After years of efforts and struggles
human beings have been able to
unfold the secrets of nature
treasured beneath the soil
in the deep oceans,underneath hill slopes
and in mountain peaks.
Only a few with dedication and determination
could reach the goal.
Penetrating through the challenges, posed by nature
efforts meet success and what is accomplished
is the mark of humanity on Earth.
The inventions give a reason for the existence
and happenings of certain phenomena on Earth.
The great personalities leave behind
a zeal to move on,a hope for existence.
What is left behind, is always an inspiration
for the generations to arrive.
The greatest mark of humanity on Earth
is the discovery of what is present,
yet unknown for centuries...
Great personalities are remembered
even after centuries, for their great contributions to mankind...
Beavering for months on end
instead, for perspire awaits meagre return
the ruse hour of labor, as niggles the bristle
all into novel serfdom crown:
the once mellow soil that now declines
when called upon enough grain must bear
the sky that now a tear short-and-over sheds
because its emotion now fitfully precipitates
and, so, now the humanly action wears
surely, a meagre return’s all o'er eminent:
has mankind the death blow dealt himself?
or are the gods no longer caring more?
Tell me masters of cringe
Should we suffer so long
Practising what you preach
Can’t you make it alone?
That will be fair enough
If you do what you say
Never mind a good laugh
You’re a joke anyway
You’re the masters of cringe
And you never retire
Your warlords on a binge
Setting buildings on fire
People want you to die
But the God says oh no
I don’t want these old guys
Strutting out at my show
They are devil’s concern
But the Devil says nay
They’re too stinky to burn
I shall kick them away
Back to where they belong
To that muddy old soil
Where they’ll drown all alone
In the puddle of oil.
A pile of dark soil where the houseplant once sat,
Left by two hurried kittens as the broom went "splat!"
A dandelion flower crowns
the earth,
As taproots plunge through
subterranean night.
Imbibing deep to birth this
brilliant light,
An incandescent, fierce,
vernacular birth.
The emerald leaves unfold in
emerald grace.
To shield the blooming
blossoms as they rise,
Reflecting summer's bright,
celestial skies,
A brief illumination in this
space.
Then transformation claims
the glowing head,
A silver galaxy of gossamer
strands.
With pappus wings above
the fertile lands,
Where microscopic destinies
are spread.
The fleeting seeds, in
aerodynamic flight,
Disperse to claim the
darkness for the light.
OF SEEDS AND GOOD SOIL
Seeds sown in good soil,
Soon germinate and bear fruits
With nourishing grace.
Let your heart be of good soil
Bearing God’s fruits of his love:-
white blanket recedes
soft streams begin their journey~
life awakes from sleep.
sunshine warms the slopes
tiny rivulets now flow~
earth drinks deeply now.
green shoots sprout from soil
whispers of sweet spring at hand~
winter's grip undone.
a gentle farewell
to the quiet, freezing world~
nature's sweet rebirth.
Spare a thought for that poor man
Who used to drive the night soil van
Compelled to do his job at night
So as not to give the ladies a fright.
The butt of many school kids jokes
Never spoken of by more polite folks
But our business was his business
And we were the cause of his distress.
Just think about it
He had to deal with all our sh*t
In the days before septic tanks
He did his work without much thanks.
What right does a man have to judge
Another who works with faecal sludge
If you had to handle someone's excreta
Do you think that you'd be much neater?
And I can well understand
Why no one wanted to shake his hand
But spare a thought for that poor man
Who used to drive the night soil van.
Earth worm roves the soil.
He dives into the tilled loam
as I lumber by.
let's have fun
outside with the sun
thank the crops for every grain
thank the clouds for drop of rain
appreciate trees in the woods
appreciate the ocean for seafoods
enjoy bird watching from a far
enjoy a lake visit near by
express our gratitude above
express it by making move
stop using dynamite in the sea
stop cutting down the trees
avoid depleting the ecosystem
avoid taking all the gems
protect animals from chemical
protect all that is natural
The grub is a fraud, let’s be honest and clear,
A beetle in diapers that gardeners fear.
He’s C-shaped and creamy, a squishy delight,
With a big orange head and a monster-sized bite.
He lives in the dirt, just a subterranean guest,
Turning your lawn into one giant mess.
He wakes in the summer, a tiny white speck,
By autumn he’s thick with a bull-sized neck.
When winter arrives with its icy-cold breath,
He tunnels down deep to avoid certain death,
Then returns in the spring for a root-heavy lunch,
Giving your fescue a satisfying crunch.
He treats your backyard like a five-star buffet,
Till the grass turns to brown and the green fades away.
But his life isn't always a feast in the shade,
The skunk digs a hole for a protein-packed snack,
And the robin descends for a mid-morning thwack.
If he avoids the beaks and the sharp, furry claw,
The Milky Spore bacteria might lock up his jaw.
Or nematodes find him—a microscopic crew—
To turn his insides into biological stew.
But if he survives every chemical spray,
He grows a hard shell and just flies far away.
Of course not, you don't mean it
No one ever does
The new sacrificial lamb at your foul altar
Lost among historical fuzz
Should we live another century
The history books will claim
It was a violent tragedy
For which villains we must blame
But villainy is frighteningly common
When the status quo is shaken
Millennials cling to Harry Potter
And our lives are forsaken
"Quiet you, it's not so bad,
Now vote for your slow death."
To use us for sweet brownie points
And damn us with your next breath
It's never offering a lifting hand
Or a place onboard the Ark
It's always shame and scarce-veiled threats
Of leaving us in the dark
Clinging to false roles you learned
When you were but a teen
Biology is so much more
Yet you hide behind a screen
Cover your eyes, state your pride
Say you're better than the rest
Yet cast your lot with abusers
Since nicely they were dressed
I've no faith in baby blue
That shade has become red
Because I've seen you in sheep's clothing
Wishing that I was dead.
From the Soil to the Sky
?Every rise begins upon the floor,
Where shadows rest and heavy spirits lie.
No ancient oak has ever reached for more
By falling downward from a hollow sky.
?It starts within the dark, the quiet deep,
Where tender roots begin their patient toil.
While all the world above is fast asleep,
The strength is gathered from the humble soil.
?Oh, weary heart, your palace shall be tall,
A kingdom built where once you felt the dust.
Your throne is waiting past this garden wall,
Forged in the fire of an ancient trust.
?So do not weep for pains that pass like rain,
Or count the seconds of this bitter cry;
For every scar and every moment’s pain
Will lift you to the summit of the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Suddenly, the scent of old glue
unseals memory: yearbook pages
sticking together. Forty-seven Augusts ago
Susan Alexander's laugh cracked
through algebra class; our fingers
brushed, passing Man From LaMancha lyrics
scribbled on notebook margins.
We dissected Austen heroines
during sleepovers, shared
popcorn at matinees, dreamt
in Technicolor futures.
Then silence. Decades folded
into drawers like unworn sweaters.
Facebook algorithms blinked, those strange
matchmakers, whispered: Berlin?
Dallas? Three winters have since melted
into midnight texts—her German syntax
knitting with my Texas drawl
across glowing screens. Old jokes
resurrected like vinyl records
scratched but still singing.
Distance shrinks to pixels;
the gift of friendship blooms anew~
upon digital soil.
* This poem was submitted to and published at Persimmon Tree, November 2025. This is my original poem.
Gaia, mother of us all
wars defile our sacred Earth
we sow the dead like seeds
reap a harvest from invader’s guns.
In this, now gutted land
seared by hate and grief
as schools become mass graves
hope is a word for other tongues.
Flowers of their native dirt
families wrapped side by side
here only death can bloom
when infant buds are made to starve.
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