Village boy Impressions

It is a curious thing what words are! Many things at once or o ne thing at a time.  They are worth all they say and more!  Sometimes they are like; Mothers' milk, c olourful blossoms,  Polished diamonds, w arm sunlight or Even clay in the potter's hand. But they can also be as Bitter as gall, c old as death,  Hard as marble, painful as betrayal,  Soft as butter, s weeter than honey.  Pick them like a connoisseur, Polished to dazzling artistry For they make or mar beauty and being. Choose them like the chef, Healthy and tasty both That you may glow with pride at their praise. Use them like the teacher, Precise, concise, and constructive  To guide and instruct the little ones And bring them up in the right way. Speak them like the mendicant, That you may move your Lord To generous benevolence.   If proverbs are the palm oil with which words are eaten, Words are the morsel that must choke or nourish you Though sticks and stones may break your bones, Words can haunt or hurt you for

The crops never thrive in untendered fields Neither the millet nor the cowpea Can stand the wild tares Nor the parched nor the cloggy field.  But even on God's loamy earth,  Much must be spent to make  The maize and the sorghum bloom.  Much must be given,  For much to be harvested; All have to be weeded and seeded Some have to be watched and watered And many others mulched and manured,  Least they wither and die.  There is no joy for the sluggard.  It is a world of labour From farm to fork.  Could it be we weren't planted deep enough,  Or we neglected to nurture the shoot?  What might have been a bumper field Is become a parched land For nothing untendered can prosper.  Yet we sowed wildly and sparingly: And some seeds fell among the rocks And died unappreciated and unpraised.  Many more fell among the thorns And were pierced with divergent cares.  Still others by the road side fell And the mouths that eat salt and pepper  Have devoured those; Spreading their poo across the glo