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It has always been that the earth
is broken, scarified and tilled.

Each sowing done by humble hand
with hopes of a bounty to fill near-

empty bins of grain, each seed
producing after its own kind.

Nothing is more proletarian than
the Russet whose eyes remain dark

with remembrance of the struggle
that drove Hemingway to Spain,

the terror of Franco and the Basque.
I pinch back the delicate heads of

broccoli to thicken the stalk, side
dress the tomatoes who ask,

" What of the Disappeared under
Pinochet and Trujillo? The Death

Squads of Argentina?" Jesus was

a Socialist who railed against the
Bourgeoisie, saying it is harder for

them to attain Heaven than a camel
to go through the eye of a needle.

In reverence of this, I make
everything count, composting

coffee grounds, egg shells to feed
that which feeds me; onions

are my comrades and turnips
my brothers-in- arms, tied by

the soil until we rise up and
throw off the chains of tyranny.

This is one of those special poems where ambition and wide casting of its net leave us feeling grateful to be caught up in its net. A terrific read.

Thank you

I read now, and see this "garden poem" would also work for the IBPC.

Ken, which one will you pick?

Thanks,

Michael (MV)

It's early

My apology, Kenneth.

I see now this poem was initially posted in June on the 3rd.

Sincerely,

Michael (MV)

Kenneth2816 wrote: ↑

07 Jun 2022, 04:53

It's early

Well written, Ken and very thought provoking.
Eira

Thanks Eira