deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Dreams of Dirt
The seeds are searchers
with inbuilt mechanisms
of travel or teleportation
ascending & descending
the wind & imagination
of the systematic
amalgamation
of phenomenon
lingering & landing
malingering & settling
Setting in with the setting sun
Venturing into the place where everyone
goes to die or dream
Into the Earth made secret keeper realm
As my imagination takes over
under the deepest wonder
depth beyond measure
as the only answer
to be shore
There is definitely something there… In the crypt like dark alone & stark
Published 11th Jun 2021
Author's Note
(maybe I was thinking of roots and mycelial networks and underground exchanges of information, as well as the different aspects of existence. Not necessarily in a morbid way, although certain morbidities do occur to me, from time to time.)
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11th Jun 2021 3:20pm
I really can relate to this particular piece in regards to the spiritual elements of dirt(soil) on so many intellectual levels, from the person who craves to consume it an eating disorder called (Pica) to the metaphors; where wisdom and knowledge within is cultivation will always derive from enriched mental roots to gain from its insights in passing.
My French Haitian ancestral’ feet, hands embedded in beds of dirt tilling lands to reap of its greater fruits after harvesting. Men of honor dug trenches to fight for the pursuit of happiness as my adopted county’s flag still sways here today. Rain upon the dirt, in the natural organic process giving birth to seeds to flourish, breaking through the darkness of dirt to breathe life to its fertile petals.
Some people sling mud in hatred, whereas, some people tend to cover/conceal their dirt from prying eyes.
In reverence, yes, six feet under is our vessel’s final resting place, before the soul separates and continue its spiritual phrase.
I applaud you for this interchangeable musing, I could had continued however, sometimes in brevity it gives the mind more time to ponder. Enjoy your Friday and have a beautiful weekend my poet.
My French Haitian ancestral’ feet, hands embedded in beds of dirt tilling lands to reap of its greater fruits after harvesting. Men of honor dug trenches to fight for the pursuit of happiness as my adopted county’s flag still sways here today. Rain upon the dirt, in the natural organic process giving birth to seeds to flourish, breaking through the darkness of dirt to breathe life to its fertile petals.
Some people sling mud in hatred, whereas, some people tend to cover/conceal their dirt from prying eyes.
In reverence, yes, six feet under is our vessel’s final resting place, before the soul separates and continue its spiritual phrase.
I applaud you for this interchangeable musing, I could had continued however, sometimes in brevity it gives the mind more time to ponder. Enjoy your Friday and have a beautiful weekend my poet.
11th Jun 2021 5:13pm
This possesses such a mystical quality to it. Earthkeepers, keepers of seeds, rebirth, regeneration, mycelium. So many conduits of connectivity burgeoning with information. It's wondrous.
