Best Arable Poems
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
Categories:
arable, life,
Form:
Free verse
So many times you’ve shuffled the deck,
I don’t know which card will turn up next
So many times you’ve poisoned the well,
I don’t what lies you’re going to tell
It’s not fair --
Your keepin’ us all in the dark
It’s not fair --
The snuffing out of every spark
So many times you’ve dumped your oil --
A truly dead sea and no arable soil
So many times you’ve tilted the table,
With a heart of steel you made our lives unstable
It’s not fair --
You promise renewal and repair
They’re not there,
But to you everything is fair
Fair game
Against your false visions
And lying divinations,
Let us raise up our hands
As a unified nation
So many times you questioned our minds
As though it were us and not you who is blind
So many times you’ve tilted the table,
Your heart of steel made the machine unstable
It’s not fair --
The way you shattered our promise
It’s not fair
‘Cause it’s too easy to be dishonest
Categories:
arable, america, anger, betrayal, bible,
Form:
Political Verse
The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.
Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace.
And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure,
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.
Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.
Categories:
arable, cowboy-western, family, food, history,
Form:
Quatrain
"Green House of the Sick Man"
Imagining the lush, trickled and tickled
By spray of light thoughts, my healing possibly
To be that clover in full bloom again
My body looked more like onion weed
I wished for the irrigation from the botanist
These thoughts, they want to crop up as
He taps on both my knees, offering some advice
"You won't sprout from your bed for a couple days.
Don't forget ventilation, open those windows. "
My cold frame was evidence I had not been taking my pesticides
A fodder for other animals' discussions downstairs
Not ready yet, but don't put me out to pasture for them
It is my job to sell at the marketplace, rising to full radiance
Though feelings of worry might crop up, wondering
About my yield, I might yield, but never concede
I coughed up less nutrients than yesterday
Still an arable land I wish to be a legume
And be with my friends again, all peas in a pod.
Categories:
arable, introspection,
Form:
Free verse
Scramble in life of a
man.
Is sequel to gamble
and grumble
Thinking that he is
humble
Because he could
afford an apple.
Men begin to play
him like scrabble.
As a sample for the
simple.
On-till he finds the
temple.
Commit your life to
him who is ABLE.
It will not crumble,
crumple or fumble
Which are triple -
sorority.
You will neither look
rumpled nor tumbled.
It is all a parable
that saves from
trouble
Which is a seed of
struggle
Mostly for the
'arable farmer'.
Yet not like the
carpenters hammer.
Categories:
arable, faith, life,
Form:
Rhyme
Green lush of green
lush green is green
a leaf of language
a branch of word
a flagstone steps
Heart of the earth is free,
white flowers
Clean heart,
fine arts literature
sketching art
arable land
planting gratitude
Green is nature
cool breeze
citing cloud
loyal heart
clarity of thinking
for the future!
Categories:
arable, age, art, garden, green,
Form:
Ballad
Flourish,
Flourishing as the sun shining you daily
Rejoicing as abundant rain watering your fields
and creating some dams
for farming fish and feeding your animals.
You are burgeoning in the eyes
of some lazy folks
who have big mouths
to talk senseless speeches in the streets
and forgetting their arable lands
which are fitting for industrial agriculture.
Flourish,
Oh! Laughing deafeningly sometimes
when I focus on some tête -à-tête debates
Which concern poverty in rich continent like Africa.
Some folks suffering because of some circumstances
and others dependence due to sluggishness.
Flourish,
DRCongo has more billionaire businessmen
and some politicians
who keep their money in their mansions
and banks
in Europe, Asia America and other African countries...
Other rich people hide their money under the grounds
than investing in industrial fishing and agriculture
and infrastructures to uplift
the economy of the Country.
June 23/2023
Written for poetry contest sponsored by
Constance la France
....F WORD CHALLENGE....
Categories:
arable, courage, encouraging, growth, motivation,
Form:
Free verse
Orchards of Opportunity
Alone in the orchard of opportunities
surveying the ripened potential
I pondered the fruitful labor of others
enviously sniffing the succulence of success.
Knowing that their success was only mine
in theory, in dreams, in unlimited potential.
Before me lay the future’s untilled fields
awaiting a touch, a vision, an awakening.
Planting a thought, a theory, an inspiration,
tending it, winnowing the weeds of doubt,
nurturing a simple truth long dormant
in the arable corners of an open mind.
10/24/2016
submitted to – Opportunities – Poetry Contest
Categories:
arable, muse, success,
Form:
Verse
Africa the Holy garden
protected by Angels
Africa the Holy garden
blessed by God,
Africa of pure waters
And more natural resources,
Africa of more plants
and arable soil,
Africa of good weather,
fauna and flora
Africa which welcomes
all the visitors
"Know yourselves Africans,
Knowing yourselves Africans"
The God of the Holy Apostles and prophets
Put power ,strength and authority in you
To control the World.
Written in Swahili by Alfonso Warally Ngengethe Mussabwa Chris
On May 20/2013
Translated in English in March 05 /2023
Proposed to be the national Anthem of African Union
Categories:
arable, 12th grade, africa, black
Form:
Free verse
The dark cloud lifted to find ourselves on the global stage
In spite of the stage fright, we united into a fist of courage
The arable land awaits, but instead erodes from our uncertain steps
The endless boycott and protestations, but the rain never drops
We choreograph a new rain dance
Blame migrants and superstition for our circumstance
Blame our dark history for this now sinking ship
Blame Politian(s), we elected to power for their poor leadership
Too much freedom (without responsibility) can be liken to too much rope
Too soon have we discarded Mandela’s robe of hope
His dream was to make the tip the top of our continent
He had the makings of a king, but chose rather to be president
The burning rubble fumes black rainless clouds rendering us blind
The choking smoke throwing us further into darkness on the ground
What if the rain never comes and we’re forced to immigrate
Are we to expect a warm welcome when hatred is what we cultivate?
Egoli, our heart of gold worn superficially on our teeth
A pretentious smile to hide a forked tongue in the mouth
Poisonous is what our jealous face has now become infamous
Our generous flag up in flames to show the world our true colours
Categories:
arable, africa, political,
Form:
Rhyme
It is times like these
When I cannot force
A poem out of me
But the emotions leave
My blood boiling
Like that split second
Before sugar turns into caramel
And my cheeks inevitably
Turn red.
I cannot explain this
Bursting universe
Inside of me-
It leaves my head in the
Stars
As my world
Slow dances around you.
So hold my palpitating hand
And let the silence
Speak for itself-
Meanwhile, other roses
Bloom as the sun embraces
Them with warmth,
Church bells
Of another wedding- set
Four thousand six hundred and seventy two
Kilometers away ring as
Rice and good luck spread
On the floor
Lands become arable.
Other universes form.
Supernovas like fireworks
Colour this painting
Called the sky
The so called Nerd
With braces
Gets her first kiss
A fifty-five year old man
Somewhere in Brazil
Says thank you to his wife
For the first time in
Quite a while
Birds chirp
A tiger in the wilderness
Finds water
And butterflies desert their
Cocoons-
So hold my palpitating hand now
And let the silence
Speak for itself –
Because it is times
Like these
When worlds and words
Are born inside of me,
And I cannot let them out.
Categories:
arable, love
Form:
Free verse
Still tears in our eyes for our Brave Haiti
Still tears in our eyes for our incredible Country
Still tears in our eyes for our mortified, martyred
Bludgeoned, tricked, tortured, vilified and murdered victims
The cowards wasted and riddled with bullets an incompetent president
Who could not exterminate corruption and nourish our arable land.
Still tears in our eyes for our dear homeland
Still tears in our eyes for our hardened souls
Still tears in our eyes for the caustic and unheard-of crimes
Our cowardly politicians have totally forgotten the oaths and the cries
Of our glorious ancestors who bequeathed to us this beautiful country of Haiti
After so much bloodshed, suffering, sacrifices, adventures and braveries.
Oh ! Our Heroes are disappointed in their well-deserved resting places
Still sad deaths where thugs, knuckle heads, vermins and gangs from morbid
Hells are in total control of the lives of our brothers and sisters
Still another anniversary where many good people are suffering and weeping
We're sick of everything that's bad and brooding in our country
Still tears for our battered, bruised, resilient and impoverished Haiti.
P.S. Happy May 18th. Flag’s Day to Haiti!
Haiti fought ferociously and won its independence in January 1804.
Translation of ‘ Encore Des Larmes Aux Yeux Pour Notre Chère Patrie’
By Hébert Logerie
Copyright © May 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Categories:
arable, black african american, celebration,
Form:
Free verse
INFERNO
As I watched from far away,
Under the sun sending down its rays,
Not willing to stare any longer,
And about to find my way out,
I noticed the earth trembling,
Followed by a cacophony,
Temperature rose in a flash,
Behold it was a volcano,
Red molten flowing down from its cone,
Arable down destroyed,
The reddish molten was like blood,
Blood of Slavery.
When will hearts of men be one?
Being different from none,
Humans being callous to another,
For exploitation of others,
Like a lion that turneth not away from its prey.
Captured with alluring promises,
With goodies and pleasantries,
Men became victims of circumstances,
Minds anticipated life with good fortunes and feature,
But least they never knew,
That their thoughts were all fiction.
Disastrous like a sirroco,
Blew the winds of the deserts,
Their human nature became weary,
Without any proper attention given,
Covering many miles,
Of which some lost their lives.
Seeing the anguish of men,
I rhapsodised about the fate of lives,
That were experiencing onslaught,
My heart was deeply exasperated,
Seeing how lives were siphoned like liquid,
The famished ones died away,
And the sands of the desert buried their bodies.
On the Mediterranean they voyaged,
Endangering lives of youthful age,
They were like unpreserved cabbage,
Experiencing the sporadic fierce tempest,
The extreme cold nights,
Accompanied with empty stomach,
Leading their skin to take the hue of an oak,
In juxtaposition with a mahogany.
Nostalgic feelings came,
The care and love shown to them at home,
Created in their hearts a hole, Which can only be filled by hope, Their condition was like perdition.
ANYABOLU IFEANYI GENTLE
Categories:
arable, abuse, black african american,
Form:
Didactic
three flowers ...
of extraordinary bloom
seeds and earth, spun together in chaos
soil of arable value, some more or less ... firm,
but challenge not the care of the tenders - their loving ambitions
they gardened and provided with nurturing hands
far-from-perfect, the aliment entrusted ...
not always in accord, but consistently full hearts for the task
oh, those blossoms were, as any, pressed by the elements
for life is as much the storms, as it is the fair and fine
but the roots were strong and reaching
what they sprung, hearty and bright and graceful -
as imperfectly perfect as childhood dreams
now, I stand back and watch them gather light and wings
drink rain, bend in the wind, fold their petals in twilight ...
seeding new buds and blooms of their own
for that is the way of flowers ...
their beauty, blessing.
Submitted on June 3, 2020
To the "Brian's Select 3, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.
Categories:
arable, analogy, appreciation, children, flower,
Form:
Free verse
This haunted man - a prisoner,
his bitter mix beneath the tongue,
tastes the outer, tastes the inner,
and gasps for breath with broken lung.
The ilk of those who should be free,
who limit more than most among
the ball and chain, the tyranny.
In all he sees, a parable
to loose the soul, to disagree.
His acre lots, though arable,
such fertile grounds yet long the plow,
both beautiful, and terrible,
was tortured then, is tortured now.
Categories:
arable, introspection
Form:
Terza Rima