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Garden of Soul
My soul’s garden must grow those plants
And trees and shrubs that yield good fruits;
Sin grows like weeds that stifle growth
Of virtues and more vices grow.
The grace of Almighty God comes
Down on soul’s garden as sun, rain,
As virtues grow in more numbers,
And sin-weeds turn a scarce member.
poem by John Celes
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No More Tears to Shed!
On her sombre face,
tears were not dripping down.
But her sad words and tales
made us shed tears.
Neither she solicits money
nor borrows even a tiny.
She had got two brave sons
but either of the two doesn't live.
For giving solace
her husband is also no more.
What of her boys died
was what that killed her man too.
If they were dead
fighting on the borders,
she would be walking erect
in the midst of her kin.
But all of them laid on the fields
where they ploughed and dug.
Only one snake has wiped out
her warriors one by one
in a span of three years.
Whom to feed, she must grow
crops in that sinful land?
But she clears weeds daily.
All the three were buried
in that tears-stained land
From dawn to dusk she is there
clearing weeds and lying beside
the idols, murmuring, 'There is no God'.
The sea has drawn the waters inward.
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Weeds
In the backyard
Of my heart
I put some seed of love
But weeds grew too fast
Though I used herbicide
But they know how to survive
I threw out the rose, now I love
The weeds for their survival instinct
And power to grow everywhere
Without following any row
My mind follows the heart
And grows too fast like weeds
To pervade to hover
The minds and souls
Of people all over.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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Procrastination
Poison is my blood,
Poison is my body,
Poison are my thoughts,
They hum around my mind like flies,
Poison is my food,
Hate, jealousy and pride
Are the plants of poison;
They grow in my fertile land,
As wild weeds grow unattended,
I make venomous
Everyone whom I touch.
My existence is contagious,
Why should I be afraid of poison,
Procrastinate in front of the potion,
Now I must have a drink,
For poison will cause no impairment to me.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Where Corn Don't Grow
(Roger Murrah/Mark Alan Springer)
As we sat on the front porch
Of that old grey house where I was born and raised
Starin' at the dusty fields
Where my daddy worked hard every day
I think it kinda hurt him when I said Daddy
There's a lot that I don't know
But don't you ever dream about a life
Where corn don't grow
He just sat there silent
Staring at his favorite coffee cup
I saw a storm of mixed emotion in his eyes
When he looked up
He said Son I know at your age
Seems like this ol' world is turning slow
And you think you'll find the answer to it all
Where corn don't grow
Hard times are real
There's dusty fields
No matter where you go
You may change your mind
'Cause the weeds are high
Where corn don't grow
I remember feeling guilty
When Daddy turned and walked back in the house
I was only seventeen back then
But I thought that I knew more than I know now
I can't say he didn't warn me
This city life's a hard row to hoe
Ain't it funny how a dream can turn around
Where corn don't grow
Hard times are real
There's dusty fields
No matter where you go
And you may change your mind
'Cause the weeds are high
Where corn don't grow
You may change your mind
Oh the weeds are high
Where corn don't grow
song performed by by Travis Tritt
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sorrow Seeks...
Sorrow Seeks...
Sorrow seeks...
Like the roots of weeds
And as the roots grow deeper
the weight descends
Like gnarled hands grasping at your throat
Choking out the beauty within
A dandelion with a face that glows of golden sun
But within the soil it's roots grow so deep
With one pluck you think it is gone for good
Only to return stronger than before
Sorrow seeks...
Like the roots of weeds
4 April 2008
This Dust Was Once The Man
THIS dust was once the Man,
Gentle, plain, just and resolute--under whose cautious hand,
Against the foulest crime in history known in any land or age,
Was saved the Union of These States.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Native Title
You are welcome to our country
When full respect is paid
To those who souls grew out from where
Their ancestors were laid
This land is our protector
This land our path in life
This land is our great comforter
This land is hurt by strife
Feel the heart that beats within it
As the seasons come and go
Feel the energy within it
From which everything does grow
This land will guide your footsteps
This land will feed you well
This land needs loving kindly
This land is not to sell
This land is just our country
This land is just our home
For its not just who owns this land
But whom this land does own.
poem by David Keig
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The Garden
CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:
'Have patience, for some day the flowers will grow.'
Some weeds you killed, you made a plot and tilled it;
'My plot,' you said, 'rich harvest yet shall give,'
With sun-warmed seeds of hope your dear hands filled it,
With rain-soft tears of pity bade them live.
So, weak among the weeds that had withstood you,
One little pure white flower grew by-and-by;
You could not pluck my flower--alas! how should you?
You sowed the seed, but let the blossom die.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sonnet- God's The Weed-puller
Despite my sweat and toil with pen and hoe;
My rose-filled garden grows recurrent weeds;
God plans to give me roses all the more;
A small reward for my good thoughts and deeds.
This time, God picks the weeds in His own style;
Each one by Hand with intact roots and stem;
And burns them all thoroughly in a pile;
And plans to give to me the diadem.
The ways of God are strange but never fail;
With woeful hearts, He pines for righteous souls;
I need not fight hereafter by e-mail;
God is plugging the Rodent, Snake, Fox holes.
No more, my garden can grow lethal weeds;
God will provide His honest people's needs.
poem by John Celes
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I Lose the Battle
I stand forlorn on the edge of the farm,
Where grow the young plants of deeds,
I see growing, springing the sown corn,
Amid the sticky poisonous trailing weeds.
Yellow sick, pale and frail is the crop,
But the weeds too healthy, too green,
They grow as the demonial desires do,
How should I weed, make the farm clean?
Though they are poisonous yet sweet,
More delicious than the daintier food,
That is why we deceive and we cheat,
And brood them, brood them brood.
To weed them I resolve again and again,
They ripen soon unguarded, unattended,
Without the sunshine and without the rain,
And at last I lose the battle unammended.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Manicured Reality
I agree,
A rose does smells sweet.
But they are not planted
On urban streets to bloom.
They would not be given that opportunity.
Although weeds are encouraged
To grow between the cracks,
Where broken glass settles.
And tourists are re-routed...
To view a revitalized naturalness!
Beautified without the aid of sunglasses,
Or weeds to spoil the experience.
A manicured reality,
Entices those deluded by the goodness
Of life and all it offers!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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By Morning Twilight
Night, like a dying mother,
Eyes her young offspring, Day.
The birds are dreamily piping.
And O, my love, my darling!
The night is life ebb'd away:
Away beyond our reach!
A sea that has cast us pale on the beach;
Weeds with the weeds and the pebbles
That hear the lone tamarisk rooted in sand
Sway
With the song of the sea to the land.
poem by George Meredith
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To The Land
To the land of bribes,
To the land of telephones,
To the land of corruptions,
To the land of trains,
To the land of shops,
To the land of thieves,
To the land of connections,
To the land of drugs,
To the land of trucks,
To the land of cats,
To the land of Banks,
To the land of dogs, To the land of footballers,
To the land of dragons,
To the land of hope,
To the land of ice-cream,
To the land of potatoes,
To the land of chocolates,
To the land of tomatoes,
To the land of apples,
To the land of coffee,
To the land of lights,
To the land of ships,
To the land of birds,
To the land of tigers,
To the land of carpets,
To the land of pillows,
To the land of lions,
TO the land of toys,
To the land of horses,
To the land of beds,
To the land of roses,
To the land of love,
To the land of passion,
To the land of romance;
I never new women do snore until i married one.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Land, Ho!
I know ’tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.
The land! the land! the lovely land!
‘Far off,’ dost say? Far off—ah, blessèd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand—
Land, ho! land.
You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there—
My land, my land, through murky air—
I did not say ’twas close at hand—
But—land, ho! land.
Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, ’tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou may’st understand—
Yet is it land, ho! land.
It’s clad in purple mist, my land,
In regal robe it is apparellèd,
A crown is set upon its head,
And on its breast a golden band—
Land, ho! land.
Dost wonder that I long for land?
My land is not a land as others are—
Upon its crest there beams a star,
And lilies grow upon the strand—
Land, ho! land.
Give me the helm! there is the land!
Ha! lusty mariners, she takes the breeze!
And what my spirit sees it sees—
Leap, bark, as leaps the thunderbrand—
Land, ho! land.
poem by Thomas Edward Brown
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I Have A Friend
I have a friend who reads and reads
And lets his yard grow into weeds.
I said, that's too high to let it grow!
He said, Quoth the raven, "Never mow."
poem by Elizabeth Worthington
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If you let the weeds grow for a year you will need seven to clear them.
Ill weeds grow the fastest and last the longest.