Best Field Poems
Courage of Youth, Battle of Ypres, Flanders Field
(A Tribute)
Tough as nails young man with a red right hand
red-fire and whiskey ran in his blood.
Courageous seed of vast and cold hard land
quick temper, power of a surging flood.
Seeker of life, its promised mysteries
rash gambler with all he would ever own.
Born on ship in high wind swept, roaring seas
toughest warrior his town had ever grown.
Met his fate by volley of red-hot lead
buried on ground scared and battle blasted.
Aye boys, fodder that machine guns were fed
fools marching to death, long as it lasted.
Now flowers cover up and Time denies
scenes of battle torn soil and blood-red skies.
R.J. Lindley
April 23rd, 1975
SONNET-(DEATH AND WAR'S FUTILITY)
Tribute to Courage of Youth-- Second Battle of Ypres, April 22nd 1915 .
Note- added - 8-26-2017
Wiki-
The name Flanders Fields is particularly associated with battles that took place in the Ypres Salient, including the Second Battle of Ypres and the Battle of Passchendaele. For most of the war, the front line ran continuously from south of Zeebrugge on the Belgian coast, across Flanders Fields into the centre of Northern France before moving eastwards — and it was known as the Western Front.
The phrase originates from a poem titled In Flanders Fields by Canadian Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, inspired by his service during the Second Battle of Ypres. The fields were not maintained for years before they were made into a memorial. Today Flanders Fields is home to thousands of poppies.
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Found this while rummaging through some of my old poems. Decided not to edit it. Leave it as it was composed over 42 years ago..
Added the note for those not familiar with that battle and its horrific carnage, primarily from the insanity of large bodies of troops marching into direct machine gun fire.
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Note:
This poem was selected and requested for teaching purposes at Cambridge University. Permission was granted for educational use.... RJL
“Close to the western summit there is the dried and frozen carcass of a leopard. No one has explained what the leopard was seeking at that altitude.”
— Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
Close, but close to what, he asks himself
to God, or to the end of things?
the question looms, an icy wind that stings
western sun belies the deathly chill within his bones
summit slain, an unread book upon the shelf
there is this urge that drives a man,
is hard to grasp and harder to expound -
the constant forward press that leaves each
dried, unquenched, though verdant green surrounds,
and yet, to feel within one’s core, the source just out of reach
frozen by fear of somehow missing out, his
carcass now grows cold, a mind adrift, in search
of times of youth and days of old -
a man possessed will rid these thoughts no sooner than a
leopard sheds his spots
No real concern is given to the
one who comes behind, who likewise seeks -
has he a thought of how his end will be
explained? to whom? they either understand or know not
what lies just ahead beyond this snowy peak
the sadness of the unattended field such sown - the
leopard lives and dies alone, but for the joys of spring
was this Creator’s plan for us? i don’t think so -
seeking, He’s found in places pressed and low,
at heights, without, does but exhaustion bring
that one might scale the highs, seek out, explore -
altitude, we find, a perfect metaphor
“We’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky as we lie in fields of gold.” - from Sting’s Fields of Gold
One day in a museum, my mind on an old flame,
I found myself mysteriously being led
to a field of gold depicted within a gilded frame.
In the picture, pretty flowers beckoned, a brilliant red.
In front of it I stopped, thinking of my love and things we’d left unsaid.
I blinked, and in an instant, I felt sunlight
upon my face; then there escaped from me
a cry of surprise and sheer delight!
Finding myself engulfed by grassy sea,
with myriad poppies, I thought how could this be?
I twirled around. Yes, beneath my feet
was solid earth! Above was azure sky.
Spring was in the air, with fragrance sweet.
I was in the painting. I did not question why!
Oh, there was such beauty to make a poet sigh.
I thought about a song from days of old -
a song I used to hear on my car radio
about a man, who with his sweetheart, walked in fields of gold,
and I felt my bliss dissipating even though
I could still feel on my cheek the sun’s warm glow.
In the lovely flowered landscape, my time was nearly done.
It would not matter even if this were reality!
In fields of gold, I would lie with no one,
and no jealousy would blue sky have for me,
for even in my dreams, alone I’d be. . .
Written May 7, 2016 and inspired by
the "Within a Gilded Frame" Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
Recorded with voice in June 2016 for CT's Audio Poems (Spoken Words)
In my field of dreams I see you
Walking towards me
With that smile on your face
With promise and hope in your eyes
Somehow your reflection has gone dim
My hope at times too
But
Then I remember the life you lived
It was all about hope
All about not giving up
Never forgetting to smile
That will always remain –
A bittersweet memory
Times like tonight you are so close by
Not physically
But I can feel your breathe against my skin
I can feel the warmth of your touch
It’s not in the things you said,
It’s in the way you did them
Even when I miss you
The most
Still, I am thankful
I was blessed with you
Even if just for a little while
27/11/2012
©271120121430
Be strong in your beliefs and opinions
Give and receive them respectfully
Discuss , debate, disagree ,
Devoid of anger and intimidation
Be polite and behave graciously
Don’t try and change opinions
Or what others believe
With intimidation and insults
Just amicably disagree
Why the desire to be hurtful
Trying to out-speak and outdo
Using sarcasm just to be heard
Desperate for control and that final word
Stop being childish and hateful
Bullying is not a game
Spewing ugly vindictive words
Is not the way to make positive change
Insecurities play a part with bullies
Due to lack of self worth and self esteem
Feeling stronger in who they are
When humiliating and simply being mean
Strive for a better way
Strive for a more positive you
There are no wrongs or rights
Just different points of view
Try kindness and compassion
Seek qualities in your fellow mankind
Don’t engage in belittling interactions
Igniting troubled minds
Life is not a competition
A constant game of tit for tat
Being confrontational and critical
Is not the way decent humans act
You have created your own personal battle field
Fuelled by antagonism and controversy
It must be so emotionally draining
Being consumed with malice and negativity
~ experience the life cycle - through hope,
perseverance and the beauty of nature ~
quote by poet
walk through the meadow
heaven is under your feet -
a soul that blossoms
Here is a flowered field laid before me.
So vast and green,
it shimmers
like the
sea.
This
sea of
pretty green
swims in my eyes.
I’m drowning in sunset’s last yellow rays.
Sept. 28, 2020
for Eve Roper's 'Double Tetractys 4' Contest
I failed to submit this one in time for Eve's previous contest
Rice fields look the same except
for this one; this one who knew me
before i was born… and lying on her
fertile belly, she tosses the mist
of evening’s bamboo for raindrops to
moisten the flesh of gentle cattle.
Through serenades from elders
gathering in a bonfire of twitters
and jousts,a carousel of birds wheels
in a rhapsody, then takes flight along
scented air whisking tiny lanterns
near the plain,while rivers blue twirl
on rustic clay. How beautiful can she be!
I must have twirled with her on a cradle
of blushing petals swirling oh so feathery!
Waking up for some reason, dusted grains
on my eyes ignite this one
spectacle tryst with my rice field
where I have become different...
my head throbbing in sweet surrender,
perhaps, claiming the very floor
of my navel through her ripened harvest.
...................
Judged and Finalized 6/18/2016
I Got Zero, Nothing, Nada -1
Contest of Broken Wings
Resubmitted 7/1/2016
To love you in every fairest moment
and kiss you tenderly in pure delight
to yearn for you when you are absent
and hold you closer in shadowed light
love keeps us fondly in a warm embrace
as dreams within the heart become unsealed
passion will become a familiar face
beneath the sun's flowered fragrant field
we'll be devoted when our arms entwine
like tender green leaves hold the morning's dew
in the dawn soft glow your eyes always shine
hummingbirds slow their flight when they see you
the true beauty found in love is so clear
a bond to be until we disappear
I love to watch a farm awaken in the early spring,
Especially as the birds in the forest happily sing,
The farm knows how to be itself, profound and true,
Like the faded red barn, quietly beholding the view.
In this moment, the farm finds its serenity,
Between sips of morning coffee, so heavenly,
Tempting songs of cardinals, a melodious cheer,
Chips and whistles carried by the breezy air.
Who wouldn't be captivated by this wondrous sight,
As darkness surrenders to the emerging light,
The old barn stands, with no complaints or pleas,
No need for a fresh coat of red, at ease it sees.
The morning fog, a gentle, subtle trace,
In the fields unplowed, it finds its place,
Soon, corn will grow in rows so neat,
And crows will gather for a sumptuous treat.
Gently I inhale the farm's awakening charm,
Especially in the early spring's tranquil arm,
Where the soul knows no bounds, it's free,
Across an undefined horizon, a painting, you see.
Quiet repose, a vastness, the soul's delight,
A pretty picture as the new day takes flight,
The farm awakens with beauty untold,
In the early spring, where dreams unfold.
She tiptoes in quietly, pushing out summer.
There is a hush in the corn fields.
Even the crows are silent.
Scratch. Scratch. Everyone is readying themselves.
Full corn moon, autumn’s magic lady.
Bringing marmalade ideas to the farmers and the corn.
Everything needs to be harvested except the pumpkins.
They are still half way grown on vines.
Harvest moon silences us as she whisks past the combines.
Showing her sweet side to the forest, and her smile to Grandmas.
In the wee hours, as they stare out their windows
Frying bacon, fixing take away lunches with homemade biscuits.
Autumn moon smiles back, knowing her minutes are numbered.
It is four a.m. in Iowa. People are getting ready to harvest.
Harvest moon enjoys these final days of September,
Announcing a mighty winter. He will come in and rub her out, in
a cold fury using snowflakes, frost, and gusts of pure angry winds.
Bees are buzzing in their hives
A pony tail swish, deters the flies
Long grass waves, majestic in the wind
And over the pond the dragonflies skim
This halcyon place you love to be
Brings peace and joy eternally.
Come to the field of forgiveness
when you are feeling low.
If negativity nags at you,
you need to let it all go.
Let go of your bitterness.
Bluebells will beckon to you.
These meadow empaths feel your pain.
Your soul they will renew.
Lie down near lovely flowered spaces.
Take a whiff of the fragrance of
lilac, lavender and larkspur.
Breathe the pure scent of love.
Lay down anger and hatred.
Hostility you must release
if you want to know in life
happiness and peace.
Kneel beside white lilies and
offer up a heartfelt prayer.
Touch the petals of roses red.
Feel the good Lord’s care.
Compassion toward those who hurt you
in your heart you will sow
when you visit the field of forgiveness
where the greatest miracles grow.
In a field of daisies, bathed in a perfume
of wild roses, clover and ocean brine,
you and me in the early afternoon
drinking Kool Aid, pretending its wine,
and sharing left over crumbs with a few tiny ants,
that scurry across a thread barren cloth
that has spent years in a trunk with a moth,
While we eat a meal fit for a King and Queen-
Periwinkles, Dulse and canned Sardines-
treasures from the Great Atlantic Sea,
while the rolling waves break on the rocks below
in this field where so many daisies grow
He loves me, he loves me not, my daisy flies away,
And only Jimmy and the wind will ever know.
Written: June 9th, 2014
Author's Note.
This was my first picnic with my first love - We were 6 or 7 years old at the time.
Snow crested range backdrop, gurgling creek allurement
At long last was the field, ours its loamy splendor
Our fertile paradise beneath stars and thunder
Within this promise, we planted our enchantment
Time sprouted our hearts’ dreams with sunlight reverent
Steadfast home to shelter love through frost December
Joyously nurturing new lives, mild and tender
Yet a caretaker’s heart still yearns for nourishment
Other fields of promise neglected, gone fallow
Harvests left under the merciless sun to spoil
Their once magnificent bounties, cupboards hollow
Tears cannot mend cold ground neglected beyond toil
Their heartbreak, a tragic fate we need not follow
Come tend our garden, my love, till its fertile soil
5/29/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Italian Sonnet, 12 syllables per line