The mythic gods are capricious
They stalk and torment mortal men
Demanding gifts and offerings
In exchange for what they promise.
But the true God is a giver
Showering men with gifts galore.
First, he puts breath in their nostrils
Then provides them with daily bread.
He’s the one who gives them knowledge
and the skill to earn a living.
Strength to labor, health to enjoy
all the pleasure that life affords.
When the farmer sows his plowed fields
God is the one who sends the rain
and the sun that makes crops ripen
yielding bounties for our bellies.
God makes the wombs of women fertile
so they can conceive and give birth
to the beings that replenish,
the human race, on planet earth.
When you enjoy nature’s beauty,
Just remember, God created
all the wonders that you behold
Are a gift from God, your maker.
After mankind disobeyed him
bringing sin and death on humans
God sent his Son down to this earth
to give his life to ransom us.
There is no God like the true God
who gave his life for his servants.
God the giver, bid you follow,
give him your being in return.
September is a season in between,
where nature is silently changing.
Where what is grown becomes a harvest.
Where stocks of corn invite a harvest,
with longer nights and shorter days between.
To reap the fields in a season changing.
September for farmers is a time of changing.
When fields are plowed after the harvest,
as they move from fields to silos in between.
September's changing between seasons brings a harvest.
Alliterating Awareness
Sowing senseless seeds,
Reaps rotting repulsive rage:
Ripping reasonings:-
Liberating love,
Healing hot hell’s heating hate:
Plowed peace perfected
Living lovely life,
God’s graceful guidance given:
Fruitful faith flowing:-
Measuring the length
of a plowed field
she carries her burdens
waist high, as a nurse
would carry bed sheets
from a hospital ward --
a flurry of activity.
Each morning the same
composition of mind,
an attitude of urgency;
her movements, her speech
stilted -- like all her
predictable gestures.
complaints unheard rise,
strikes,bands,blockades,clash in streets.
curfew cloaks the peace.
season's rain comes down-
no passage left to flow through;
ponds gone, all encroached.
barren hills lie still
rain rushes wild, rivers swelling
overflowing rage.
rain's soothing noise dreadful,
yet the fresh plowed fields waiting
for the green reborn.
frail cycle decays,
endless wait for cries to sound;
complaints long unheard.
The crystal ringing songs of summer,
Falling like mists of a whispy cloud,
Within a myriad of young birds chirping
To the fierce crow of a rooster proud.
As yellow tractors till black earth
Where new spring seeds will find a berth
To shoot forth growth in struggling crowd,
And wave green leaves in land well-plowed.
Snows have melted and in their dearth
Is seen the conquest of rebirth,
While the sweet crow of a rooster proud
Sounds across farmland freshly plowed.
“Sometimes our seasons overdo...
to let us know they're able to.”
_by Poet
Winter storms
buried us in snow!
So much white
blinded us
from nature's autumn colors
hiding deep below.
Record snow
blanketed the lawns
and rooftops!
Parking lots
were plowed, leaving snow mountains-
blocking drivers' sight.
Then warm days
unveiled some color!
Seen again,
shades of greens
stirring thrills for coming Spring-
soon awakening.
COCOONING IN AN AUDACIOUS POLITICAL
POWERING MONARCHY: 2025-2026
Circadian ticks,
Time-chart caterpillars of
Septic monarchy:
God’s butterflying wisdom
Canvassing divine guidance:-
It’s time for us to
Uproot inequality:
Sowing equity,
Let’s get to cultivating
Democracy’s divine abundance:-
Fertilization
Of renewed seeds of justice,
Must be daily done:
Ensuring germination’s
Deep-rooted, anchoring growth:-
With cocooning hope,
And metamorphosing faith,
Let us plow onward:
Butterflying equity,
And soaring democracy:-
Sown bigotry,
Must be made to rot away;
Plowed with damnation:
Extermination rendered—
Monarchical evil doomed:-
In God’s laboring,
Let us garden liberty;
Reaping fruiting peace:
Fencing true democracy
With shared equanimity:-
ECHOING THE DREAM AND OVERCOMING
(A FLOWING TANKA TO DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING)
It’s Doctor King’s Day;
Let’s give him echoing praise:
Nourishing The Dream:-
Through today’s nightmarish threats,
Let’s ensure the Dream’s coming:-
King’s voice echoing
Throughout Sisyphean trials,
We shall overcome:-
We’re as the waxing moon:
Moving onto fulfillment:-
Although King is dead,
His dream streams reality:
Deeply canvassing:-
Oh yes, dreams do become true;
Dying, he canvassed his will:-
On that balcony,
Where King was freely murdered,
A deep canvas echoed
From that balcony-mountain:
“I’ll be gone, but you'll get there.”
Martin sowed a dream;
Nightmares are not to be reaped:-
You reap what is sown:
We’ll reap from Martin’s garden;
Not from Donald’s plowed cesspool:-
Reaping King’s harvest,
Up the mountaintop we go:
Our eyes on the prize:-
Our Drum Major echoing,
We shall [indeed], overcome:-
DEMOCRACY’S DEVASTATED GARDEN
Plowed and uprooted,
Rotting democracy stinks:
Plowman's odors high:-
Tears fall from our sadness
As the white dove flies away
on the wind of burning fires
into the unknown realm
Away from the dead and dying
whose voices were heard like a fine flute
Those who live gather shadows in the wilderness
trying to recall the white dove of peace
to refresh the soul
Chased by the evil hearts of men
who have crushed the peacemakers
on the rocks of bloody shores
dispersing them with the shattered remnants
of peaceful life
spreading them over a vast sea of years
Where civilizations were built, then destroyed
like green meadows to be plowed under
tilled, over and over
seeded with the blood and bones of peaceful people
Whose souls are buried in the wretched soil
of conquerors
whose soldiers trampled the sacred ground of peace
leaving nothing
But vultures gliding in circles above the rising smoke
Lifting the white dove away
Far above the crushed ashes of those dreaming of peace
As tears fall from our sadness
The White Dove stays away
UP ROOTED BUT NOT ROTTED
(A Senryu Of Hope Trio)
My precious son,
Lost in the nature of hate:
Our lives plowed apart:-
Our sown sprouts of love,
Uprooted and thrown away:
Their reaping delayed:-
Yet, life has its Spring,
Renewing its fruits of love:
Resurrection coming:-
What he really wanted
was a girl that was dumb enough
to love him prematurely
as if he were a project to be worked upon,
however grey hairs
in an otherwise flaxen field,
foretold a rocky end
to yet one more silver-tongued fox.
In a frouzy saloon
he hitched-up with a slow thinking,
quick drinking woman,
someone’s ex
on a reliable government check.
Eventually settling down with her
in a holler in West Virginia.
He took off his Stetson,
dutifully plowed her and some scant acres,
while collecting motor parts
for his fantasy truck -
plumb out of luck
he could never quite put it together,
no matter how well
he stummed his old guitar at the local bar.
We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar
After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa
Love of our land's labour should make us proud;
The efforts, time, and energy put through...
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed,
When slavery is to labourers in blue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Showers of rain ain't just of dusty cloud,
But of heavy downpour and not dew;
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
Yet all harvest couldn't feed suppose crowd,
We become weary of need to pursue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.
Just an endless space to measure; unbowed
Hearts and heads under threat, government subdue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud,
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.
TODAY’S CULTIVATED WARS
War's rumors are plowed;
War sown seeds germinating:
Fruits of peace rotting:-
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