Best Grassed Poems
The world did wear you down and on you passed.
Nightmares of young did press your eyes to close,
But God has gathered you and him at last.
Today we mourn for you, with hearts half-mast,
Today your joy above joins here our woes.
The world did wear you down and on you passed.
Now Zion holds you in its streets, so vast,
Your withered hands and shining soul repose.
But God has gathered you and him at last.
Gehenna reaps none of what it has cast,
Sheol takes skins and God what he now sows.
The world did wear you down and on you passed.
The space where you once stood won’t fill so fast,
Your words will warm in us what hate once froze,
But God has gathered you and him at last.
Go meet Allah and He, your loves, in grassed,
Unfettered fields. Your death on Earth now shows
The world did wear you down and on you passed,
But God has gathered you and him at last.
Diminishing virtues stripped away
From the flesh
By the fierce brined rods that freely
Course thy hot crimson blood;
Dry cracked lips attempting to
Fashion broken words of compliance
That so must needs to be spoken...
But...Ohhh, Meretrix...
My foolish and innocent child -
If you but only could!
Consider, Meretrix,..humility!
To which pleasure one thus
Submitted
Guiltily discovers:-
The joy in the act or posture of
Lowering oneself in relation to
Others.
For in your anguished dis-repair
You will find strength to endure and
Embrace:-
The acceptance of all your defects
And ultimate seduction
In the power of your:-
"Submission to Divine Grace"!
I will adorn you in the yellow Toga
Of the Vestal virgins,
They whom wise Augusta did abhor;
Burden upon you with an Imperial
Tax
Imposed by perverted Caligula:
Whither all Matronly protestations he
Didst dismissively ignore;
My Tribune forcefully exact -
When employing you in the
Degenerated role
Of my most reluctant Whore!
Clasp jeweled anklets abouts your
Shapely bones,
Decorate upon you like fired and
Painted porcelain figurines;
Whilst all the while, as your lost mind
Bemoans,
Choking between involuntary gurgles
And low-pained, stifled screams,
The gagged mouth bites down
Amidst salivating sounds
Borrowed from the hurtling
Nightmares
Of your darkest dreams!
For I will lift you higher than the
Tallest mountain peak...
So you may gaze with awe over all
The innumerable Kingdoms and their
Proud tyrant Kings;
Of the many differing species of all
Mankind type things...
And of the immeasurable riches
They so endlessly seek.
Lower you to the solitudes of the
Grassed floors
That sweep across the sunken
Valleys deep;
Where, besides enchanted streams,
Violated Nymphs quietly weep
For Abels broken schemes;
Now, tragically, all taken apart;
And for the wicked callousness
Of fallen man...
Whose desperate greeds ripped out
His live brothers still beating heart -
Then tore at the living throat of
The one true Gods Holy Lamb!
TO BE CONTINUED...
Dear diary, I write these words, so sad and true,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
My childhood home, in wooded setting near a brook,
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
For many years it stood, pure white, three stories high...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye.
My childhood home now stands below a stormy cloud;
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud.
For, New York State has now ruled eminent domain;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
So, on this page, my bitter, weeping tears are spilled:
Dear diary, I write these words so sad and true;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: A Poem Called, From My Diary
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 11/07/2017
True Story ~ 1960
Written in Iambic Hexameter (12 syllables, 6 feet)
I hear the sounds of a spring brightening dawn,
As fledgeling birds from sheltering nests emerge.
A lone Blackbird’s singing lifts this idling morn,
A creature scuttering through the long grassed verge.
I hear a fox barking in the fading night,
An early bee droning through the warming day.
I hear breezes rustling in the morning light,
The slow risen hours of a full budded May,
I hear the symphony of the pouring rain,
The hiss as sudden watery puddles form,
Fast rivulets gushing through the gurgling drain,
Low grumbling sounds of a distant passing storm.
I hear the woodland stream sing its own refrain
And slow draughts whispering through the barn’s stored grain.
My aim was spot on at close range or distant
The coppers were on scene post haste
The sirens were loud and extremely insistent
I gazed at the guns I now faced
Seven patrol cars had screeched to a halt
And tyre marks blackened the floor
Seven patrol cars may well have seemed nought
So the cops sent about fourteen more
The army arrived as the cops took their places
All crouching with guns trained on me
The soldiers wore camo with blackened up faces
The tanks that they brought numbered three
Two choppers were armed with hi-tech weaponry
And hovering just overhead
The super-bright spotlights that beamed down on me
Would fill other felons with dread
The little red dots that appeared on my vest
Meant snipers had me in their sights
Awaiting the order to puncture my chest
So someone could read my last rights
I don’t understand how they got there so fast
I didn’t think I would get caught
It seemed to me one of my neighbours had grassed
They’re not as good friends as I thought
Just then a cop with a gun in one hand
And a loudhailer held in the other
Addressed me like I was the scourge of our land
And I would bring shame to my mother
He said, ‘Just accept that we’ve thwarted your plans
For that's how such villainy goes
So lay that thing down and raise both your hands
And then step away from the hose.’
***
[On 5 August 2022 the Isle of Wight and Hampshire (UK) had a hosepipe ban imposed upon residential water customers. There is a suggestion that neighbours should grass on their neighbours. The fine for daring to water your Zinnias is £1000.]
There are some colours
that can never be repainted,
marks that can never be removed
and stains that can never be covered.
Move on!
My past loved one,
don't hold unto my shoulders
as though nature formed us together.
We've once crossed that bridge
but even before reaching its middle
we had crashed into the river
and were swallowed
by the rocks of its depth.
Do you remember,
at first we built a garden
coloured in trust
and grassed with unbelievable care?
But we converted it
into an Oven
where love and hate mix
and our problems;
I'm the only one trying to fix.
Unfortunate episodes
of our heated drama
was already counting at thirty and six.
The beautiful songs of our hearts
we remix
as sadness and anger feasts.
Why shouldn't I leave
and prevent my heart
from an avoidable accident?
But you stick around
only to suffer from self torture.
My new and bright countenance
makes you wanna have sex
with other male colleagues, I flex.
It's barely two weeks
that makes you perplexed
well; it's your problem
b'cos I'm not bothered
if you're vexed.
Are you the first
to be an ex?
Just move on, my dear past lover!
It will be the height of folly
and the worship of loneliness
if you visit our world again.
I thought our love would last, forever;
now, you lay in a place vast, forever.
From the moment we met it was to be;
with a love growing fast and, forever.
Remember how we would go on picnics;
making a green grassed dream for, forever.
Oh, what a divine wedding in the snow;
now that beauty is the past, forever.
Dark death cannot break this sweet chain of love;
will love you till I have passed, forever.
_______________________________
April 16, 2019
I stood on a wheat-grassed hill,
It's crest a overpass.
Pine rows below overgrown.
Forming into forest behind.
My childhood grounds.
Three boys, friends in time
Winter of "78"
When clouds dropped heavy
Deep covering, white cold
Draging sleds, overstuffed
In snowsuits.
The boys used this hill
With joyous lust
And loud laghter.
Slicing with metal runners
Above depths of storms.
A ramp.
Formed snow tight.
Near bottoms incline.
Shot there pleasure upwards
Twards a haze of gray,
In the quick, gravity's glee
Bodies held tight, gut waiting
For ramps flight.
Later that spring
A newspaper tucked
Under my arm
Told of a woman,a body.
Beaten, burnt
Left in the fall.
We stood, three boys looking.
Polices tap streamers,
And vehicle tracts.
Seeing black Reminisce
On white grass shoots.
We could smell decay
Were the ramp use to be.
Three boys, guilty faces
Scilently reminiscing joyouse lust
On the back of violated dead
Over and over to the haze of gray.
Life kept the body and heavy.
Burdend by snow-pleasure.
( had trouble with this one, comments I would greatly need, thanks Johnathon.)
Spring Is Sprung
The daffies are ready to give us their best
The early spring sun gifting newfound zest
The chaffinch, the blue tit, the robin redbreast
Flit hither thither, all planning to nest
Skys, winter grey, hint at forthcoming blue
New shoots appearing where last year they grew
And soon there'll be blossom in many a hue
And frost will succumb to victorious dew
Folk in their Woolies mow gardens where grassed
And in the marina they’re raising a mast
All that was dormant emerges at last
Now that the worst of the winter has passed
13 February 2019
Contest: Songbirds
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
A seam in a sock is a whistling clock. Wheelbarrow hours like a treading of grapes for wine. But swamped with the rest of the waters, teas, coffees and creams can bring a mingle of music to a break. But breaks are not breaking nor brave really for the breaks are merely for beakers and brooms. Who enter rooms and chat in slow monosyllabic voices with largely low accentuated accents. Apathetically apples appear appropriately at a arch. And the dust busters move in with their cloths and clothes hinged with a tinge of lint emulsion spray. Lint emulsion spray is quite popular and should never be confused for a carnation, a carriageway, a cart horse or a canned carrot cake. It is to be said that there is over one million ninety three thousand nine hundred and fifty three trees lining up in the foot long yard. How rather interesting that is really? And to say hello from the frozen pieces of pie is to take the meaningless ingredients for a walk on an extendable lead. Well they must exercise mustn't they? Little pieces of cut meat and vegetables love to run and run. And sauces can climb quickly over stiles. Ha the bracken bracket beckons to a bullfrog. Ha the deluge of indelible inks in a cotton shield of sanctification. Ha shoes on a coat walking with a petticoat in a goblet. Xxxxx therapeutically z z z z z taking the washing line and abseiling down the stairway of the breaded grassed house of Oven. Z
How do you feel
when stepping out?
Of a cold dark house
into this returning first spring
full-sun warm morning
just at fragrant dawn
Embracing your shoulders
neck
face
arms
hands
and your naked
cool green grassed
wet feet
You
squinting appreciation for FatherSun's
sacred enlightenment
promise
multi-regenerations greeting me
again
as He has spawned
co-arising deep gratitude
Resiliently penetrating
since FatherSun
first fertilized
organic MotherEarth's
black and brown-skinned
organic
ecofeminist
health is wombed eco-wealth.
How do you feel
when stepping out
into Earth's last first spring
full-sun morning?
warm
passionately resilient
warning
about summer's relentless
emerging heat.
I can, at last, begin to see
why Trump reminds himself, assiduously,
of Republican Party CoFounder Lincoln.
He believes, as did Lincoln,
it is our time to redress
winnings v. White male supremacy over slavery,
and women,
and children,
and Earth Herself,
and xenophobic racist losings
of the U.S. Civil War.
Except, one critical difference,
While Trump fuels patriotic investment
where Red States once were hate and fear exhausted,
Lincoln sided Republicans
and all his other multi-party Cabinet,
with defining patriotism
by where Blue States
are climates of health and freedom
now growing,
if the Red States would just join with us
in moving on toward
our multiculturally polypathic cooperative rewards,
the spoils of UnCivil Wars long gone.
It seems likely
Lincoln's Republican remains
are turning black and bluer
in his green-grassed grave.
We wander gently and silently but with mounting anticipation
through the weather beaten gate into the long grassed meadow
the chill and dampness of the dewy grass on our bare feet
overcome by the warmth of the rising sun matching our desires
Hand in hand we walk, our fingers tenderly stroking each other's palm
then with reckless abandon we rush headlong joyously to our special spot
buttons popping, zips zipping, clothes flying furiously up in the air
we sink excitedly onto the cool damp meadow floor, the sun is smiling
The birds and bees hover and float above us
they gaze down in deep knowledgeable fascination
they understand, they admire, they appreciate, they approve
they have seen it all before, they know it's what god intended
We are finally at peace and love, at one with nature
the universe is forgotten, as we relax with pleasure all on our own
satisfied and complete as we lie fully exposed to the world
but oh so snugly happily hidden from view
The vastness of the prairies
Grassed and green
As far as the eye can see
Grace the lands
Of the Big Country
Ranches so large
It takes days to ride
Herds so colossal
Ranchers pride
Long horned steers
Browned and white
Like the buffalo
An incredible sight
The open range
Inhabit with new
Sheep farmers arrive
Lambing Ewes
With vast herds
And flocks of sheep
Big Countries land
No longer deep
The Homestead Act of 1862
Led to the need, to feed us humans too
Ranchers diversified, and farmed as well
As the Big Countries population began to swell
The prairie lands as big as they are
Could never sustain the bovine stars
Organisation would eventually fold
As grazing rights, the government sold
No more roaming for these herded souls
Fenced off ranches, the modern goal
Barbed wire in 1874
Kept the herds, and they roamed no more
You have to admire the land of the free
Make that journey take a look and see
Vast prairies for past ranchers be
The Big Country
LONESOME
SOUND
Old man said he could hear that whistle blow a hundred miles
and they could write a song about that.
Said he could tell how many cars a train freighted
just by how sad was its wail.
Old man said, trains usually sounded out at crossings or towns
or coming upon another train. Said
No. 149 out of St. Louis left
the towns a hundred miles back.
Had no call to think about
meeting another train'til Lander.
Or maybe Crawford.
Old man said, keening cross the plains like that
only thing took it to heart was
coyotes and jack rabbits. Mayhap
a snake or two, sunning hisself on the rails.
Said, last run she made, leaned on her whistle
from the Missouri straight through to the Rockies.
Never let up, just hollered cross the land
like the world come undone.
Like something lost
couldn't never be right again.
I said how that train was probly thinking
of the long empty plains ahead.
Of fenceposts ticking by
and cattle scabbing up the buffalo grass.
Thinking of passing unseen and unheard
the grassed-over soddies hunched at springs
once piped now trickling through old stock ponds.
Of empty match-box homesteads
timber-bleached and bowed before the
vast order of sun and sky.
Of tilted windmills wheeling, listless
as a fly wing-plucked and turning, turning
round on bleary heat-cracked panes
what look myopic upon the prairie
the grass, the sky, the land to come.
Old man looked at the middle distance. Said
don't know but she wailed for the thought
of her last pull through the pass at Lander stockyards.
Or for what she maybe wouldn't find
coming out t'other side.