Best Harrowed Poems
Trickle tender tears - those that take their time
born to bathe and baptize bereavement;
dew drops cling to fragile petals of forlorn feelings ~
aged and alone
sentiments from sorrowful soul slowly seeps
revived in rising rivers of rhythmic release
emptying from eclipsed eyes
in reverberant regrets and reveries ~
retrospective reviews with resilient realism
offered to an overdue oldster oppressed by outliving others -
reflections retrieved and remembrances retained
gifts given from the gravestone-garden of growing grief
watered with wept woebegone wine
cherished with chaste caressing care
memories and mourning ~
hallowed in a harrowed heart
Susan Ashley
March 24, 2018
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Alliteration Poem
Sponsor: Silent One
Even as a child of God -
when it came right down to it
she stood firmly on her child’s side -
not God’s
.. and damn
how I envied that..
my friend
much to my dismay
chose a parent
as a closest confidant
breaking all laws of teenage angst
and going against
all preconceived
conceptions, norms and nature
I watched as they walked
a harrowed path together
mom being there for child —
smugly snuggly hammocked
in her emotional safety net
.. and damn
how I envied that..
I walked my path alone
because my mother
would have chosen
God’s side...
.. and damn
how I now envy that..
Susan Ashley
September 9, 2018
~ Ninth Place ~
Contest: Truth Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
Man of melancholy - memories ashen and shadow gray,
heart harrowed, solicits solace from her psychic energy.
An offering, his woebegone weeping wildflower bouquet,
teardrops titian, sorrow scintillant, reflects rueful reverie.
Heart harrowed solicits solace from her psychic energy,
free falling through forlorn filigree, he mourns at her gravestone.
Teardrops, titian sorrow scintillant reflects rueful reverie
of his Earth angel, soul-lifted too soon, spiritually sown.
Free falling, through forlorn filigree he mourns. At her gravestone
fragrance haunting, flowers flaring heartsick hallucinations
of his Earth angel soul-lifted too soon; spiritually sown
blue scented efflorescence of suffering lamentations!
Fragrance... haunting flowers flaring heartsick hallucinations
of inamorata, flame extinguished expectant with their child.
Blue scented efflorescence of suffering lamentations
bedevil his mind. Happiness, hope exiled, ego beguiled.
Of inamorata flame extinguished expectant with their child,
an offering; his woebegone weeping. Wildflower bouquet
bedevils his mind, happiness, hope. Exiled ego beguiled,
man of melancholy memories - ashen and shadow gray.
Susan Ashley
September 16, 2017
~Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Favorite Pantoum Premiere
Sponsor: Laura Loo
~ First Place ~
Contest: Poems That Paint A Picture 2
Sponsor: Silent One
* based on a pencil drawing by Mike Theuer provided by Silent One on contest page *
Thunder rolls on the rails of morning
frightening the cat, curdling the cow’s milk
sudden, sullen rip roaring.
Released from its governor, it rattles man,
shaking the frail panes of his existence.
Jagged skyward shards spark, as the storm
wheels over the harrowed rye field,
splitting the magnolia tree from crown to root.
Gutters flute, asphalt steams, and within
the tumult the lawn of morn is cleansed
to a silver sheen of green.
There exists no more certain
assassin of joy than that of
anger turned within.
Guilt’s grim scepter,
harrowed mind thus firmly wields,
and this with deft uncommon,
to bring renewed complaint
at slightest urge.
Senseless ruin whose
vapid tongue hisses
only self-derision’s name,
nobility to confound.
Slacken then this twisted cord
and in its place benign regret,
for guilt condemns the soul.
so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod
the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating
progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze
into fruits of sweaty labors
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint
the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects
for this season, before the
days bake the green back into
the humus and the cornucopia
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool
eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron
to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze
any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup
© Goode Guy 2011-08-22
Deafening
rapid fire blasts
Shatter
the transluscent margins of
Silence
with
Harrowed cries
gasped
Howls
echo from one side to the other
Of the heart’s vast arena
with a repeating chorus
of ruing
Pleas
Of the gone lost
Groaning for home
in frayed syllables
Grasping
at last
To a measure of hope
Possible
in a faith’s apologies
And abiding love’s
Pronounced touch
of forgiveness…
** “I am the prodigal son every time I search for
unconditional love where it cannot be found.”
Henri Nouwen: “ The Prodigal Son “
—————————
(c) sally eslinger 2/3/2025
A thunder-clap, the storms approach
Each eerie revelation
No hope for man
Nor none for 'roach
A prophetic annihilation
The World awaits, a harrowed end
Apocalyptic measures
Mans soul, it hangs
Tentative, it bends
Ensnared, in its false treasures
The evening veil of darkness
Accomplice, to the Moon
Covers up its naked secret
A portent clear
A harbinger of doom
His end, long in the making
A teardrop in the Ocean
Damned eternal
He waits there, shaking
Unsaved, in his devotion
Arch-Angels, weep eternal
Both wings and hands are tied
The Wind it cuts
The Rain can never
Wash clear Infernal ties
Faith, leaves you , at the Alter
Tattooed, in your own shame
In Times of War
In Trial by Fire
Death, calls you by your name
A Tribute to Edgar Allen Poe...
Spirit
Callous, Potent
Guarding, Welding, Mending
Nurturing our Harrowed Egos
Amidst
this night
i sit immersed
in my thoughts
harrowed
and alone
the moon rises
full-bellied
across the sky
the stars glisten
then tuck themselves in
darkened clouds
i recall
hands that tucked me in
beneath covers
that seemed to shield
my childhood fears
i was afraid of the dark
and death alike
but sought comfort
in your arms
no longer afraid
of dark or death
as i became to realize
both are real
and there is
no escape
i feel the wind
brush against me
as the sky
lets out a tear
and it mingles
with my own
upon my cheek
i look towards the sky
see your hands
as they blow kisses
from heaven
towards me
and i find comfort
one more time
I am the Light, earth bound to rock of shore,
lone call to seafaring in deepest night.
Message carried in crystal blaze; Beware,
in soul purpose unfailing, ever bright.
Value not denied in time of dire need
in tempests rage my beacon shall prevail.
Should seas breaking waves scourge to top of mast,
yet steadfast, duty bound, I shall not fail.
Times past and ever yet to come shall cry
and hail the service offered as honor bound.
Christened duty beset to broken shore,
prevent ships course on tidal shoals to pound.
Fair thee safe in gale seas harrowed passage,
spare ye a nod in passing to Keeps fame.
Be blessed in safe passage this foul night by
the guardian of the Sentinel flame.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
4/6/16
As dad and I trod over the newly tilled fields
Feeling warmed by the prospect of the day’s work
His eyes aglow within those granite features
I followed his sight to that field beyond as yet unsown
He called it virgin soil or heavens harrowed field
So long ago as I stood in awe of the man and his earth
So clearly I recall the rich scent of tilled broken ground
How the green corn melted with the sky horizons away
His powerful leathered hands how gentle they were
That chiseled brow that could see into tomorrow
He told me the one thing to always remember
A man is only as good as the work he puts into the world
Then that mythical man from my childhood, my dad
Pulled me up into the saddle and whooped at the horse
We headed back to the barn to finish the day’s toiling
Now all these years later I understand his gift of that night
As I stand with my son on the old harrowed pastures…
He plows his harrowed fields—visions grand!
Lushly, planned, large yeilds;
Bugs frantically seeking shields
As farmers plant the hayfields.
Ó November 15, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
In duplicity of white death
exiled from clay
I was sinking in black words.
Absence of truth was absolute
in plowed and harrowed thoughts
of inner sleep,
building my attachment to fear,
exploring the nothingness
of truth.
Satish Verma
I wander down a cobbled street,
sodden from rain, heckled by whispers
revealing secrets on this blustery night.
They bewilder me in a surge of confusion
far beyond the juncture of cursory fright.
If this is collusion to drive me insane,
I beg deliverence from their echoing disdain;
Are these callous voices reality or delusion,
taunting me to plunge into depths of despair?
There is no hope of suturing my wounds,
or to eviscerate my harrowed heart.
If I could expunge them from my mind
would that ease the grief caused by the thief
who's bent on ripping my life apart?
Whispers are spilling from invisible lips.
How they tantalize me with false accusation.
My emotions are bereaved by the goading quips.
It's a conceived conspiracy of fallacious blather,
repeatedly mocking me in condemnation.
They've branded me with hot tongues they wield,
burning scars in my ears. Chars that will not heal.
If only I could douse memory's flames. I'm curious
to know if doing so would eliminate this torment.
My body is beaten, slashed by blades of driving rain.
Like shards of glass each raindrop cuts
my skin until blood seeps from the crux of my soul
and life drips away in scarlet flux.
I am wracked with sobs, prostrate with weeping.
And still the hissing voices berate me.
My head is pounding from their petition of jeers.
but I've no confession to give, nor act of contrition.
"Not guilty," I scream, but they won't let me be.
A vortex eddies around my bare feet
and my breathing grows shallow as whispers fade.
Dawn's warm fingers reach out to comfort me,
breaching the darkness on a cobble stone street.
June 25, 2018
8 word challenge-1.Fallacious 2.Eviscerate 3. Curious
4. Bewilder 5. Plunge 6. Tantalize 7. Vortex 8. Scarlet
John Hamilton~host
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