Best Harvest Time Poems
Blue sky, glorious golden sunshine
Elements every farmer needs.
With crops rippling in the breeze
Combine harvesters whirl into action
See them steadfastly snaking along the fields
I can hear their dull drone from morning to night
Farmhands work tirelessly to gather the harvest
Making hay whilst the sun shines
Every second of the day is so precious
Until the final rays of the red sunset fade
Only then the farmer leaves and can rest
Harvest moon rapidly rises
Silhouetted in the majestic oak tree
A barn owl roosts silently in the quiet of night
Nature Poem – Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
08~02~15
Behind the reaper, glistening beneath
the fading rays of light,
crude elements of happenstance
lie in its wake, passed over
and awaiting those who glean
the afterbirth.
Yes, there is that querulous
persistence of the poor,
that stubborn cadre of the prescient,
who will peer into our souls
and find us bankrupt,
mind and consciousness already unaware.
It is a curious, stolid procession
passing by--these ghosts
on their ironic quest into tomorrow.
No one may cheer them on; no one
may find a voice to hold them back.
There is no choice, for
we must be content to find ourselves
among the gleaners, though it is we
who sang our welcome to the reapers--
we, who watched the harvest come,
and hungered after it.
And it was we who faced the disillusionment
of barren fields with gleaming bits
of paper bibelot
to laugh and mock us
as we ploughed them underneath.
But fullness too, lurked there
in silent modesty behind the plough.
Patient gleaners know
that down the long, slow hall of history
there is a single echo:
Truth is unchanging...paradox!
There was triumph in the air,
and no man was a slave to it.
I deeply sighed and took a breath
and opened up my eyes.
And it was good.
~
HARVEST TIME
There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,
that stretch from earth, umbilically below;
not even to the sun, to realize,
but there must be a chord we do not know;
Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?
Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,
Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning
When all are ripened; it's our time to be.
And we will be plucked from the path we're on
Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;
The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,
Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed.
Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,
Ferments into the past, already bought.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
HARVEST TIME
Golden yellows, mixed by rum reds,
Plum lavenders spice, these are the
Colors of autumn.
Textures layers blown across the lawn,
Leave it lay, rake it not, this variations
Of decorations variety.
Rarities design by mistake, and
Happenstance, but with such beauty's
Detail, one must stop and wonder,
At it's awesome natural splendor.
Even the evergreens fall silent, to
A hushed whisper, to marvel at
The canvas, spread out before them.
Rustling not a quivers motion,
As a crisp, chilling, October wind
Brushes against their thorny pine
Needles.
Nature does rest at a paused stillness,
Soon she'll slumber, beneath the winters
Blanket of ice and snow.
Nay, not to the last leaf falls, in a twilight
Sleep, than to dream, once more of spring
Eternal.
Now it is harvest time, men pick the
Final ripened fruit from their orchards,
Glen the fields of hay and straw to the
Last roots foundation.
Family members gather, from far and
Near, to give thanks for a bountiful
Harvest.
A season of thanksgiving, good will
And cheer, with warm apple cider, and
Pumpkin pie.
In mystery's dexterity, the maiden
Does sigh softy, with a peaceful
Good night, to the world of men.
Than ever so slowly closes her
Eyes gently, til the warmth of
Spring time reawakens, mother
Nature once again.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
HARVEST TIME
There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,
that stretch from earth, umbilically below;
not even to the sun, to realize,
but there must be a chord we do not know;
Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?
Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,
Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning
When all are ripened; it's our time to be.
And we will be plucked from the path we're on
Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;
The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,
Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed.
Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,
Ferments into the past, already bought.
© Ron Wilson Arbuthnot
aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Changing seasons, the empty barns mew
efforts on the field is about to born
abundant products from seeds so few
a handful can give a bag full of corn
one more year for extreme hunger to hiss
luck has heavily rained on every sow
pregnant is the skies, the rains do not miss
green and greener are the fields in a row
demanding wishes the sweats humbly make
results in badges carefully arrive
nature and life give rather than take
a gallon of honey from small beehive
gone is the time to have a blister
now is the time to merry like Easter
Harvest time
Golden acres of wheat
soon the harvester will cut you down
make you into bread and fodder
I remember when you were tall as me
and the north- west wind
tried to flatten you but you
bent with the wind
At sunrise rose like a peace- army
Hell bent on becoming flour
Honey combs swollen..sticky and sweet
Apples candied or chopped for mince meat
Raisins dried from my Daddy's grape vine
Verily I say.. it's again harvest time..
Eager for Winter and sun shortened days
Storehouses busting we bring in the strays
Tilling and tending ... the work and the grime
Toiling and teamwork.. we receive Harvest time..
Intervals of hours.. of weeks and years
Miles of work.. with blood.. sweat and tears..
Every time to a season.. every season for a time
~With our hearts full of gladness..
we celebrate Harvest Time!
The breathe of summer is nearly past
Oaks and maples collect dreams, belief
Pouring out the tenderest promises, gentling
The spirit with a grace so warm, like a whisper
Caressing the moon with soft tendrils of firefly
Kindness, kindled by the soul who remembers
When the feelings were more pure than temptations
Who render the moments helpless, left yearning
For the laughing smiles, the joy in the rain –
As it falls, glistening on the edges of a hopeful leaf,
Dancing in the flames of fall, when everything prays,
All over there is memory and yesterday and ancient
Shadows, revealing the echoes of a past where history
Told of glorious moments, healing and happiness,
Breathless rays of sun’s setting and rising, reflecting
All the hallelujahs in a song, a wisdom, a heart who longs
For the day when God will say – I’ve come…
To take my children home, YES – to take my children HOME
Where the heart is, where the soul lasts, where freedom
Is like the luscious love that pours out inside the ones who believe,
The ones who see Him as eternal, forever, peace, love
That knows no doubting, no dread, no fear – no fear ever
Can wipe away the satisfaction of having Him say – “You’re mine”
Forever, without end – I will always say grace, His gift, is the answer
To every fear that has ever been.
With HIM, there is no fear that can take away the peace
Living within, where He is… the spirit’s best friend,
The truth that penetrates and inspires, stirring hope and faith
Promising the amazing that comes with grace!
Thanks to HIM, I’m forever praising, praising, praising
The One who left me a reason to thank Him,
A reason to wake to the sound of forever, the eternity
That allows me to answer fear without a tear…
A reason, He brings – a reason to live and a reason to strive
To be like Him, the One who forgives all sin
Because He is the Light revealing grace that will win
In the end, yes oh yes… in the end, He WINS!
HARVEST TIME - THE REDEMPTION
There are no roots to see, not with our eyes,
that stretch from earth, umbilically below;
not even to the sun, to realize,
but there must be a chord we do not know;
Are we not on a fruit, still ripening?
Perhaps we are the nectar from the tree,
Awaiting harvest time's great siphoning
When all are ripened; it's our time to be.
And we will be plucked from the path we're on
Around the sun, into a vat and pressed;
The vintage of Apopolictic Dawn,
Revealing vast unknowns, we've never guessed.
Then all our stuff of non-sense; all we thought,
Ferments into the past, already bought.
© ron wilson aka vee Bdosa the doylestown Poet©
Sweet apple, turned sour. Her taste...
too bitter to be devoured.
Harsh summers, unpleasant winters...
her soul; un-nourished by spring time.
She awaits the rainfall,
her day in the sunshine.
And by harvest, though she's bruised to the core;
I know under her skin is a nectar beautiful and pure.
Now is the time of reaping and abundance.
Now a time of preparation for winter's frozen scarcity.
The sun hangs low in autumn skies,
and foggy veils obscure the view.
In Spring, when all was fresh and new,
an all together different hue of innovation:
summer's promise budding in anticipation.
Green newness bursting with naivety.
As time ticks by and lives march on just like the seasons;
the spring of youth and childhood innocence
give way to lusty languid summers of prosperity.
A gathering of experience in autumn,
which leads to winter's wizened wisdom.
Make it not a season of discontentment,
but a time of rich reflection on lives well spent.
A time of joy not isolation,
Make this is a time of plenitude for all for whom we care.
Help us make this winter time a time of hope
not helplessness; and a time when grace is all we share.
For now is the time of reaping and abundance.
a local farmers cabbages
exceeded county tonnages
the judge said hey joe
you got any mo
my trucks theyre all wreckages.
Fall's bright colors are taking flight like birds on the wing
It's the right time for a clime change and seasonal transformation
brisk winds whisk leaves in plight and can no longer cling
Autumn sends a note that portends a change is in the air
Months of holidays and sublime door displays in celebration
of prime family feasts and Halloween beasts that surely scare
There are ripe fields to harvest with care and yields to measure
Nature conducts bright scenes as she gleans to write an orchestration
of Winter snows and light woolen clothes, a season to treasure
Annually the garden
provides the results
of one’s labour--together
fresh vegies and fruit
a gift of heaven,
to you Lord
thanks
© Harry J Horsman 2010