Long Irrigate Poems
Long Irrigate Poems. Below are the most popular long Irrigate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Irrigate poems by poem length and keyword.
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...
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
You asked us not to cry when you have passed on
But we do not need handkerchiefs we need storm water drains
May the flash floods of tears irrigate your memory and wishes
To dance on your grave and be happy was your final request
When the funeral director has gone home to his family
We will respect your rebellion and turn over the soil
‘I expect you to wear happy clothes tie dye home-made batik
Hippie gowns and torn jeans covered in ink with messages
Not for the dead but for the living who gather in full colours’
As we write our final farewells onto the cardboard box
You designed for your coffin with crayons finger paint and
The mud of the earth you smile contagiously from inside
‘One flower only per person but you must bring worms
A few butterflies a handful of moths and a couple of rodents
Crack open the container that holds my remains for I must breathe’
It is midnight and a full moon invites kind witches and spells
Of Karma on broom sticks and a bonfire of faithful disbelief
Fireworks are in order because Tom likes to go out with a bang
We sing Hallelujahs ‘Bat out of Hell’ and ‘Stairway to Heaven’
‘Born to be Wild’ ‘Wish you were Here’ ‘Bridge over troubled waters’
Remember that voices aren't mute when they’re encouraged to speak
Sandalwood incense mixes with smell of roasted chestnuts and
Fig jam to honour the Buddha and pink lemonade for chakras
To caress emotional reason as we hand over your torch
‘Adults must play with Lego please’ you decreed ‘Life is a building’
‘Find me a unicorn and fix stick on tattoos of impermanent shine’
‘Adorn you skin with jester’s wisdom and henna or heart blood’
Now that we bid good fortune to the future we will light paper lanterns
Watch the wax melt slowly and the sun to rise for your final departure
We know that you will turn to compost but will watch over our lives
23rd June 2019
Leaving the Farm
David J Walker
I
“At the end of the day” they keep saying
At the end of the day
A prepositional phrase followed by
unsupported speculation
When everything is considered,
At the End of the Day, is
A simple idiot with an idiom and nothing to say
My father said sitting quietly
At the end of the day, smoking
Speculating about our future
II
What time does the clock strike late afternoon?
Is it just before early evening?
Is it marked by sundial sunsets sometime
Before dark?
We knew, my father and me, as we left the fields
Headed home in the summer’s heat
Watching the sun dip into the west just beyond
The hood ornament of the pick-up truck
Even with the windows rolled down
The wind and the whine of the road
Could not drown out the sound
Of our growling bellies
There would be beans and cornbread waiting
Maybe Spam,
But not meat
III
Clever, the ways to irrigate
And turn a desert into a farm
Hard, was the work to care for the
Rows of cotton and maze
that would be harvested
for our money, maybe
Some years it worked
But for many, it did not
There was no way for anyone to say
Which it would be
There were tractors bought on credit
And the banks still had to be repaid
IV
The men in the middle
Were always invisible though we
Knew they wore expensive suits
While we wore jeans and boots
Before school began each year
Mom would buy me two new pair
Of Levi’s from the department store
on the square
They would last the whole year if
Her predictions of my growth
Was close.
V
I can never forget
The day we left Lea County
Cold and gray
on February 10th, 1966
In a grain truck bound for Lubbock
Dad bought a horse he thought he
Could turn to earn enough money
For gas and rent
Starting over was possible
Staying was not
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
Patradoot or The Messenger13 /Many
English version by
Ravindra K Kapoor
Such enchanting beauty, you would find every where in India,
By seeing only such alluring charms, do not get lost,
As your mind may get filled with an intoxicating pleasure,
But remember dear, you have to deliver my message to my beloved.
Way ahead, the lovely method of Rahut * by which
The farmers irrigate their fields, would attract you,
And listening the Corus, sung by village girls,
Would pour honey like nectar, in your ears.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 28th May 2010.
* Rahut. Persian wheel for drawing water from wells.
Protected as per Poetry Soup’s copy write protections
Note:
In order to protect the publication of Patradoot or
The messenger in Hindi and English, I am
discontinuing the Hindi Transliteration of Patradoot
from this part to protect the original work of my father
late Dr Amar Nath Kapoor. From now onwards
only English version of the Patradoot would be
placed as usual.
If any reader who is not a member of Poetry soup
has any question or queries, they can
send me an email on kapoor_skk@yahoo.com
Patradoot in Hindi written by my father late
Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor in 1932, when he was imprisoned
by the British, as he was fighting for India's freedom
under the leadership of Mahatma Gandhi. After India’s
independence as a true follower of Gandhi Dr. Amar Nath
Kapoor left active politics and devoted rest of his life in
writing easy mass literature and wrote many Dramas,
Poetry books, epics. All his other literary
works were mainly written from 1955 to 1990.
He left this mortal world in 1994.
The moment the clip rolled—-
cold rain of adrenaline hassled
down my spine and narrow nerves.
In Gorge Floyd I froze—compressed,
suppressed into miniature casket—-
“I can’t breathe”—the resonance of this
mighty fight of tints and taints against
the ground, as a knee slices through
my throat—he kneels, in order of State
Sacrifice—one more scape goat will
do today, or perhaps, a black sheeple.
Dusk dawned on my noon—I supped on
salt dust—crippled on plaintive waterfall—
my soul hung on cobweb; sling falling
in the abyss of my subdued skull.
I glowered numb—-coalesced and
collapsed into myself—escapism
escaped me; so I sank deeper
into the ocean of Existential Hate
that tends to skin me alive—putting
an embargo on my ration of breath
as I gatecrash my public obituary—
facing fire-spits from bazooka mouth
bullies—gobbling acrid bullet tablets
to cure my genetic skin decease;
is to hang on a hangman’s guillotine;
on trumped up etiquettes—-the
'gravesands' on my shallow grave
hold bound my frail spirit to eternal,
age-long ransom and foster-slavery.
I see a cluster of stars—MLK, Dialo,
Arbery, Michael Brown, Eric Garner,
Breonna—the more I look, more I see;
clad in old-gold brown, tainted in
clots of maroon ink, from ‘hole’ of
hell, jungle of death—aimed and shot
at—the grand prize for Human Hunt;
point at and kill, the fattest lambs
to entice thirsty gods—mixture
of blood splotches and 'donkeysweat',
trickles of teardrops irrigate the land
with infestation. Oh! Mother Africa!
Are we the lambs for cutthroat ritualists?
From Pulivendula a place so far,
God sent his angel called YSR.
No cosmic star, superstar or megastar,
But AP’s only ever GIGASTAR.
He gave to the state a brand new fate,
Power and water for farmers to irrigate.
No more monsoon failures no more drought,
Even the opposition could gauge his clout.
Heaven’s chosen foot soldier, he soldiered on,
Before we knew it, they said he was gone.
The state and nation will miss his face,
Ever so smiling and full of grace.
Those whom God loves he makes die young,
This true Andhramight didn’t leave unsung.
By now I’m sure he’s in Gods safe keeping,
A hard working angel, he was never found sleeping.
Most loyal to his party he really was,
Saved it from all the enemies jaws.
Practically introduced from all of his dreams,
succour for the poor and benevolent schemes.
Where he is right now, we don’t know for sure,
With happiness he’s smiling, the Lords opened the door.
Not one to act like some cunning old smarty,
He was loved by the masses and every known party.
Respecting every voters true sentiments,
Never failing to keep his promised commitments.
On earth he did a lot to please,
May his soul so rest in peace.
Many consider his son a political novice,
Good thinking indeed, he’s a man with no-vice!
Through the teachings of his father, he has the same spirit,
Why for one moment should we doubt his merit?
Give him the chance and he’ll prove it to you,
Doing all things left, his father had no time to do.
- Prince Freakasso (Artist & Poet)
September dripped hot winds
through the screen door.
The floor sticky from the
slap, slap, of bare feet on tile
parading back and forth
to the fridge for ice.
The dog hides in shadows,
side plastered to the cool
sticky tile, tongue limp
and touching the floor.
I expect him to rise slowly
and be startled as his tongue
stays behind, glued to the tile,
but it doesn't happen.
We all move slowly, in sweat stained
tee shirts and shorts.
No place is comfortable to sit.
The dog was right in his choice.
Would he growl if I walked over
and pushed him from his
spot and took his place,
my tongue hanging to the tile?
Tonight the smell of eminent
rain slides through the screen.
I'm looking forward to it.
Make it a rain so hard the
puddles form in minutes,
with big drops that plunk
down on the street, lawn, cars
and beat the tile roof to shards.
A rain that more than settles
the dust, greens the lawn,
one that chokes the manhole
as it tries to gulp all it can
only to spew it upward and
out for the traffic to by-pass.
I want a rain that will drench
the heart, cool the skin,
and irrigate the mind,
washing the crust of soot
that clogs my thoughts
and makes the heat hurt
my brain.
I want a rain that will
clear the soul as it digs
grooves across the lawn.
A rain with a beat so loud that
trains whistle to let it pass.
And on the morning after,
clear blue skies
with a puff of white cloud
and a smell of fresh
laundered earth,
glistening until the sun's heat
dry it, and we begin again.
I am sitting by the bank of the river,
reflecting what my reflections in the water mean to me,
the calm and serenity of the eddies and waves,
sends my thoughts in the endless tranquility.
The images of my childhood play before my eyes,
jumping and playing in the water was a sheer joy,
Buffaloes and cows would come near us,
the drink of water kept them alive in the hot sunny days,
the flute music from the shepherd boy serenaded our play,
we looked forward to seeing all the girls coming to fetch the water our way.
On our honeymoon days,
we would sit by the bank hand in hand,
the tantalizing songs of the flowing water,
made us fall deeper and deeper in love thereafter.
The lush beauty of the river abounds in the country side,
The white and pink lotus flowers gracefully adorn several spots,
the sunflower would shine like sun on the banks,
the bamboo plants would dance and whistle in the wind.
The spirit of sharing bubbles through the sparkling stream,
In the intense summer heat, the thirsty gets their precious drops,
In the heavy rains, the overflow from the banks,
irrigate the paddy fields to the sheer joy of the farmers.
The water in the river keep flowing,
like a lover in anticipation with open arms,
it's eager to get to its vast oceanic destination,
where the lover meets the beloved in deep ocean of love.
River, you are my eternal friend,
lovers and loved ones will come and go,
I will always find you when I need you,
May it be the moments of happiness or sorrow.