Long Fertilize Poems
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There needs to be vanity,
Or a dark twist to the story.
A demon angel, Michael
Basking in his glory.
Then there must be a
Wicked witch from the West.
She is beautiful, evil
And self-possessed.
If you delve deep into the
Family history, a hint of incest.
Its genetics altered
And unprocessed.
A deranged and crazy
Mother-in-law.
A daughter that dances
In the raw.
A crazy, twisted step
Mother.
A perverted, baby making
Older brother.
The cousin who has six kids,
Baby's daddy's unknown.
This is more twisted
Then The Twilight Zone.
We cannot forget about
A monster or a beast.
The older brother confessing
His sins to the local priest.
A young prince, dark,
Handsome and tall.
We need a gypsy lady
With a crystal ball.
This tainted bloodline,
Estranged family diversity.
Generations its riddled
With scandal and perversity.
The young prince, his father,
A man of color, a peasant.
It makes family gatherings,
A little unpleasant.
The queen ran off with a
Carpenter who has only one leg.
He is 67 years old, his seeds
Can't fertilize her egg.
The young prince is not
Like the rest.
He has aptitude, class and
A touch of finesse.
The young prince has a chance,
He must break away from the clan.
I need to hurry before,
The changing from boy to man.
Turbo1904 ?
New England's post election trees
shed a few teary waving leaves.
Morning sky tries to shine resilience
yet lingers in ominous grey overcast
of silent waiting through despair.
In Michigan and Wisconsin and Pennsylvania
tens of thousands of mothers
who cherish their daughters
are beating themselves up about yesterday;
longing for a do-over
to avoid confidence in false predictions
of safely voting their green ecoconsciousness,
or too quietly staying home
to rake falling fertile leaves.
Failing leaves feel their personal mortality,
too old, over-extended, to survive another bitter winter
of expatriation
while maternal nurturing root systems survive through hibernation,
deeply embedding in Earth's nutritional compost
of yeasty faith,
waiting for another Advent enlightening Season.
Not a branch,
not even a twig,
stirs from frosty lethargy
wondering Why?
Why would we decide ownership of human bodies
must be illegal
because immoral,
yet sexist and capitalist
and racist and homophobic
weaponized irreligious predation
remains legally and morally ambiguous,
as if wealth of straight white male supremacist nobility
were God's full harvest of religious moral gifts
Excusing triumphant patriarchalism
by betraying autumn's promised grace
Elite relentless entitlement
of enduring cockiness
to buy fortressed escape
from winter's monolithic misery,
EarthTribe's historical hiatus
from SunGod's evangelical campaign
of hellfire
Recovering
silent spring's radiantly enlightened morning glory
from disunited piles of leaving ballots
already composted to fertilize richer soils
in four more autumnal climate years.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
Hope is light gathering in silence until it crystallizes. quote by poetess
Granddad’s Selectric waited in dusty silence, keeping the memory of words he did materialize.
Its keys once polished, now dulled by years, still guard the faith he refused to minimize.
As a child I listened beneath his desk, hearing letters lift like prayers my muse did recognize.
His hands moved with a pianist’s grace, shaping truth into lines no shadow could incise.
After he passed, I carried it attic-ward, a quiet procession where my childhood dream did die.
Each summer I climbed the attic ladder, dreaming of stories my imagination did fertilize.
Many years later I returned, the ladder moaning, heavy with mothballs, regret, and forgotten ties.
My flashlight found its silhouette waiting, a ghost-bright outline time could not neutralize.
I lifted the cover, hands on home keys, its faded letters whispering ‘don’t compromise.’
Something in me stirred awake, a long-kept dream beginning softly to rise.
The first keystroke jammed, the second struck true, ink warming and with hope did energize.
By the third paragraph, words unfurled through me, swift as breath my soul itself supplies.
I felt the years fall back like dust, as if the attic air had chosen me to baptiize.
that part of me that once believed in stories before fear taught my voice to downsize.
And in that hush I sensed a truth returning, an axiom no silence could disenfranchise:
In truth, hope patiently endures waiting for courage to mobilize.
Gifts we bury still remember us, calling softly for us, our dreams to reprise.
Even dust lit dreams can bloom when the heart dares to visualize.
Every story waits for its moment, every calling waits to revitalize.
Until at last, in the quiet glow, I let my long-kept hope fully crystallize.
you may read the related story at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
Despite being atheist,
with serpent teen eyes,
I would nonetheless bet
Eve fen number guys
named Adam, or gals noel lies
(christened) dollars to donuts
(Dunkin and/or otherwise)
Jesus would be mighty pleased
to know, his surname
linkedin with commercial ties,
no matter, he might not garner rise
zen percentage of profits, no matter spies
infiltrate competition especially if he
unwittingly gets trampled and cries
amidst chaos (think euthanize)
untimely death by madding wise
flash mob crowd source realize
last seconds rushing to snap up
latest jamb door prize
as venders resort to all
manner of (subliminally
manipulative) marketing techniques
to lure patrons, (especially
photo opportunities with
one of the many
"FAKE" donned Santa
Claus), the latter,
who would lionize
their son(s) and/or apprise
daughter(s), subsequently
guaranteeing, nailing crosswise,
and clinching safeguards exercise
immunization against the Grinch
sure fire way to manure er... fertilize
guarantee future generations rise
zing will become avid consumers,
who reverently, obsequiously,
and devoutly idolize
supporting the apostles who revolutionize
creative commercialization to capitalize
nearly every Cyber Monday
occasion to finalize
(all sales) pennies on the dollar,
where merchants feign
going for broke, and capitalize
eulogize, and idealize
the mighty buck staging "FAKE"
news worthy shoppers to burst into tears
crying on command,
and all manner of pathos
pulling ploys nsync king
"shameful guilt" that squares
singled out forevery one to ostracize,
hash-tagged, and demonize
yours truly as Scrooge.
If we rained,
it would be different rain...
It would be rain
human, fickle,
therefore...
being rain neither
we would wet the lands
from others, or we would
fertilize other people's lands,
on the contrary we would rain
acid rain...
It would be hot rain
in the heat just to heat up
the passer by
and cold rain in winter
just to cool down yet
further...
If we were rain,
we would not form common rivers
... but ... floods ...
We would not form streams,
but ... black ditches ...
strangely if we were
rain we could even
be merry ... because it would rain,
signifies we would cry,
we would pour liquids,
tears ... and then maybe God
feeling our suffering,
would return us back to our
lost humanity while
rain... and maybe enjoy happiness
of being human people again ...!
France went into the first world war
because it had no choice
the allies won the war
with a population of thirty-eight million
Eight and a half million were mobilized
five point three million were killed
4 million hectares of land devastated
6 hundred thousand buildings destroyed
20 thousand factories destroyed
nobody wins from the wars
Iran and Iraq keep fighting
Palestine keeps fighting, your buildings
Now down around your knee's
your children die your people flee
you let anger rule your lives
nobody wins from the wars
you fight to promote your God
But with his power, he can do anything
he doesn't need your help
he does not want his children dead
Nobody wins from the wars
thousands of missiles fired
thousands of people bleed
thousands of insults taken
nobody wins from the wars
you build your missile silo's
more nuclear bombs do we make
until someone makes them fire
nobody wins from the wars
the planet then empty and broken
you destroy what your God created
nobody wins from the wars
but if we join united
with money invest in new jobs
your smiling children's faces
can win forevermore
In peace, we can work united
to build the crops that we need,
bring water out to the desert
build lush fertile ground that is green
Invest in desalination
bring water from pipes to the land
build jobs for a world united
with arms that love people we see
With time we could fertilize deserts
build lush growing crops and new trees
we can build together new cities
where children have lives and can read
Live life with love and joy
do not let negativity flow
drop the doom and gloom
do not let it be a cycle in life
Plant positive thoughts
keep re-seeding and re-sowing
watering, nurturing and fertilizing
get rid of all self pity
Look for the good not the bad
find the flowers not the weeds
do not fertilize someone's field with negativity
and don't allow others to fertilize yours
While a mind entertains it
the mouth does not have to speak it
plant positive thoughts
it will reap a bounty
As God's servants we tend our fields
we will find plenty of weeds
we will pull them daily
some planted by us some by others
You can pull that weed
or let it become overgrown
do we open the gate to that field
or keep it closed
Look for the good in people
Pray for them, forgive them
Fill life with love and joy
Be thankful for daily blessings.
17/09/17
Thanks to Debra Squyers for the inspiration on this poem.
They are coming to take you away, aha.
I hate corners know he will be standing there
A Parisian Apache, one leg resting on a wall
Of a closed-down factory.
Smoking Gitane a cigarette.
Sharpening his stiletto, cleaning his fingernails.
Or a farmer, stony ground fed up, takes his spade
and cut my throat,
A geyser of blood that will fertilize the floor
it could also happen walking home after an evening
at the pub, falling face down in a puddle where yellow welly floats.
It could be so banal, as falling when going to the loo
with a broken nose, no one hears the muffled screams
dying and not saying anything divine.
I have to buy a coffin it must be wide, sleep in it every night
wake up in the morning dead, with sunlight on my pale face.
Prescribed blood tests
present no qualms,
unlikely nothing askew i.e.
ticking time bombs
nor prone to catastrophization,
albeit anticipatory anxiety
plus demeanor of poetically titled
medical practitioner allays, calms
alleviates agitation exhibited
by dad's and/or mom's
panic minimizes si? no sweaty palms,
nonetheless precautionary measure taken
thumbing apostle Matthew psalms
ayee feel grateful relatively
clean bill of health.
Nine thirty morning
appointment earlier today
September tenth two
thousand nineteen no way
found yours truly bright
tailed, and bush shay
eyed, cuz mine circadian rhythm
(reed sleepiness), I cannot betray,
yet medical plight concerning
bowel movement analogous to clay
stool pigeons ever ray
now and again plague me: hay
4 four at aye
oh elle dot com, alias math they
you scott harris happy as jay
bird for personable rapport
she, said practitioner did display
offering friendly feedback
proactive measures to avoid
finding mine psyche
analogously scrambled (think) souffle
even absent such agreeable
pharmacological medications keep at bay
panic stricken state
seeding additional gray
hairs (matter of fact
synthesized prescription -
pills selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors)
only necessitate small copay
Medicare bonafide dogsend
whereby nurse practitioner equal
however much she doth weigh,
in salt, though an oft worn cliché
feather in her cap coup d'état
personable, laudable, hospitable...
winning accolades regarding
humbleness and modest stay
expertise within her craft hoop fillet
staving off general mills concerns
reason I wrote rhyme, eh somewhat passé
even Mister Ed would neigh say
so with his horse sense to stirrup
unbridled jollity - me hoof finds rein
ching words cathartic je ne sais quois
experimenting with this, that,
or t'other typed out array,
perhaps hashtagged as tripe courtesy quay
zee poor ah shunned poet fray
ming tropes distinguished (ha)
even if garnering no pay
English language I play
juxtaposing incongruities
to tease out reactions probably lay
build rickety lettered edifices
manuscripts best sentenced to sauté
within steaming vat
fed as swill to petsmart hogs
grunting as they fertilize mulch greenway.