Best Granaries Poems
There In Morning Sun, Hope Circled Enticing Dreams
From inside gaping jaws, golden honey slow drips
its taste as if bitter hell came with deadly judgment
life turned into a bevy of sunken ships
with the dried up bones below a sadden statement.
With solid granite illuminating moon 's glow
ironclad hills buried secrets sadder mysteries
impropriety ran in and melted wicked snow
starving for more people ate from empty granaries.
The wicked angels flew about on leaden wings
watching for the innocence of the golden truth
dawn's light erupted brought the small songbirds that sing
for hot romance and the vanities of our youth.
There in morning sun, hope circled enticing dreams.
Father time gave its fruit to fill the icy streams.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet,
Feb 25th, 1971
Autumn steps in as summer’s bright shine glimmers and flee,
After the heat begins to abate, autumn arrives as nature’s gift.
The soft melody of the leaves and breeze fills me with glee.
The season comes to sweeten with a beautifully painted face.
From green to golden sheen, the trees slowly drift.
The sky looks dank and blank with half shut azure eyes.
Autumn’s heady but steady steps cause rustling in dry leaves.
Squirrels explore and store nuts in their granaries for winter’s shift.
Fearing chilly fate, birds migrate and silence builds beneath the eaves.
O, Chief Spirit,
thank you for the harvest
that fills our granaries
to the brim.
Thank you for the blue sky
that fills our souls with dreams
and beauty.
Thank you for the waters
that replenish us ceaselessly.
Thank you for the rain that brings
life to our crops.
Thank you for the snow that makes our children
leave happy footprints with their moccasins.
Thank you for our parents, brothers, sisters,
strangers, and most importantly,
our ancestors.
Thank you, Chief Spirit,
for remembering us throughout
our existence.....
Date of Entry: 8/17/2016
behold now everything on this earth;
the fields with abundance of grain,
palm-grove harvests rich and fruitful,
the forests that separate kingdoms and the fires that scorch them;
the brickwork of ancestries and the towers that reach our gods.
behold these crop-fields that we call life and death,
grown on the back of a sludge-like entity
sowed, and heaped, in granaries of self-doubt;
collected by children's dirty hands;
bronze-sickles, charcoal-eyes;
while the storms unwrap in the south...
gales have swept these homes and huts of clay,
the dog-faced pazuzu gnarls at the moon, as inimical as it is revered;
a mother's love for the murderous son is as complex
as the children's dependence on these fearsome steppes.
behold now everything on this earth;
the countenance of the origin-beast-mother carved in the mountains of the north
and the efflux of her genitals streaming to the south of the marshes,
into that great ocean whose shores we know only by myth
and whose waters is the abode of the primordial one,
whom hurls the long-spear of flood and storm
deep into the sides of these lands - for these lands are hers:
when all comes about, has not the lands risen strongly
from her bottomless and abysmal womb?
was not the pleasure that shook the members of the old, old gods
into ejaculation, indeed, the motion of her scaled loins?
is she not the temple to which all sacrifices are offered, all libations put forth:
is she not the shrine; the death-black ziqqurat; the lighthouse emitting darkness?
is she not the stele inscribed with all words of grace,
and the eloquence of our beautiful poets?
over the lapse of a thousand millenia,
she has been constricting the gods of the heavens
in a strong leather noose,
f o r i s n o t v o i d o r i g i n a l t o a l l ;
c h a o s , d i s c o r d , o r i g i n a l t o o r d e r ?
A civil war flared up and raged on for freedom
Unequal it was, this bloody war for honour and secession
The natives renamed their land Bangladesh
Inviting anew the wrath of a desperate West
The army’s presence then, was overwhelming in their land
Due to the simmering discontent within and a border to be manned
And from ground and air the armed forces effortlessly struck
It was anarchy all the way with the West’s army running amuck
In thousands they perished, nameless sons of the soil
But the army had orders and the people’s aspirations to foil
They killed and burned and looted and raped
Digging mass graves to conceal evidence of the dead
Granaries were burnt and villages razed
The troops shot all that moved and Bangladesh bled
Women captured alive, endured inhuman pain
Brutally used, they’d be killed with a bullet to the brain
Through their brutal acts in ’71, a sovereign state struck terror
And as news of the carnage spread, an impotent world watched in horror
Protector of civilian lives, the army had turned butcher
Nine months later and a million dead, Bangladesh resembled an abattoir
Resistance was futile against the war machine
Would the aspirations of Bangladeshi’s remain just a dream?
In this riverine country that year, the monsoons suddenly arrived
Rivers in spate impeded troop movement and halted the state’s genocide
With the receding flood waters, India joined the fray
But now Nixon’s 7th Fleet showing solidarity with Pakistan steamed into Bengal’s bay
Mercifully the Indian leadership stood resolute and undeterred
And the rampaging army in Bangladesh was quickly outmanoeuvred
There was no resistance from the state sponsored killers
Ninety thousand troops surrendered meekly to the liberators
Reports of atrocities and mass graves were dismissed as slander and lies
The masterminds were let off the hook, pressured by powerful allies
I make haste to the earth
And anoint its rebirth
When my mother, the cloud, is above,
And then mildly caress
The irradiant dress
Of the hills with immaculate love.
I descend upon leas
And respond to their pleas
When they pine for my kiss in their thirst;
Then I nourish with ease,
As they flow to the seas,
All the rivers whose growth I have nursed.
I protect, as I fly,
Bashful lovers who lie
Undisturbed in their secretive nests,
While the world is at bay
And far out of their way
On its tiresome, oblivious quests.
When the spring air is dry,
I breathe out with a sigh
And the flowers all bloom at my will
And, when autumn is near,
I shed many a tear
O’er the moors while the granaries fill.
Inconsolable birds
Voice their songs without words
In their fond expectation of me,
And then play in the sun
Once their hearts I have won
With the gift of how warm I can be.
I roam, wave upon wave,
When the mariners crave
The sweet taste of moist myrrh on their lips;
Then I plunge and dissolve,
Rise anew and evolve
Into fog which embraces their ships.
From high crests I oft wend
And with care do I tend
To the needs of all green’ry on earth,
Whom I raise from the ground
In a medley unbound
With tall giants of singular girth.
Over mountains I creep,
Upon castles I weep
As they slowly concede to decay;
Then I cover in moss
All that crumbles to loss
When men die and may not have their say.
Once my tears are all gone,
I give way to the sun
And my brilliant sprays overshine
All that flashes on high
And bewitches the eye
On a bow decked in splendor divine.
Though in change I am donned,
I’m the bridge and the bond
Between heaven and earth in their strife;
I am shy yet sublime,
Unaffected by time,
As refulgent in death as in life.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
When my heart bled and spilling out
On madness, loathing minds awry
Lead to crime where love fading out.
On the streets where striplings beseech
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
For some nibbles, they beg and preach
While some granaries choked and sigh.
Sufferings around, made me cry
Of the pain, life and death pother
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
When resumes I tried to smother.
Then saw the nature joined with me
And flooded the world with her cry
Love and empathy, back with plea
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry.
Won second place in STRAND SELECT O ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Won third place in Distant Refrains Poetry Contest sponsored by Joseph May
Unbearable sun
Ant granaries set hoarding
Beach-side, a haven
Scorching July heat
Camel's skin and fat melted
Yet your love intact
they say
your thoughts
create your world
my third world was birthed
when the white storm
swept across our homesteads
do i get to recreate it
by simply thinking
of meadows and prairies
crystal jars
of milk and honey?
i think of thorns
pricking her beautiful skin
the midday sun
scorching her blooming day
i think of green fields and empty pots
flowing rivers and bare granaries
i think of beautiful jewels and plastic chains
naked servants and gucci clad masters
i think of flooded homes and empty dams
i think of the nail crowns
bleeding my people dry
~ thoughts from my world
I want to trust in other people,
That could be my biggest flaw,
Like God the Father, I am dreaming
All will come to love His law.
It’s sad to see so many people
Bogged down in their Hellish greed,
When fairness can extinguish fires of
Hateful and self-centered need.
The hallmark of a hopeful world is
Surely level playing field,
Not granaries of billionaires with
Monstrous wealth to hold and shield.
Those shouting loudest “I’ve got mine!” are
Likely earth’s most damaged souls,
Their “You get yours!” proves bankruptcy of
Heart, of mind, and servile goals.
Unknowingly they fan Hell’s flames, the
Very source of all their pain,
Pass laws to help them garnish more (while
Blithely drinking their champagne.)
There’s just one ending to this story
If our God exists at all,
Don’t deify a “Golden Calf” if
You propose to serve God’s call.
Long Tooth
January 1, 2017
Majesty, royalty
such dignity, a rarity
Oh Purple,
the color of
the sun, the moon, the stars
the fields, the granaries, the ponds,
the vast kitchen, the nanny, granola bars
[all under prune-tinted glasses of course]
Wine, oh how fine!
Denatured alcohol, I lie supine!
Yahoo messenger headings, nails, telephones
the inside of my ear, candy, colognes!
Oh Purple,
How I love you to death.
But how often do I revert to gloom,
for all these things, are beyond my credit debt
'tis the color of doom,
rich in meaning and hue.
the color of my room.
a brooding cross between red and blue.
I live as orphan but I am not orphan
I live with mother but she is no mother
Her fingers cannot feed me, her child
As she is a mother without breasts
Whenever visitors come she gives all
And those in granaries she donates
Her resources feed other persons
As she is a mother without breasts
When I complain with tears in my eyes
And tell her to care for me as a duty
Her mind cannot understand the wisdom
As she is a mother without breasts
I sit alone under Acacia tree, eyes swollen
Stomach burning with pains of hunger
But Acacia is barren as a breast-less mother
To give birth to offspring gladly, willingly
Is a divine duty that motherhood prides over
But a mother without breasts to feed
Is a rare curse the earth sees once a century
A pumpkin that is not picked and cooked
in grandmother’s pot lived for nothing.
Greatness of a nation and her people
Rests not in her fire-belching mouth
Emanates not from huge stomach of her granaries
Appears not in lethal power of her spears
Twitters not from upstairs of her thinkers but
Nightingales from the beauty of her values
Enriched, nurtured and suckled
Systematically from the breasts of God
Scattered by winds of divine grace
Worried by worry
haunted by my own shadow
in a strangler-world I live!
He came, sat on the throne
for no reason he stuck in mud
around the throne
But left the throne so hot
hangmen so tired
granaries so empty
faces so rippled
rats so hungry
that even cool wind
and rain making clouds
were too timid
to fly over our nation!
We act like mortals,
racing along the threads
of time like mice in granaries.
Infinity is deep within our DNA,
hoping that one day we will illuminate
everywhere we were afraid to see....