Best Piece Of Land Poems
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Is
This
Nature's Glory
As a quarry?
Alone and at peace
A life, a new lease
I pull up a piece of land
Take a little time to mend
This rainforest trembles
An open window in shambles
Sitting on my own made porch
I fire up a configured torch
Then lay under, should I say
What is like a porch light ray
And I wait for that one moth
Amongst butterflies sought
An unwanted reject
Like me ready to eject
Take me now in this lush
With the roar of death; a hush
And I will go, amongst this gift
Gods Eden unquestioned; my lift
My life to stop the bleeding of the land
So I protect this marvel, hold her hand
In sincere motion - there is a fusion
I can do
I can do
Never say can't
So I must chant
Let my body meld
With this
forest held
tight
Me alone a window into the future slightly opened
Maybe we are all like moths to a flame - penned
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Strangely bent this journey extends
Surreal at times, yet so real at ends
Each end confronts with a hardship of choices
With an abrupt passing, or an eternity of voices...
You and I, once on similar trends
Like brothers, we traversed all evil impends
The wheels then turned, unleashed worst of fears
We parted asunder on an ocean of tears
Through fallen decades, aggrieved heart sustained
I found my calling, forgot I was pained
Just when the going got peaceful and boring
Gales of anguish, and war started pouring
Again, I was forced to extinguish my wills
Left home for those in need of my skills
Forced to welcome the worst of thrills
A reward for one with the highest kills?
As we splattered blood on uncertain causes
Strode down the road of victories and losses
A vessel, merely, I was as I killed
Of sons, of husbands, of fathers, I spilled
In the heat of the battle, as I charged through
When my craving eyes met the eyes of you
That instant, that second, that moment, I knew
Neither decades nor ages could help subdue
My faltering sword could no longer fight
For whom I now behold in my sight
And I question my vow, having vowed despite
Whether or not my cause was right
Yet again, I stand on the recurring hill
In the midst of havoc, at a standstill
A piece of land that I swore to defend
Is it worth the life of a brother, a friend?
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
Where black-necked cranes come to chat with me
In the company of wine and deep brown honey
Flowing from apple twigs in the heavenly valley
Of Bumthang , carved into the sublime Himalayas
By glacial melt and monsoon rains in collaboration
Giving rise to lovely landscapes offering relaxation
In Buddha’s silence, there lies my dream destination
To fill some vacuum in a week of my next vacation
In the north east of the Indian subcontinent where
Beautiful girls and Buddhist monks are very sincere
(Bum refers to girls and thang a flat piece of land)
Everywhere you will see Buddha’s lifted hand
In consonance with the land an ever demure voice
Of Buddhism says: go to the mystic blue and rejoice
Along the murmur of icy rivers and lakes everywhere
Pink rhododendrons exude fragrance in the fresh air
Flowers red, yellow, pink, white, lilac, green and blue
For our sore minds and thirsty psyche all these hues
In the shades of Pine and Oak monasteries as a nest
The imposing peaks descend here to take a little rest
Four charming valleys, Tang, Ura, Choekhor, Chumey
Will greet us in a smile on our trip to Bumthang valley
Morning is wakened here by blue-capped rock thrush
Beside the flapping flags the gurgling streamlets gush
Where Gross National Happiness instead of GDP
Determines economic progress of the society
Come, dear friend, to join me in the amazing journey
From the chains of self to a deep sense of infinity
_________________________________________________
February 13, 2016
"Man....Style"
by: Eric L. Boddie
A man's style
Can initiate a woman to smile
As well as inspire the Life of a child
At the same time, it tames that which was wild
And you know it will never show denial
It's always lame, flame or mild
And each time it's witnessed, it stays on file
Because it flows a distance with more miles than the Nile
So always remember that the style of a man
Whether he is light, dark or only slightly tanned
Can be the determining factor in if he will stand
In the space where a bride and groom are hand and hand
Or if he stakes claim to a piece of land
Either in the valley, on the hills or next to the sand
Because it has a role in determining his plan
It's how he will be remembered....I hope you understand
It's Man....Style
Springing up, like a cactus sprout, after the First-World-War,
The concept of New-World-Order did not touch deeper core;
Like, water drop on lotus leaf, it stood touched and untouched,
Sometimes it appeared ditched; other times, again, it got clutched...!
Thompson Woodrow Wilson thought of International peace,
Is peace, so simple? Do tensions within minutes get ease?
Did he, yet, ever think of such concept, in any way?
Or, any other leaders, on this, their opinion say...?
Is it a ploy, like monkey becoming judge for the cats?
Or, is it like the fox asking the crow to sing, as tact?
Why did the race-course stop, in midway, as though at random?
Hare lost or tortoise won? - Why no information, solemn...?
A New-World-Order, indeed, is prerequisite today,
It's not like an advanced nation, swaying power away;
Nor like an alien troop beyond nations control the rule,
And making all others, as though asses, permanent fool...!
New-World-Order is a system, in which, concord exists,
Peace and prosperity, among all citizens persists;
Caste, color, creed, sect, ethnic variations are erased,
Dealings midst beings are always compassionate love- based...!
Poor and needy, like twigs among bouquets, should have their place,
Care for others, like horse-tack, should control the cut-throat race;
Each, in this planet, should have their essential piece of land,
If anyone lacks, others, like brothers, should lend their hand...!
World, as made by God, must turn like the Garden of Eden,
Fresh air, fresh water, measure freshness should ever deepen;
If one thinks, this thought is Utopia, let this be one,
Won't striving toward such a state be an unending fun...?
24 April 2022
New World Order Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
bare up to listen if you dare
to words of poets spoken so rare
within these words chosen with care
timeless messages encoded there
our hearts to the depths of love untold
with in words secrets attempt to unfold
fragility of hearts made of glass
often broken by unnoticed pass
our pride in country, family and God
rarely is seen the road we trod
giving life , health and limbs for strangers
all the time knowing the dangers
words that rang out within our hearts
words from poets and prayers impart
what once was living; resurected by art
the plain, the shy, the cowardly depart
leaving the brave, the hero's, the ledgends of heart
to fight, to wittness the cruelty of Satans art
and of life there are many themes
each and every one pretaining to thee
for there is nothing new under the sun
for every battle there is a victory won
to be a hero or a martyr
some they know not
but for the principle
the reason they fought
it mattered not the reward they got
but what was right, was right and life mattered not
weather battlefield or police shootout
they fought
over a little piece of land
their parents bought
poets know justice is from the heart
and pens telling the story is our part
when justice is justice
and laws are unjust
the feelings poets commandeer
and rush
Many place names in Australia reek of notoriety and oppression
Where massacres took place, involved first nation native population,
men, women and children, demonstrates gross inhumane expression
Many of these place names remain, Bones Knob, Murderers Flat, Skull Creek
are mapped in a university publication
The area where my family resided
may similarly have followed, same infamous identification
My paternal Scottish ancestors, original settlers on our family farm from eighteen sixties,
a time of many massacres
With axes sweat and labour cleared the timber, populated the land with sheep
Were they involved in a massacre? And if so, my father, was it a secret he did keep ?
Existing on the nearest road a signpost declaring Butchers Ridge
only a couple of hundred metres from the old original family home
Allegedly named after a horse called Butcher
far and wide he purportedly did roam
When I was young, the story I was told about this horse
he repeatedly escaped from his owners farm, crossed a bridge
Was always discovered on a sloping piece of land,
hence the area was given the name of Butchers Ridge
A different story of the naming of this area which makes more sense
was revealed by mother after father passed away
A massacre took place giving this area its name, about which my father never spoke
did my father bear inherited shame ? It's history now no one can really say
One full moonlit night, around the time of one unable to sleep
decided to arise, some teenage pleasure I would seek
Go fishing catch a big bag of speckled brown trout
from the stream there known as Butchers Creek
Halfway between the house and my intended destination
an eerie whooshing sound right above my head
Look up !! Nothing visible on this very still clear night
Very quickly reverse my fishing decision !!! Hastily run back to the safety of my bed !!!
I have spoken to several first nation dreamtime elders about this weird eerie sound
i experienced on that distant fishing full moonlit night
They say its first nation native spirits venting anger
thus responsible for my fear. I think they may be right
sloppy fields carpeted
with golden mellowing wheats
a fevered light
with vibrant sun, trapped in pigment
bleeds across the canvas
the wheat, thousands of tiny swords
with each stalk a silent hum
caressed by a gentle breeze
ever try to reach
the impossible blue
some dark green defiant cypresses
overshadowing the surrounds
stretching towards the sky
spinning their secret story
of sublime strength and resilience
providing shade around them
stand as silent vigils
guarding intruders
a serpentine path
winds its way through the fields
leading to some houses
and beyond to a cobalt stream
the dwellings of familiar shape
not grand, not imposing
stand gazing at the sapphire sky
shrouded with some stretches
of cotton clouds
each window, a rectangle of mystery
holds surreal surprises
one can hardly guess
blooming like whispers
with the chimneys` silhouettes
a smudge of charcoal
breathing quiet sighs
into the vast, indifferent air
in the background
hills shaped in quasi-perfect triangles
reflect the azure blue sky
merging with the horizon
with a sense of infinity
it is not just a scenic scene
of undulating wheat fields
and giant cypresses
but a warmth of feeling
a serenity made tangible
a quietude, that speaks
its own language
Vincent with his passionate brush
made the scene bloom
made it blaze
a place for living in peace
a place for inhaling nature`s bliss
a piece of land fallen
from heaven to earth.
I crave a piece of land,
Oh! Parasakthi!
I crave a piece of land...
Amidst the piece of land,
build me a palace grand
with sundecks and picturesque pillars;
everything in pristine colors.
And near the well,
the long pinnate leaves
and the tender coconut dwell.
Around ten to twelve coconut trees should be near;
the moonlight should glow like the pearl luster;
songs of the Asian koels, I should hear,
and when my soul relishes, should embrace, breeze cluster.
To blend the songs,
I need my virtuous wife beside,
and our rejoicement jolly along,
the poetic verses pride.
In the midst of this land,
Oh my dear divine mother,be a guard.
With my poetic adroitness,
I should take care of this world.
* Parasakthi- Almighty / Goddess
This is the translation of Mahakavi Bharathiyar's tamil poem,' kaani nilam' - 'A piece of land'
I am an ardent fan of Bharathiyar. He died so young(39) .He was fluent in many languages including Bengali, Hindi, Sanskrit, French and English and frequently translated works from other languages into Tamil. It is immensely tough to translate someone like him. I hope I did atleast a little bit of justice
Wikipedia:
Subramania Bharati (11 December 1882–12 September 1921) was an Indian writer, poet and journalist, and Indian independence activist and social reformer from Tamil Nadu. Popularly known as "Mahakavi Bharati", he was a pioneer of modern Tamil poetry and is considered one of the greatest Tamil literary figures of all time. His numerous works were fiery songs kindling patriotism and nationalism during the Indian Independence movement.
Have you ever felt the sun's glow bask over your skin
And felt so soothed
So totally content
And exalted
That you only want to stretch out
Whether on the green grassy lands
Or on the cold sands
And drink of this glow
Drink as much as you can
As the thirsty do, after a long walk
In an empty desert?
Have you ever walked around town
And felt so enlightened
For surrounding you are places of worship
Meant not for one religion solely
But, being so diverse, yet, at the same time
So peaceful and so tolerant of each other
So much that walking through the streets
And merely glancing at it all
Your faith in the higher powers
Would simply flare up!
Have you ever wanted to sit, in total solitude
And admire the ocean
Whether it remains as calm as the blue skies
Or whether it rages as if it were pandemonium
Whichever, it matters not
For in the end, you only want to let such a sight
Drown in your gaze
And feel wings grow on your heart
To set you soaring up in emotional
Intakes of heavy breaths
Filled with the ecstasy of being!
Why, have you ever wanted to feel warm in winter
To complain of the heat all year round
And to enjoy the sight of a tropical paradise
One filled with a green flora
And a diverse fauna
And a multicolored nation
One bent on protecting its legacy
Yet, at the same time
One prone to progress to tomorrow!
Pray, if you do dream of such
Then, come
Come to the exotic tiny piece of land
That is Mauritius!
THE ISLAND
On the island people used to live
Trees used to grow
Animals used to graze
Birds used to fly
But it never sinks!
There comes an explorer
A white man from Cuba
Who also wondered
Where did this small piece of land came from
But even the people who stay there
Did not know the origin of the island
At the center of large waters
Fully loaded with trees
Fully loaded with animals
But, it never sinks!
Dear Alan Titmarsh, how are you.
I do hope you and everyone else, enjoyed themselves at the do.
If you are ever in Ruddington,could you please give me a hand.
I’m trying so hard to create a garden, with a matchbox sized piece of land.
I don’t seem to have green fingers at all.
All the heads of the flowers, just jump off, when I’m playing football.
Everything I touch, and try to grow, seems to shrivel up and die.
It doesn’t seem to matter, just how hard I try.
Today I have just planted the Christmas tree in a tub,
I hope it doesn’t get some awful bug .
I want it to grow, but everyone keeps telling me it will die.
If it does I will cry.
Next Christmas I want this tree outside with fairy lights on it.
But if it dies my husband will bin it.
Yesterday I planted 100 bulbs all in tubs
,
But they will probably go to Australia or get eaten by grubs.
Last week I watch the secret garden on TV,
That is how I really want mine to be.
So please can you come and give me a hand,
And create me a beautiful garden, with this matchbox size piece of land.
From the past days of old.
At Seventh Street & Florence Avenue.
Vehicles in pristine finished.
Bragging Rights Mint Condition.
Proudly rolled by in a yearly tribute.
Very close behind did the present.
Spanking brand new, Virgilina's, VA.
Town's first responders debut their life-
saving vehicles of rescue.
Summer Fest proudly displayed.
Awesomely colored painted fine cars.
Including trucks and plowing tractors.
The drivers and passengers.
Cheerfully waived tossing smiles and candy.
I watched so many of the children laughing.
Enjoying themselves while playfully.
Scrambling to grab all and as many.
Of the tossed free candies.
So very comforting it was to see.
Neighbors, visitors, friends and family.
Witnessing together.
Standing side by side
In such a loving comradely.
History and our future.
Embracing one another.
In supreme harmony.
Refreshing the supportive celebration.
Veterans from old world wars of our past.
Keeping close in step were our gallant;
soldiers of wars in our present time.
Today's events were also in celebration.
Of the soldiers whom honorably.
Transitioned to a much peaceful home.
This was a very lovely quick get away.
Cotton candy, home made ice cream.
Scenie's Old-fashioned Peanut Brittle.
Freshly squeezed lemonade.
How fortunate to meet Ms Marion Woods.
Author of Uncle Jerdon's Farm Children' Book.
Thanks to my cousin Natarsha.
I am experiencing a very lovely.
Memorial Weekend Holiday.
My Uncle Joe Lassiter our beloved Veteran.
His daughter and my cousin Andrea Miller.
Stood in the longest line waiting patiently.
For what I learned was the town's best.
Brunswick Stew.
It's evening now I sit here as one.
Within this blissful time in nature.
Pleasantly at peace.
Relaxed taking in the beauty.
Of this picturesque piece of land.
Reflectively pondering.
On on this lovely day.
I joyfully have a writing instrument.
Very close at hand.
He used to look at me straight into my gloomy eyes,
In his sweet words and kisses and in his lovely arms I felt so nice;
We were filled with gladness, with promises and future plans,
Until I’ve found out that he’s a sky and I’m just a piece of land.
He is a sun who’s shining brightly into the limelight,
While I’m a little star aspiring to shine both day and night;
He’s a prince who cannot eat without his golden spoon
While I use pottery in yeoman’s house who is forlorn.
How can a lard coagulate with water?
If lightning strikes as prominent as the roar of thunder?
How can it be the two of us if there are many barriers?
I’m crying inside and I need prayers to become stronger.
Everything about you will all remain in my dreams,
Those promises of you, I’ll sing always in my mind as hymns;
I want to blame myself in possession of this loving heart,
Which little by little is killing me in suffocation all throughout.
July 6, 2013 2.23pm
( a poem not posted before for a contest. a fiction)
NOT FOR A CONTEST