The seed grew into a root,
The plumule above the ground shoot,
With stems, branches all at once,
He grew bigger searching a golden chance....
He grew and grew ,
With droplets of love,
Beneath his shade stronger his crew,
Picking his fruits harder they chew....
On his branches squirrel's feet walk through,
On his stem white flowers bloom,
On his trunk small creatures run,
On his leaves there are families ton!
Rolled up there is a white cocoon,
Tailed up beneath sleeps a racoon,
Children hang up on the dangling roots,
Seeing the owl on the top that hoots....
A home to the homeless,
A pillar to the support less,
Day and night he survived for others,
And never been mean to us,
His branches are almost broken,
With a blow of wind he will soon be taken,
He has become gray and old,
But will always be called the TREE OF GOLD!
Categories:
plumule, tree,
Form: Dramatic Monologue
There are seedlings grown well somewhere
behind the walls in natural fertile soils
they are monocotyledonous fresh seedings
the radicles wake up first before plumule
to gain firm ground for branches, leaves
but some farmers do it with wit in style
watering roots with alcohol and iodine
pouring steaming water to remove pests
some do remove soil from the roots
allegedly to provide freedom and aeration
fertilizers, humus that are indispensable
are starved off the hungry, sick seedlings
small pebbles are spread in and around
to register beauty, seriousness and duty
and the seedlings grown behind walls
dry up with survivors yielding very little
but the farmer is proud, loud, and happy
to bolster pride the farmer packs leaves,
poor seeds, stems and export to markets
But then the farmer puzzles me;
Why claim farmer-ship but of scandals?
every activity of raising even bedbugs,
culturing snakes and parasites is divine
to best of sincere ability one must work
and it’s more demanding if it is humanity
at the center of functions and goals
Categories:
plumule, education, satire,
Form: Free verse
dusk closes today with a black curtain
whisky,grog,we can contain none
sweet saliver of silence:
the snail hardly noticed as it climbs,
its december!
the scattered pieces of this golden dish
bond together under the chanderlier
over the dinning table
like veins and arteries
flowing through my heart
the whistling winds blow
seeds to my nursery bed
to blossom into this charming tree,
one plumule stems branches of surprise
like diamond stars of the skies:
my open palm of many fingers
Categories:
plumule, adventure, family, social,
Form: Free verse