Best Moorlands Poems
Come to the meadow just you only,
Where autumn weaves her spell;
On hills and purple moorlands lonely,
Where the magic of her presence dwells.
Beneath blue sky and fields of heather,
With soft humming of honey bees.
And I'll hold you, just us two together,
To share the scent of autumns leaves.
We’ve time to share asters in the meadow,
With all that we love best;
With the swallows wings and your shadow,
And summer's grass that built the nest.
To hold and hear the soft wind singing,
To see your hair tossed and blown;
And meet the bluebird softly winging,
Through heaven and earth, we too fly alone.
Categories:
moorlands, loveautumn,
Form:
Rhyme
Sullen would be onset of grey, indivisible-dawning;
Soon, lifting mist dissipating beneath the brae.
Comes then a gentle heat arising with the morning...
Thus the remaking of another new, glorious day.
Sun-kissed slopes now aglow with purple blaze,
Vast moorlands slowly stirring from quiet slumber;
Clamorous whaups, hanging above the veiling haze,
Burbling down to disappear into the tangled tundra.
Together, paired oystercatchers pipe in rapid flight;
Skipping wheatears explore dry-stone walls.
There, old Barjarg, aglow in Junes vibrant light,
And I awakening to the hidden otters whistling calls.
Oh! to stroll once more upon the Cree's hallowed banks
Inside the sanctuary of her jealously guarded hills.
When tramping through the myriad of dew-drenched ranks
That had across the sheep-strewn meadow spilled.
If I but could joyfully follow the meandering course,
Again, of those rocky, gurgling, opaque, amber waters.
Thoughts, such as these, that surrender to a remorse...
Nought but wistful memories that provoke to taunt us.
Categories:
moorlands, appreciation, beautiful, celebration,
Form:
Rhyme
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
Categories:
moorlands, celebration, nature, paradise, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn, whose beauty never alters,
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawn’s altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid.
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! Surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitudes that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range, yawns its last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Men’s ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known to visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephant’s wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
Collaboration with njeri hunjeri who is a wonderful poet
Categories:
moorlands, africa, mountains, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Dawn, when silence falters
And the trees of the range-
Are tucked in a bucket of fog
Marching dawn whose beauty never alters.
I tuck myself in blankets like a log
At the Treetops Hotel upon the range
Dainty dreams upon dawns altar
The dappled peacock dazes the dawn
While the African crowned eagle
Will soar, prowling for prey
And tourists peep and picture the fawn
While their eyes prowl the breakfast tray
Jacaranda festooned fashion regal
Its blue flowers blue snowfall upon dawn
Elephants trudge to the watering hole
Buffalo follow, even the bush buck
The warthog always walks silly,
The big five will steal your soul
At the Ark's perch, you will be stuck
The water adorned by the pond lily
The range's serenity, waters your soul
Pristine streams gush from the moorlands
The Hagenia, decked in velvet green
The sword lily, sheathed in fibrous tunic
And as the Karuru falls hit land
True love will pierce to the gene
For pristine nature, is the true cupid
Breaths bated as lovers hold hand
Further, nestled nigh in the blue skies
The Kinangop peak, peeking through
The closer I get, the further it hides
A sun bird chatters, along my trail's high
My eyes in tune, such wondrous hillsides
I sweat as I head towards the bamboo
I am among the butterflies
Ringlets in a dance, oh! surreal world
Monkeys swing, tree to tree, a trail of imagination
A reed buck is openly grazing
A canvas of the grassland in its gold
I spot a Serval cat, in hiding
On a safari truck, the breeze is an inspiration
Beauty flows in the altitude that I behold
At dusk the steeped villages prepare for sleep
The Nyandarua range yawns it's last
Fabled home of the Kikuyu god
Curtain like shadows befall the steep
And this wonderland begins to nod
As the women fluff off days dust fast
Mens ears wide open as it darkens deep
Wild animals are known to visit
Roving around, excitement for the young
But the animals are known visit hungry
The locals know too well, memories vivid
An elephants wrath is meted out bluntly
Protection for man and beast not far flung
Conservation and nurture is the spirit
As Mount Satima watches her watered floors,
She knows the heart goes deep
Categories:
moorlands, africa, animal, beauty, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
(Re old poems)
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed,
In their slumber deep, fog skirted knolls shoaled;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
Down the twisted alleys and to highroad,
Flew out in wind his fluttering hair gold;
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed.
In the silence bare as the mist bellowed
O'er the turrets enshrouded in their fold;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
His shadow tossed on the water that flowed,
As galloped o'er the bridge, ' twixt moorlands old;
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed.
Meet his bonnie lassie her chin furrowed
'neath her cherry lips in his hands to hold;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
Her dark eyes under green eaves that mellowed,
Where blushes of their love in whispers told
By the moonlight, night's pearly softness glowed;
Through the winter cold, clipp'ty clop he rode.
..
© gautami Phookan (24/5/2011) , All rights reserved?
1st Place 'August 2011, Poetry Soup Contest'
..
Categories:
moorlands, gothic, horse, love, night,
Form:
Villanelle
There are no months as beautiful as early summer months wild flowers make the headlines,
Leaning heavy on my old worn hazel wood stick walking to a wooded meadow out of breath,
Clusters of Primrose and large patches of Blue Bells chat with clumps of Spring Violets,
As I stand wheezing the wonderful smells the dampness of wood and flowers give me air.
Lesser Celandine flowers between March and May heart shaped leaves a glistening yellow,
Now feeling a little better my head lifts the top of some large trees seem so far away,
The Cuckoo flower has leaves deeply toothed with spear stems, shows off all its beauty.
The kindle under my gentle walking cracks loudly so the meadow and trees know I am here.
There is a second spring in the forest wooded meadow Snowy Mespilas with white flowers,
It reminds me of winter snow I once enjoyed these days my legs are not what they were,
The tree of heaven spreads climbing sixty feet and the Alder with soft purple catkins,
Leaning on a tree happy to be here with warm sun finding its way through high branches.
Hedgerows dress in the same vernal-looking hue and a Chipmunk darts across a small field,
The Chipmunk runs up the side of a nearby tree if he new me well he would not run away,
Thick scented heather lives on the moorlands side by side with an evergreen Bog Rosemary,
A furry little face high up on a branch is watching me in the same way I am watching him.
A Judas tree with round leaves clusters of magenta, pea like flowers greet me this day,
I wonder why it is called the Judas tree is it the one Judas hung from with silver coins,
Cornelian Cherry flowers at the end of winter, followed by richest bright orange fruits,
A Japanese Quince shows splashes of color they are so white, or salmon or very very pink.
Weigela a beautiful shrub will bell like flowers and a deep red rose brighten the woods,
Times getting on now and I am tired but standing in this beautiful meadow I feel so alive,
Doesn't matter how old or how well a person maybe that same natural beauty is seen by all,
So leaning heavily on my companion the hazel stick I walk back to my home it's a great day.
Categories:
moorlands, nature, beautiful, me, old,
Form:
Prose Poetry
How delightful is the softest sound of a clear and starry summer's night,
You may hear a moth bashing up against a cottage window pane near a lamp,
If you listen really hard you can hear him amongst the many garden leaves,
A boom as the soaring cockchafer passes your ear, into the flowery lime.
The smallest runnel murmurs aloud as do the far rivers over the green downs,
The frogs deep in the marshes sound like they are turning a thousand wheels,
And the dorhawk, the cuckoo and the nightingale sing from meadows far away,
Quails pipe from the ripe green corn, curlews from the far away moorlands.
The sound of a little owl, hooting, he is small, smaller than the blackbird,
He hunts for food in the twilight of the evening, mewing shrilly like a cat,
The little owl lands in a back lawn, and his head swivels like a corn wheel,
It's a fierce little bird and will rid a garden of mice, rats and small birds.
The flowers are in the fields, scabious, companula, glomerata and some thrift,
The flowers in our gardens are borage, phlox, day-lily, gladiolas and many more,
Grasses that make mowing grass beautiful are perennial clover and goats beard,
Filling the air with sweetness that will make you heady and happy, great days.
Categories:
moorlands, nature, sound, garden, green,
Form:
Prose Poetry
More scary than things that go bump in the night,
My nerves are now shattered because of my fright.
This left me like jelly and turned my hair white,
I’m lucky I’m living, to tell of my plight.
I was sitting and waiting, at a station one night,
I’d been walking the moorlands, while I had the light.
I often did this, for it gave me delight,
To go ‘rambling’ for miles and view all in my sight.
I thought that the trains didn’t run here no more,
But I noticed a light as I walked off the moor.
Imagine my joy, as I walked through the door,
To be told trains were running, as they had before.
After ‘clipping’ my ticket, he said I could wait,
On the bench by the lamplight, just there by the gate.
My train would arrive, at five minutes past eight,
He never had known it, to ever be late.
I sat there just thinking, the day had been fine,
Leisurely reading the old station’s sign.
Then billowing smoke, the train came right on time,
But my God!… When I boarded, I fell on the line!
I could not believe it. Now nothing was here!
No engine, no tracks, I just shook with cold fear.
I swear I’d been ‘rambling’, and not on the beer,
But how in God’s name could it all disappear!
I think that I passed out, or could I have died?
I could not move my limbs, however I tried.
I lay on the moorland, and stayed there and cried,
This thing had me torn up, way deep down inside.
I realised then, that this was the new day,
I’d slept in a ditch and was covered in clay,
I struggled back up from the place where I lay,
And still feeling shaky, I went on my way.
I can hardly remember the long journey home,
But I used a taxi, I’d summoned by phone.
I sat there in shock, it’s the last time I’ll roam,
Or ‘ramble’ the moorlands, at night on my own.
When first I got home, then I thought I had flipped,
But soon realised, that I only had slipped.
It was just a bad dream, that I’d had when I tripped,
But on seeing my ticket… I found it’d been ‘clipped’!
Ivor G Davies
Categories:
moorlands, confusion, horror, mystery, travel,
Form:
Rhyme
Early in the spring the variable winds and rains fall heavy on grass meadows,
Adding a spring in the turf, waking the mosses on stone walls and stone paths
Purple stems of woodspurge hang in the wet winds with its pale green flowers,
Ancient orchards left unattended have gnarled twisted trees with sour apples,
These grounds are bestrewed with the whitest of violets, a carpet of beauty.
But there are other flowers that have been out in colder, hard bitter weather
The humble daffodil has been plucked and strewed by children for generations,
A beautiful old English flower which belongs in village gardens and commons,
The old daffodil is one the hardiest flowers it grows anywhere and everywhere,
In box hedges, neglected arbours of alleys, hard rugged moorlands and glades.
Daffodils in desolation grow long after the planters hand has turned to dust,
Buried deep in disused graveyards, overgrown with nettles and thorny bushes
And dwellings around it have fallen to decay with passing of many hard years,
Even the other flowers that have grown nearby have been cleaned, swept away,
Outlasting memories that have perished along with families of old homesteads,
Categories:
moorlands, nature, old, spring, old,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The mother who loves her baby
more than her own life
Licked the withered baby tenderly
And then, her long weak trunk rest on the baby
Serenely drop-off hot tears for want of liberty
Love is sharper than a diamond edge;
big as the sea, and deeper without end
The lives trapped in a deep abandoned well
Little water left over from the long drought
Is a lucky gift from unlucky fate?
The baby was a tiny innocent scapegoat
Sluggish creature remained calm
Under the hungry belly of weeping mother
That it brings her incredible pain
Determination of the mother
To release from the bondage is awesome
Starved and weak and scarcely fit to crawl,
tried to find a way across the rocky wall
Gravity pulls them back so tightly together
She thought and recalled about wonderful days
“We travelled along leisurely
Over moorlands and forests and plains
with full of vegetation and abundant water valleys
No one interrupted us and any fences and barricades!”
“Freedom is our heritage
Gift of ancestors the pasture lands,
Green forest canopy, clean water holes
And passages through life and many more
For our existence!
Those who invaded our habitat
Charged at us brutally
Oh… my kith and kin vanishing slowly”
She tried not to shedding tears,
Group of people gathered around the top edge of the trap
There was a pandemonium!
Some scolded “you rascal how much our crops destroyed”
While some deep-hearted men and women,
Express grief for their momentous fate in silence
They dropped some thing to eat miserable captives
Still the mother or kid has no idea
About the rescue operation planned for them
That leaves her withered heart burning
“They have shown their prodigious ferocity
They were not warned beforehand
Human beings are beasts that consume
Even the life of an innocent little one!
Listen! The only force stronger than cruelty
is the bond formed among a mother and child!”
J.Weerakkody
Categories:
moorlands, nature,
Form:
Light Verse
In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.
With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.
It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.
Categories:
moorlands, nature, winter, snow, snow,
Form:
Prose Poetry
In a small hamlet people were outside their dwellings staring up at a heavy black sky,
Wind lashed the trees and front doors a big storm was about to happen and very soon,
Small ice flakes whipped up in the wind stinging eyes I had a big dewdrop on my nose,
After some time the blackened sky opened the winds raged and the snow began falling.
Like a roaring bear gusts of winds blew the nearby sea sending salty spray to join snow,
The wind sweeping across the land fiercely blowing gales loosening objects in its path,
An old man curled up against his fire heavy snow swept under his door and over his eaves,
As snow started to fall harder the flakes were huge swirling in blustery bitter cold winds.
That night was so cold every one went to collect logs for a fire smoke rose from chimneys,
Figures seen in silhouette behind lighted icy windows, doors were bolted the eaves blocked,
Friends gathered in each others houses sipping wine their singing muffled by high winds,
The worst storm that many could recall elders told stories of bigger storms tongue in cheek.
All night long snow fell in the morning villagers went outside to see the damage caused,
The sun shone with such brightness the blue sky and the carpets of snow hurt their eyes,
Icy snow was very deep and big white chunks of frozen snow stuck to bottoms of shoes,
A tall tree stood in the middle of the hamlet heavy lines of snow bent its tough boughs.
Stories circulating round firesides of travelers lost in great drifts on wild moorlands,
Wanderers that had perished, frozen in the deep snow all lost in the snow laden woods,
In the morning the snows stopped bringing sunny clear skies that shone like lapis lazuli,
The wind whistled blowing top snow into a fine spray leaving a surface frosty and hard.
There was a wonderful feeling walking along hedge-tops and across deep white valleys,
All now filled and level, the frozen mass crunching under heavy steps in snow boots,
Finding only the rivers showing themselves by their wintry hues amid trees and rocks,
Visitors from the north the red wings, thrushes and field-fares flew back to their homes.
Categories:
moorlands, nature, night, lost, snow,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The eerie silver blue visage of the moon is only light besides camp fire
In the young hearts yarning for freedom fuels desire
Their courage is something to admire
It’s not easy to change blood to ice when in soul is burning fire
The dawn has arisen
Mist pale like fourth horsemen death looms on the horizon
Soon they will be fighting for new day new sun
The moor violet like the soul is not always hope beacon
And by God
It will be soon drenched in blood
Few partisans standing against enemy flood
The enemy bridge was just blasted
The fighting is hell evoking
Like runaway train there is no stopping
The wheels death are promoting
Yet many choose death over other fate in this time of spring
The spring in which sage has sweet smell
Yet air now smells like gates of hell
Many soldiers would fell
Then like by a spell
End to violence
Now the battlefield is in grave like silence
The blood drenched moor says the ballad of lack of balance
Balance of life and death price for freedom yet deaf are its audience
Many years later a monument stands
But no one remembers the name of partisan who died in those badlands
But as silent echo of pale mist once again covers the moorlands
The nameless solders’ soul earns a place perfect among true expands
Categories:
moorlands, war,
Form:
Rhyme
Living life in all its fierceness,
Birth and death and joy and pain
We struggle on our unknown journey,
Sometimes lost and found again.
We are indeed like lambs to slaughter
Death will be our final goal.
But while we live,let us live bravely.
Let us not destroy our souls.
Climbing in the hills and moorlands
In the heather, children play.
The sun half blinds me with its light
Yet still I see the given way.
I received a call to climb.
These hills are my essential home.
My vocation is to dwell here
While in the silence,mind may roam.
Noise in cities is destructive.
Though nature's fierce,it's also true.
Struggling on life's craggy slopes
I offer up my words to you.
Categories:
moorlands, life, love,
Form:
Rhyme