Best Ploughs Poems
Posting early on a dozing suburban
hill
Mays warming morning rises and
Gently wakes.
The dewy hares move through the
Earthy till,
Small dry twigs the nesting pigeons
take.
Blue-high sky clear as an Ocean
Layers the heat upon red brick
streets;
Roads built over stubbled tracts
Deeply rutted from the ploughs
devotion,
Where once great fields of swaying
wheat.
Covered by neat gardens of square
disproportion
where blackbirds scold and tumble
Between the breeze;
Rushing madly through the tangled,
Variegated fauna,
Dashing around lines of neatly
Planted trees.
Quietly strolling the waking hour
Comes brightly,
Tripping like the splashing, pebble
Washed stream:
Wistfully recalling the woodsman,
Elk, and otter,
As it flows away,
Forever lost in dreams.
Take off your woolen scarf and coat.
Your hood conceals your pretty hair!
Now chance for snow grows more remote!
Breathe easy. Spring is in the air.
The flu; the cold; let them be gone!
Let flowers decorate your lawn.
Pick some for me, their scent to share.
Breathe easy. Spring is in the air.
For those who’ve slipped on ice or snow,
or - stuck on icy roads - moved slow,
the goddess Eostre heard your prayer!
Breathe easy; spring is in the air.
Throw down your shovel. Say goodbye
to snow ploughs too, for from the sky
comes rain, but mostly skies are fair!
Breathe easy! Spring is in the air.
March 2, 2018
Nature
As I walk through the forest
I hear the silence of the wood
Nature is at contest
Where beasts once stood
The wind rustling the trees
Shaking to the ground
Earth creeping with weeds
Smell nature all around
Creatures climbing high
Beasts burrowing deep
No birds in the sky
Cause nature to weep
As the one on two arrives
And takes nature in threes
Those on four will not survive
Save the five he never sees
This new beast that comes
And ploughs the land
Nature come undone
By this one hand
All the animals they scatter
To lands far and wide
As nature begins to shatter
Turn, to run and hide
Blood spills over the earth
From this hand that strikes
Against nature's last birth
The cry that fills the nights
As the earth turns to mud
I hear the silence of death
With a resounding thud
Nature takes it's last breath
As man turns and walks away
His unholy quest now done
Head hung low in dismay
For now in nature there is none
Falling to his knees
Precious air has gone
Along with the trees
Natures vengeance is long
Too late does man learn
That nature holds all
These things that he yearns
And by ignorance he'd fall
His body by earth reclaimed
To bring about new life
Man's name once shamed
Nature, reborn without strife
I like
my bike.
Riding,
gliding,
I view
sky blue
and see
grand tree.
Morn yields
corn fields -
Pasture
rapture;
Farm ploughs;
calm cows
lazing . . .
grazing
on grass
gone past.
Slow roam.
Go home.
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
A Fisherman’s Tale
Out o’gloom, her pale siege comes to menace our humble dwell
I look to celeste fix, yet no stark smile to traverse me
So I grip my girl, now graceful, as she slides in churn swell
My girl’s effete bones shiver, I hold hand tight, she begs flee
‘No my love’, so steel she plough’s on fierce, ice slapping her cheeks
I plea for celeste fix!.... yet no stark smile to traverse me
Enraged, her howls come screaming! shakes my lass ‘till skin comes weak
I say ‘be farer my girl’, shy, she tries turn forth our scow
‘No my love!’.... so bold she ploughs on fierce, ice slapping her cheeks
Her fury hurls, first flot then ice floe… splints… fly from loves brow!
Marred…. lets cry! bones cleft, I whisper ‘we have each other now’
I say ‘be brave my girl’, so steel, she try’s keep float our scow
I slide aged hand across my beautiful salt licked bough
Out o’gloom, her pale siege came, broke apart our humble dwell
Marred tried ‘vain, bones cleft, I whispered…. ‘we have forever now’
So I sooth my love…. now peaceful…. as we slide in churn swell.
The Breezes flowed through bright verdant meadows
the sky alight in blazing glory of azure and violet
the farmer on his tractor ploughs the field in farrows
pauses to watch the pretty maiden dressed all in scarlet
Golden ribbon in her hair, she brings him his lunch
they sit together in the sun chatting about this and that
as she collects the basket her father points out bunches
of multi coloured flowers down by the river near the muskrat
Her father back at work, she wanders down to the waters edge
picking a lovely posy of the wild flowers to give to her mother
trailing her fingers in the cool waters she lifts her skirt in a wedge
paddles in to cool her feet as it deepens she holds her skirt higher
What bliss to take some time to enjoy the scent of fresh turned earth
to drink in her surrounds and thinks how lucky she is living out here
keeping the age old traditions going, each season a time of rebirth
she heads off back to the farm liking that it is part of the final frontier
"BIRDS OF THE AMAZON –
Below the canopy of trees,
who seek the secrets of the sky
A paradise of colour ,
a world blessed with those who fly.
Macaws of blue and red,
where parrots of blue, are fed
A haven safe for all
A place of home to call
The earth bellows tremble,
The hoot of owl a-miss of tempo.
Eagles take flight with parrots in fright .
Monkeys a chatter as nests lay in scatter.
Monsters of metal, unknown of kin,
Arrive the troops, that know no sin .
As blades of steel rotate in action
Ploughs engage to sow destruction,
Now earth at thunder, no storms yet blunder
Man’s greed arrive with joy of plunder
No home the same,
as monsters of metal discard it with shame "
©Copyright 2013 M..A. Bell (alfi – m.za)
All Rights Reserved
Hey!
are
you
a
Zulu?
Am
a
Bushman...no
you
are
a
Bantu,a
Bantu
or
Hottentots?
Maybe
an
Afrikaner.
I
came
from
the
Cape
Colony...not
from
Soweto
where"balck
animals"are
Dwelling,
pathetic
Creatures
formed
by
the
Hands
of
Hades.
Beast
of
burden
for
the
Afrikaner.
Bound
with
fetters
and
Chains,it
ploughs
the
Field,cultivates
and
plants
The
seed
of
sedition..alas!
These
beasts
un-
wind
their
yokes;to
be
human.
Can
a
leopard
change
its
Spots?
Yes
these
animals
Prophesied.
Lo!
what
do
I
now
see?
No
Beast
of
burden
to
till
our
Land
rather
they
dwell
Among
us.
Alas!
their
prophecy
lives!
Of European descent, from whence they came
Across the borders to settle, re-establishment
Angles, Saxons and Jutes – Anglo-Saxon be known
Conquered lands, such roads have served, that of the Roman Empire
Yet under attack, strong order we lack
Helpless – o’ kingdom cry
As legions left, nations wept
Our production has ceased
O’ Saxons – mercenaries be hired
Will you defend us now?
Picts trouble thee
From ‘worthlessness’, ‘choice nature’ reflect
Anglo warriors now stand abreast
Ruddy remains, Arthur’s battle in vain
Battle of Hastings, charge and maim
A legend’s defeat, as armies retreat to lands afore
O treasured finds, beneath the silt
Fragmented helmet, of skilled design
Corrosion abhor, yet to restore
Tarnished silverware, o’ iron rusts
For much gold lay, retained –unchanged
Grave goods of Sutton Hoo, barrow over thy ship
O’ King be laid?
With objects frayed
Unaware of whetstone wear – we honour thee!
Of features present, of features past
Churches of stone, post-hole home
Tis farming year, with ploughs we break
Prepare thy soil, crops shall thrive
Fatten thy cattle, raise thy calf
Barter thee, present ye half
Commence thy craft, thy potter’s clay
Of antler work and carpentry
Thee be skilled, our peoples free
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Soft Chains – Cold Steel
cold steel and darkened hold
bound for destinys untold
asea in darkened misery
a towering flame – laid cold.
unbound in aftermath of strife
adrift in memories of life
fading in the pain of emptiness
the faces of a child, a wife.
dreams, forbidden wants and need
reduced to wooden ploughs and seed
subsistence farming sharing crops
hearts stolen by land owners greed.
time and generations still oppressed
rebellious music of the Afro tressed
fists to signify a races pride
marches to force the past redressed.
movement to the front from buses rear
courage to face oppressors fear
those who dared not lift their eyes
believing the dream one held so dear.
soft chains of manipulations dread
attempting to control a movements head
unable to comprehend the truth
that millions believed the words he said.
nurtured the seeds that he had sown
on freedom’s winds as they were blown
demanding that now must be the time
to face down the clubs and hatred thrown.
sadly the tone of skin and voice
still affect the definition of each choice
succumbing to the psyche of the bonds
re-emerging in an unforgiving noise.
2/24/2015
submitted to – Writings in a Black Perspective… - Poetry Contest
sponsor – Verlena S. Walker
The Journey
From petrol station, conurbation,
Queuing traffic moving slowly,
Taxi rank and railway station.
Glimpsing horses, grazing cows
By winding rivers, straight canals.
Open farmland, working ploughs.
Motorways; long distance coaches,
Post card village, pond and green,
Packs and snacks, hurried lunches.
By scenic route and shady lane,
Thru’ darkening forest; silent trees,
Ancient site and sunny plain.
Over bridges, under bridges,
Hidden valley, windy moor.
By the oceans, passing hamlets,
From door to distant door.
Barry Stebbings
3/4/2016
Short fun haiku
God didn`t like snakes
So he told lies about me
Man loath and fears me
I`m a crippled tree
In the middle of a wheat field
Doing nothing
I`m the big rock
The farmer ploughs around me
One day he bitterly says.
It was the tallest tree
In the petrified forest
Lightning struck in half
I`m the smallest tree
In the woods of trepidation
I starve to stunt growth
At the restaurant
I`m the last the waiters see
Serving stops at three
So many people around the world
living a life of their own
there are good doers and then there are evil doers
there are rich and then there are poor
But what vexes me most is the way of life
Rich, content with all the possession
but still treating wealth like an obsession
Poor, no wealth at their disposal
but still living life like there's no control
What is freedom after all?
To the child of the poor, did sorrow ever befall?
Is there happiness at all?
To the child of the rich, no toy ever contents, I hear!
With a smile on his face, the poor farmer ploughs the land
With a frown on his face, the rich man picks a briefcase in his hand
With a joy in his heart, the poor farmer serves the bread
With a grief in his heart, the rich man sleeps alone in bed
But what vexes me most is the way of life
Rich, content with all the possession
but still treating wealth like an obsession
Poor, no wealth at their disposal
but still living life like there's no control
...still living life like there's no control!
He lives there, where people love
Land as mother, worship agriculture
People of his nation, after independence
brought green, white, yellow, blue revolutions
to meet with the crisis of food
to wipe out hunger
to up root poverty.
He tills his mother earth
carries plough on his shoulder
sheds his sweats
turns himself into soil.
After a year of severe flood,
several children of his homeland
are at risk of death
due to lack of proper nutrition.
He returns from his polluted land
carrying a basket on his shoulder
full of golden harvest.
Flood stricken cornfields
Harvests destroyed, paddy fields washed
yet he carries food grains on his shoulder
The cattle Kraals are empty
The goats gaunt
No protein food for children
but he is carrying a basket
full of golden harvest.
In his motherland
where people worship food as god
Through away it and feel proud for it
where some people also search dustbins
madly hoping a handful of stale rice
to do away with their hunger.
The experts do research on cropping
Those with power keep their power.
Only he, the nominal farmer
trusts himself with earth’s treasure
is carrying a basket full of golden harvest
on his shoulder.
The sun does not dissuade him,
nor the water logging
that blows against him
as he ploughs barren land,
grows golden harvests
on the other hand,
drowns into the deep sea of loans
beaten by poverty.
He feeds the nation,
cannot feed his family.
He trusts his hand for his countrymen
what they used now,
but cannot do his family and himself.
Between life and death,
he is carrying a basket on his one shoulder
full of golden harvest
carries fear of suicide on his other shoulder.