PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

pʉ‑HA‑kʉ … tʉ‑KÁ

light‑skinned one … young boy

pʉ‑HA‑kʉ … tʉ‑KÁ

walking with our people's fire

pʉ‑HA‑kʉ … tʉ‑KÁ

soil sees and sun names

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"Fruit of the Branch"

Fruit of the branch
is how the soil remembers
the abundance of heart—
roots drinking deep
from hidden covenant,
sap rising like prayer
through the marrow of wood.

Each season bears witness:
figs swelling in their time,
olives pressed for oil,
grapes gathered into silence
before the feast.

The ground does not forget.
It holds the imprint
of every rain,
every hand that tended,
every tear bottled
and poured back as growth.

So the harvest speaks—
not in ledgered sums,
but in sweetness,
in bread and wine,
in the quiet testimony
of branches that endured
the long night
and still bore fruit.

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“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance,
stored against famine,
a whisper of Joseph’s barns.

The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
a vintage sorrow
kept for the day of pouring.

The soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark—
and the mountain waits,
where a feast is laid,
and death itself
is swallowed whole.

Garments gleam:
robes of salvation,
linen bright with testimony,
woven from mercy,
from oil kept burning
through the long delay.

Yet at the edge,
a figure stands unrobed,
silent,
as if waiting to be clothed
by a covenant not yet claimed,
or by compassion
that still lingers at the door.

And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole,
where the Bridegroom waits,
and the Bride makes herself ready.

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"The Wedding at Harvest"

I. Gathering
The guests move through fields of gold,
arms full of sheaves,
their footsteps threshing the stubble.
Every stalk bent low
becomes an offering,
every hand lifted
a summons to joy.

II. Pressing
At the winepress of vows
the bride and groom stand,
their words poured out
like first‑crushed grapes.
The covenant flows red and sweet,
a vintage sealed
by the weight of promise.

III. Feasting
Tables are spread beneath the tree,
linen catching the last light.
Bread is broken,
oil poured,
cups lifted—
the harvest turned to sustenance,
the labour of many
become the joy of all.

IV. Rejoicing
Then the circle forms,
hands joined,
feet stamping the dust into rhythm.
The wind moves through the branches—
unseen, yet birthing song,
as those born from above
lift their voices.
It is the Spirit poured out,
like oil running down,
like fire kindled at First Fruits,
turning the threshing floor
into a floor of praise.

V. Consummation
And beyond the night,
a greater dawn waits:
the Bridegroom lifts the final cup,
the fourth kept back
till the kingdom comes.
The Bride, adorned in linen bright,
answers with her whole being.
Harvest and wedding converge,
and the song that began in the fields
is completed at the table of forever.

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"Rejoicing"

Then the circle forms,
hands joined,
feet stamping the dust into rhythm.

The wind moves through the branches—
unseen, yet birthing song,
as those born from above
lift their voices.

It is the Spirit poured out,
like oil running down,
like fire kindled at Pentecost,
turning the threshing floor
into a floor of praise.

The Bridegroom’s name
is carried on the breath,
and the Bride answers,
her joy rising like incense.

The feast becomes flame,
the night itself
garlanded with gladness,
a foretaste of the Supper
where the final cup is raised.

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"Fragments Gathered"

“Gather up the fragments,
that nothing be lost”—
so even crumbs
become a silo of abundance.

The night keeps count
of every restless turning,
each tear stoppered
in an unseen flask,
as if sorrow itself
were vintage,
kept for the day of pouring.

What we labour for,
though hidden,
is never in vain—
the soil remembers
every hand that tills it,
every seed pressed down
into the dark.

And in the end,
all things are braided—
loss and gain,
silence and song—
woven toward a good
we glimpse only in part,
yet trust as whole.

.

Not the thunder,  

but the pause between  

teaches me to listen.  

A sparrow’s wing  

writes its brief decree  

across the dusk—  

and I am numbered.  

If silence is inscription,  

let it be carved  

on the marrow of my days:  

that nothing wasted  

is ever lost.  

The heavens are not speech,  

yet their dark fire  

outshines every tongue.  

Galaxies wheel—  

not as ornaments,  

but as verdicts:  

that glory is too vast  

for syllables to cage.  

I lift my eyes,  

and the silence burns brighter  

than any temple lamp.  

"Nevertheless"

The world applauds its hollow heroes,
cardboard crowns dissolving in the rain,
while the orchestra saws its strings in half.
Nevertheless, I must prevent this outrage!

The poet, drunk on futility,
tattoos manifestos on the backs of moths,
each flutter a sermon destined for the flame.
Nevertheless, I shall emerge victorious!

History yawns, shelving us beside
pamphlets on the care of extinct animals.
Nevertheless, I demand satisfaction!

The crowd laughs not at the joke,
but at the desperate cough of relevance.
Nevertheless, I reiterate, I am not a chicken!

And when the curtain falls,
the stagehands sweep feathers into black bags,
while the spotlight flickers like a dying star.
Nevertheless, I’ll prove once and for all
that absurdity is the only crown worth wearing.

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