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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The Future Of A Weed
The eternal future of every weed is truly a very bleak one indeed,
And even though they do not believe, they are truly a soul in need.
They are not planted by God and have no divine purpose at all,
Instead they are simply used by the devil to deceive man to fall.
For Satan cunningly plants them all around with one purpose in mind,
It is to grow up with the children of God only to deceive and malign.
But The Lord is gentle in hope that some weeds will come to believe,
For at one point in time we too were lost in the world and deceived.
Jesus pulled me out of the soil of darkness filled with ugly blight,
He then planted me on The Eternal Rock and filled with His Own Light.
He gave to me His Light my friend, so that I could share it with you,
Friend Christ died for the ungodly, which means He died for you too.
Put away your empty laughter, and be filled with the joy of The Lord,
He died to save you I promise, and by God you have not been ignored.
Christ is coming at the end of the harvest to take out all the weeds,
Christians alone will be judged and rewarded for all of their deeds.
The weeds will be tossed into darkness, and will never laugh again,
Only weeping and gnashing of teeth with not even Satan for a friend.
Continue to harden your heart my friend and you will eternally lose,
Imagine, hearing forever the last voice that shared the good news.
(Copyright © 02/2003)
[My Little Green Plant]
I have a plant in my house.
Not a tree a shrub ore a shrew.
But a plant.
It's green and red and sparkle blue.
Healthy clean and sticky like glue.
Bold beautifully and fragrant to.
My little green plant, how I love you.
I love my plant all stretched out high.
When it's flowers open it reveals a surprise
Just imagine it as you close you're eyes.
My little green plant, always on my mind.
My plant is thirsty it needs special care.
Nutrients and light, without it would die.
Like a child growing up ill always be there.
12 weeks to grow, and not a care.
3 feed tall and producing air.
My little green plant with little red hairs.
The time has come that I must say good by,
my little green plant has grown up right.
I'll trim it nice and hold on tight,
my little green plant makes me happiest tonight.
I'll sow the seed and sign the deed,
my little green plants one hell of a weed.
Come on now people get your minds out of the gutter..... I'm just talking about sage! :)
poem by Seth Morrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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Monroe Louisiana
On the green, green farm
In green, green Monroe Louisiana
So green, green
Wet-luscious green and alive
So green after the rain
So bright green and clean
Just passing through
On my way to tomorrow
But so green today and yesterday
It was on that stranger's green, green farm
And I didn't stay long
And I didn't expect someone
To fire that shotgun right next to me
The barrel pointed out the front door
Into that green, green world beyond.
There were hot springs
On the green, green farm
In green, green Monroe Louisiana
Back in 1973.
poem by M.L. Squier
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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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Wacky Weed
Your fiction has a sickness,
And it is in deluxe.
Trimmed with a mouth piece minted,
Sweetened to touch.
Bong bong wicky sticky bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
You fed on that wacky weed.
You fed on the weed.
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
There is no truth you mention,
While you do that stuff.
Your motives are quite hidden,
And you munch too much.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
Your fiction has a sickness,
And it is in deluxe.
Trimmed with a mouth piece minted,
Sweetened to touch.
Bong bong wicky sticky bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong.
You fed on the weed.
Wicky sticky bong bong
You fed on that wacky weed.
In a bong bong bong.
Wicky sticky bong bong.
Wick wicky sticky bong.
Wicky sticky bong bong.
Wick wicky sticky bong.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Justice Denied In Massachusetts
Let us abandon then our gardens and go home
And sit in the sitting-room
Shall the larkspur blossom or the corn grow under this cloud?
Sour to the fruitful seed
Is the cold earth under this cloud,
Fostering quack and weed, we have marched upon but cannot
conquer;
We have bent the blades of our hoes against the stalks of them.
Let us go home, and sit in the sitting room.
Not in our day
Shall the cloud go over and the sun rise as before,
Beneficent upon us
Out of the glittering bay,
And the warm winds be blown inward from the sea
Moving the blades of corn
With a peaceful sound.
Forlorn, forlorn,
Stands the blue hay-rack by the empty mow.
And the petals drop to the ground,
Leaving the tree unfruited.
The sun that warmed our stooping backs and withered the weed
uprooted—
We shall not feel it again.
We shall die in darkness, and be buried in the rain.
What from the splendid dead
We have inherited —
Furrows sweet to the grain, and the weed subdued —
See now the slug and the mildew plunder.
Evil does overwhelm
The larkspur and the corn;
We have seen them go under.
Let us sit here, sit still,
Here in the sitting-room until we die;
At the step of Death on the walk, rise and go;
Leaving to our children's children the beautiful doorway,
And this elm,
And a blighted earth to till
With a broken hoe.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Grow grass, not corn
If you want to help someone grow up,
Do it like growing grass in a lawn,
Not like growing corn in a farm
Growing corn expecting a harvest
Will mar the pleasure of your efforts
In case the harvest turns a failure.
The pleasant mind grown out of the helps given
Need not be painted with bitterness
By putting to the test the one you helped.
28.12.2008.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Little Flower
Little flower, little flower, growing like a weed,
I want to pick you, but then I don't I think I'll just let you be.
Your colors so pretty starling at me, a yellow orange is what I see.
If I were you and you were me, I know you would just let me be.
So, little flower grow like a weed, for I won't pick you I'll just let you be.
poem by Joanne Walker
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The Farm
There┬┤s a cockroach in my coffee
There┬┤s a needle in my arm
And I feel like New York City
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Somebody get me to the farm
I got terminal uniqueness
I'm an egocentric man
I get caught up in my freakness
But I ain┬┤t no Peter Pan
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me...
Buckle up straight Jack
Sanity is such a drag
Jellybeam thorazene
Trancendental jet lag
Sanity I ain┬┤t gotta
Feeling like a pinala
Sucker punch-blowin┬┤lung
Motherload-pigeonholed
I'm feeling like I'm gonna explode
I wanna be a Hare Krishna
Tattoo a dot right on my head
And the prozac is my fixer
I am the living dead
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm...
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When An Evening Meal Is Ready
field worker lives with so little today
faith plants a portion of seed each day
who will help water who will weed?
who will guard help grow this seed?
who will help grow this crop wheat?
who will help gather in hot sun heat?
finally when evening meal is laid out neat
who will receive invitation in fellowship eat?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Rainy Day Blues
The rain is still coming down today
For gods sake! Will it ever
stop?
I’m sick to death of looming gray clouds
That are exuding their drizzling
drops.
For Pete’s sake! Get it over with
I’ve had about as much as I can
stand
Let me get back to my old self again
And out of this soggy
Wetland.
This slow moving low and me below
Make for one miserable
dude.
If it doesn’t stop soon this mini monsoon
I’ll be lethargic all day and just
Brood
I pray to sweet Jesus the rain will soon end
But the weatherman says rain all weekend.
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Weeds Are Not Uprooted
To encourage a section to serve
Will make the other take it granted.
To encourage a section to forgive
Will make the other go scot-free.
To educate a section tolerance
Will make the other inconsiderate.
By weeding, the weed is not uprooted.
The left weeds will get more place to grow in.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Poisonous Land.
Asked Your heavenly treasures,
Asked for a right licensed,
Asked simply your birth right,
Your license its mean - to have mixed,
Mixed with specialties of different kinds,
Possibly, known and known.
Poisonous land,
Precious indeed,
Poisonous land,
Holy Indeed,
Poisonous Land,
Beauty Indeed,
Poisonous Land.
I pray for good food,
Good food at morning hour,
Good Food at noon hour,
Good food at night hour,
Even at midnight hour,
I pray for divine cleanness,
I pray for holy spirit...
Poisonous land,
Precious indeed,
That's you are!
Heavy to deliver,
Night be deadly,
Night be an horrors' beauty,
For dogs does not bark for nothing,
Must stated and a statement!
Poisonous land.....
Light definitely ablaze darkness,
Despite snow white and blood red still,
Brevity a watch word,
An assignment,
Poisonous land,
I pray for deliverance,
I pray for divine light,
Poisonous land.
poem by Bunmi Orogun Samuel
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Knowledge
Knowledge is power
A chop-chop growing flower
knowledge is dangerous
An overdosing negative force
And I have been walking its path
Right from the the start with my heart
Acknowledging it as a perfect invention
That can set me free or put me in detention
Knowledge is a privilege
It could place you at the cutting edge
When you pledge
To make it your privilege
Born are great deeds and weeds
As knowledge plants seeds
But Knowledge can deceive
At the end you choose what to believe
Copyright 2008 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A Weed......honesty
a weed amongst weeds
honesty, to you i do plead
show yourself to me,
one more time,
in your pristine beauty
of bright translucent white
a adorable name,
for a weed so hidden
amongst natures
wooden bristle beauty.
poem by Ritty Patnaik
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There Is A Secret Garden In My Heart
where i grow
some weeds
and flowers
with colors
and scents
not of your liking
i hide them
there
only for me
to see
and smell
and touch
you do not
know
i am more real
in this garden
my home
away from
you
where i can
be a weed
a grass
and not the
flower
that you always
love
in this garden
where
i am alone
where
i can be myself
away from
the clutches
of your choking
gaze
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sit in the Darkness
Kill off the brood,
A parasitic maniac
With blood for its food
A fearful necropheliac
Sit in the dark
A message written in the sand
Suffer the bark
Of the dog that sits in dark Siam
She is his way,
A light so bright you cannot see
He is her clay
A mold of inner thought debris
Stand in her light,
His eyes now frozen, try to bleed
Suffer the bite
Of the maggot grown inside her seed
Lay on the floor,
A killer, crazed, will try to cry
Go back for more
As the final brood now tries to die
Now all is said
So sit in dark and try to hide
Now that they’re dead,
By rules of death you must abide
poem by Jack Cropes
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Legend of the Albino Farm
Omaha, Nebraska They do not sleep nights
but stand between
rows of glowing corn and
cabbages grown on acres past
the edge of the city.
Surrendered flags,
their nightgowns furl and
unfurl around their legs.
Only women could be this
white. Like mules,
they are sterile
and it appears that
their mouths are always
open. Because they are thin
as weeds, the albinos
look hungry. If you drive out
to the farm, tree branches will
point the way. No map will show
where, no phone is listed.
It will seem that the moon, plump
above their shoulders, is constant,
orange as harvest all year
long. We say, when a mother
gives birth to an albino girl,
she feigns sleep after
labor while an Asian
man steals in, spirits
the pale baby away.
poem by Erin Belieu
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