Monday, 13 August 2012


I went to battle yesterday.
The ground was dusty, the skies were gray.
I wore rubber boots of green,
My hair was back, and my pants were jeans.

No sun in the sky, no breeze in the air,
Hardly a day one would call fair.
My worn cotton work shirt felt sticky and tough,
And I climbed through a fence by a tree worn and rough.

We battled the green death, or rather, the burdock.
Splintery little bombs, the seeds stand and mock.
Upon their stalks of green, they grow tall and proud,
Weathered and scratchy, they the flowers quite overcrowd.

We went to battle yesterday, with our gloves,
Our courage, our unity, and yes, our shovels.
We went to battle, and despite the gray skies,
The dusty packed earth, the humidity and the flies.

We fought them with shovels, sometimes single-handedly,
As we carried them away we laughed quite candidly.
One dashed for my head, the cluster of evil,
Its spiky little claws seemed almost primeval.

When it burrowed its way into my hair,
I grimaced a bit, bore it and glared.
Not until the Surgeon General appeared
Was the problem fixed; and naught was feared.

Having conquered Vurduria, troops moved up the road.
We passed by a garden, where seeds were sowed.
Seeds of onion and pumpkin, potatoes and peas,
Beets, squash, even melon, as well as some beans.

"Onward, soldiers!" came the cry from ahead,
On we pushed, for battling was better than being dead.
We cut them down, and the enemy died,
No one gave them credit even though they had tried.

When the battle neared its end, the final test was made.
We ran through the field, until we reached the shade.
It was eery and strange; we were hot and sweaty,
I was hit, but we had not the time to write up a treaty.

As we ran through the field, we forgot about something.
The Vespa Vulgaris had ambushed to sting.
I retreated, wounded, feeling like a failure.
However, there was much I had learned in this adventure.

We battled the green death, put it out of commission.
As I cared for my wound, (I was now the physician),
I remembered a thought, and was quite comforted.
"He knows what I need." and fear dissipated.

Sometimes my General sends me out to the front lines
In my head I resist, His plans undermine!
It was right I was wounded, through this he showed me,
His plans are over, above mine: High and lofty.

My dreams, hopes, ambitions, plans, thoughts and musings,
Are nothing at all, but if they exist, they should be underhis.
Never undermine, as the old creation wails, ever underhis:
Always, only, ever, under His.


A poem I wrote after thinking about my yesterday.  Work is more than it is sometimes looked at to be, and it should be treated with respect, as it is an adventure that teaches you lessons.

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