife
Allayed & swayed by Proustian rushes rife
Severe all ties with pain lies of Cain and Abel
Come together guys round table whenever
Wherever forever there is nowt comparable
Parable of arable reigns never been a fable
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
She lived beside the old temple that has stood
For years on the rocky bank of the silent river
Flowing all through the lining greenery cover ,
The woods and the arable land rich and good ;
Years ago she was the landlady ruler, across
The several hamlets, who doled out for free
What they asked for -grains, clothes in a spree
And never cared for the end - gain nor the loss
It was an abrupt outbreak, an epidemic dreary,
That effaced the strugglers picking by lot ;
The good landlord was the first to be caught ;
For no cause, nor reason he became weary;
Leaving behind his suffering soul sans a child
And all his countless riches for her to cherish ,
He finished his spell with no joy, so to perish
Alas ! the fate what else could be so ,so wild..!
There were mixed feelings and selfish amity
When the folk got more than what they sought
Coaxing the lady with ease and plea distraught
Soon she was homeless, yet in sound sanity,
Serving unbiasedly, the destitute, needy poor
Beyond all her ability and resource limit
But never was there a lapse nor any null remit
As the noble soul dwelt on healing their sore
Decades elapsed since, but for no change;
A slight cry of suffering reaches her soon :
And she rushes to them be it night or noon ;
None forgets that she is on the eighty range
Oh God! how strange are these facets of life!
While some chase far, the void and the futile,
Ever seeking somehow just their needs vile,
Noble beings but breathe for those in strife.
On the dismal day --- recall the rustics around,
She was carried away by the floods too wild,
As she tried and saved a drowning child ,
But lost her stance to the unsparing ground;
Hue and cry ,and searches wide found her not ;
A lamp is lit on the chosen day on her door sill
And many offer their prayers thereabout still :
More for favours than in memory of the spot.
The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.
Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace.
And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure,
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.
Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.
Alternately titled inferiority
complex since little boy
oft times ponder what
afterlife like beyond far horizon ahoy...
No matter scarce giddiness wave
did carry and buoy yours truly aloft
analogous to dwell amidst
hermetically sealed croft,
imagining small rented farm,
especially one in Scotland
comprising plot of arable land
attached to house,
where hat o' this gentleman doffed,
Thence beckoning thee
to get comfortably numb
nurse cocktail I doctor, ah yea
with good n plenti of rum
lamenting mein kampf
worth ordinarily absolute zero
on par with being
a harmless no good bum
reflecting scores of lapsed years
since bing hard school of knocks alum
lionizing American south antebellum,
Pace of existence found one
idyllic I exclaim
casually sauntering along,
quite welcoming if one lame
especially inviting nineteenth
century hamlet fictitious place name
crafted within A Stop At Willoughby
(think or Google twilight zone
Season 1 Episode 30), where
main character shed his shame,
I too could easily capitulate
if/when time travel will encapsulate
one to journey where simply
livingsocial appeared exotic and great,
versus twenty first century Schwenksville
specifically Highland Manor
each and every resident doth insulate
her/himself within four walls
affixed with memories,
a long gone mate
similar to mine nonagenarian papa,
whose spouse Harriet,
a prior poem
I did poetically narrate,
which rancor hardened filial me obdurate
considerably decreased, yet revisit loss,
now jars thee noggin o' this primate
smoldering resentment - a human trait
did poison when mother at death's door
objection to accursed
disease did undulate
within her cancerous kindled,
riddled, wasted body joie de vivre
loathsome beast could
never invalid date
grim reaper would not wait,
her passing fourteen
and half orbitz ago
Withheld a hug I never gave
presently wince with sorrow,
yours truly never forgave
himself eternal repentance within mine
soul asylum as unseen knife doth engrave
mine mean deprivation
bajillion miles separated us
unconditional love all she did crave.
Still tears in our eyes for our Brave Haiti
Still tears in our eyes for our incredible Country
Still tears in our eyes for our mortified, martyred
Bludgeoned, tricked, tortured, vilified and murdered victims
The cowards wasted and riddled with bullets an incompetent president
Who could not exterminate corruption and nourish our arable land.
Still tears in our eyes for our dear homeland
Still tears in our eyes for our hardened souls
Still tears in our eyes for the caustic and unheard-of crimes
Our cowardly politicians have totally forgotten the oaths and the cries
Of our glorious ancestors who bequeathed to us this beautiful country of Haiti
After so much bloodshed, suffering, sacrifices, adventures and braveries.
Oh ! Our Heroes are disappointed in their well-deserved resting places
Still sad deaths where thugs, knuckle heads, vermins and gangs from morbid
Hells are in total control of the lives of our brothers and sisters
Still another anniversary where many good people are suffering and weeping
We're sick of everything that's bad and brooding in our country
Still tears for our battered, bruised, resilient and impoverished Haiti.
P.S. Happy May 18th. Flag’s Day to Haiti!
Haiti fought ferociously and won its independence in January 1804.
Translation of ‘ Encore Des Larmes Aux Yeux Pour Notre Chère Patrie’
By Hébert Logerie
Copyright © May 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.