Best Plowed Poems
She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.
We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".
One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.
A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in;
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.
I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.
How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.
Gene Bourne.
07-17-14
.
To Those That Have Walked Dark Halls Of Deepest Grief
Truth of deep grief and its healing powers;
Are not in the anguish pains that invade,
With the blackest of black in midnight hours
Dancing dark corridors in Hell's parade.
It rests in the sweet blessings of gloom's end
That relief, when one sees beyond deep dark-
Finding that Hope brings Light, as a true friend
Slaying loss, once felt so savage and stark,
Grief cuts down long sad shadows if allowed
For mourning births seeds, of Life thus renewed
By tilling hopeful ground with new love plowed
Thus finding gifts that kindness has accrued.
Such one may embrace, path to better Life:
Where happiness ends pain and bitter strife.
Robert J. Lindley,
Sonnet, ( The Healing Power Of Grief Survived )
Note-
Death is darkest of painful tragedies
Its sting, births misery like no other
It is a black curse without remedies
Epic sorrows when it strikes one's mother...
The crystal ringing songs of summer,
Falling like mists of a whispy cloud,
Within a myriad of young birds chirping
To the fierce crow of a rooster proud.
As yellow tractors till black earth
Where new spring seeds will find a berth
To shoot forth growth in struggling crowd,
And wave green leaves in land well-plowed.
Snows have melted and in their dearth
Is seen the conquest of rebirth,
While the sweet crow of a rooster proud
Sounds across farmland freshly plowed.
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
Like sentinels -stone-fixed to the ground.
The wind like a shroud wraps around them,
Enshrining each space where they're found.
Stone guardians stand at attention,
Into the distance -row after row.
O' mourn those hallowed internments,
Where our heroes are resting below.
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
With their numbers increasing with years.
And graves that are drenched by the weeping,
Will never run dry of our tears.
Now the soil is the dead's lonely blanket,
Below - and everlasting - at rest.
Those keepers -yes -all those white crosses,
Announcing -'Here lie the Best of the Best.'
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
All those warriors were yields of our lives.
And the harvest of what all wars cost us,
Are plowed under and nothing survives.
There is green lawn laid like a carpet,
That covers our heroes repose.
Outstreched are the arms of the crosses,
In a garden where nothing else grows.
T'was a warm summer's day, when I took to the trail,
to cruise that old black spruce, way down in the swale.
A gallon of bug dope was strapped on my hip,
which I figured would last me for most of the trip.
Down through the sphagnum I plowed like a moose,
a huffin' and puffin' and spittin' my snoose.
Then off in the distance, I heard a faint roar,
like B-29's coming home from the war.
The sky clouded over, so you barely could see,
"They're mosquitoes! "I cried, and they're coming for me.
They flew by me once and past me again,
a-flexing their stingers, before they moved in.
I grabbed for my bug dope and spread it on thick,
just hopin' and prayin', it would do the trick.
They came at me fiercely and punctured my hide,
But before they could drink much, they dropped off and died.
I thought to myself, "What type of bug dope is this?"
The mosquitoes all had smiles on, as they lay there in bliss.
After checking the label, I saw my mistake,
t'was the 100 proof whiskey, that Uncle Jake makes.
Meet the mother - old Miss Jenny
She gave birth to chicks aplenty
(Never dreamed she’d have so many)
But sly Wiley, a hungry fox
Was more threatening than the cocks
Tummy growling, he picked the pen’s locks
As her chicks began to shriek
Jenny pecked Wiley with her beak
And he was dancing chick to cheek
“Aaach!” Wiley cried out loud
As into his fur Jenny plowed
A fox in the hen house -- not allowed
The chicks were saved
They tauntingly waved
Fur a-flying, Wiley got shaved
From the pen fur-free Wiley broke loose
Because Jenny’d cooked his goose
And it was too late to call a truce
*A children’s poem for Gwen’s “Dr. Seuss Is on the Loose” contest.
Colorful Me LSD
Kaleidoscope euphoric psychedelic dreams
Rainbows colour perfect peaches and cream
Splashes orgasmic silhouettes of tiny screams
Cobalt rain droplets in a sunny set theme...
Tiny pearl spiders spin opaque webs in my spine
Snow plowed glass hazards in white chalked up lines
In awe to see so artfully the world in this design
Cosmic Being floating heavenly sure I am just fine...
Static electricity behind my waterfall aqua eyes
Oceans of misery as I bid a colorful goodbye
Back to mortality in a black and white world full of lies
Lucy in the sky in tiny blue diamonds she cries...
05/31/16
At Dalton town where I was born
in Ozark hills of home,
There lived a man named Leamon Brown
who plowed the rich, black loam.
His wife, a sweet and gentle soul,
did not foresee his bent,
she daily worked beside her man
who seemed to be content.
But in his heart a wrath appeared
to poison spirit's peace.
When reason left, his anger grew
and clawed to find release.
He stepped behind her where she sat
and bent to kiss her lips,
withdrew his blade and slit her throat
while blood streamed down her hips.
In panic's grip she fled the house
but stumbled soon and fell.
The children screamed in frozen shock
and dove straight into hell.
One son ran to his mother's side
and held her as she died.
His siblings hid from daddy's blade;
he stood there, glassy eyed.
As gossip spread like raging fire
of murder in our town,
the newsmen raced to pen details
as lawmen dragged him down.
His deed became the hottest news
to ever hit our town
The judge declared the man insane
this man named Leamon Brown
Now he is locked behind closed doors,
his wife lies in the ground.
Though we lament the children's fate,
his kids are sorrow bound.
My eyes have not grown too weak or dim
to ignore what they've long been seeing
pretenders who wear a mask of disguise
like a skier who's not proficient at skiing
Everyone who labels him/herself a 'poet'
thinks he's composed brilliant words, versed
but lacks ability, and some of us know it,
and receives high praise; payback reimbursed
Is it because some seek insincere empty words
to gain a like response as a misbegotten debt?
Could it be they want undeserved admiration
for posting things a serious poet would regret?
And what of time consuming contest entries
that tower in skilled verse above most of the rest,
only to see everyone received a first place finish
when theirs is ignored but clearly one of the best.
IT'S A SLAP IN THE FACE!!!
Let's not overlook when the final results are in
those who give nods to each other as number one
It's obvious they don't always deserve the win.
Doesn't that spoil both the challenge and the fun?
Go ahead and point out that I shouldn't complain
because I stopped entering contests months ago
and seldom post on a site where some would reign.
but I discover things that make me say, "WHOA!"
Not so many fake names appear by a cheating judge
and I thank all of those who plowed that farrow
There are times when we all need a bit of a nudge
to make sure the path we walk is straight and narrow
Now I've learned that the advertisement displays
are prohibiting Connie Wong from enjoying her part
in reading and commenting in her loveliest of ways.
Connie is a talented poet, with a pure, loving heart.
My premium membership is up at the end of May
by now you've gathered that I'll not be renewing
but I'll still occasionally post on any given day.
Thank you for reading what has long been brewing
Comments are welcome if you would like to share
your thoughts, agreeable and even if they're not
We all have opinions; a community should care
about problems...unless you just don't give a squat
and if that's the case, I totally understand that, too
Poverty stands close ready to knock
Bare essentials just those
Much love, human companionship
Lessons in life imposed
As a boy he learned to work
He didn't love it but did
With willingness he plowed the mule
No brothers' work him outdid
Responsive, responsible boy
Turns into a selfess man
A reliable mature human
Remembers where he began
Quick to laugh, quick to understand
Quick with mercy and gifts
He was positive strong man
Things for himself meant thrift
Caring, cheerful affectionate
Thoughtful in most ways
Faithful devoted husband
He's greatly missed today
Inspired by Gautami Phookan's contest
Sketch A Character
Not an entry
This is some of my father's positive characteristics
Now let me share my shivery story,
With random revelations shed some light -
Though I’m a dazzling glow but no glory,
I’m much more than white mesmerising sight.
I know around the globe I’m frowned upon,
Shoved aside as unremarkable meme.
Frosty and I, my boon companion -
Ephemeral scapegoats of Nature’s whim.
The poignant part that’s so freezin’ unfair,
Snowbirds and geese leave sweet homeland behind,
And what the hail, even a grizzly bear
Under my frozen fist checks out to hide.
I’m well aware that cars are going nuts,
When on black ice wheels spin out of control,
I’m traffic’s curse and drivers hate my guts -
Apologies for my heavy downfall.
Still silver lining’s part of every cloud -
I’m not warm and affectionate as such,
But my visage being shovelled and plowed
Morphs into cool and captivating touch.
Though I’m made up of many a snowflake -
Floating frigid and fragile to adore,
I swear and say for elves and Santa’s sake -
There is white substance to my melting core.
I’m seasonal and thus a treasured treat,
I’m well equipped and sell extremely well:
Without my gifts, apart from slush and sleet,
Would be no sleighs, no skis, no NHL.
I’m a commodity just so you know,
When you can’t smell the roses, seize the snow!
Let winter’s inhibition cover go -
And Let it glow! Let it glow! Let it glow!
I shoot up above the silent, spellbound crowd,
Gaping down at their bright hands with glassy eyes,
Then I pierce the satin clouds that dress the skies,
And drift in space toward that eternal shroud,
The vast field of stars that angels tilled and plowed.
How the crowd tilts down their heads with gazeless eyes,
Staring tongue-tied at handheld luminous lies!
Yet I, head high in the clouds, remain unbowed.
But what have I found, while the world wastes away?
Some seek lowly lights, others shoot for the stars;
Some keep as pets the very pests they should slay,
Others spread their wings and apace fly away;
To light up the pages of our dim memoirs,
Let us wake up and roar, we must seize the day.
A storm is brewing, strong and proud,
a dense and heavy somber view,
like smoke-filled billows that enshroud
the splendor of earth's sky of blue.
With blankets of gray thunderheads
A storm is brewing, strong and proud;
and as the thick of darkness spreads
they roar their thunder clear and loud.
Neath sky of blue, the storm has plowed;
its eerie colors deeper grow.
A storm is brewing, strong and proud
as gusty winds begin to blow.
The deep, blue sky lies neath the quilt
of patchwork clouds of gray that shroud.
Now blacker still, its anger built;
A storm is brewing, strong and proud.
April 17, 2016
~8th Place~
Premiere Contest: The Perfect Storm
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Judged: 10/06/2017
~4th Place~
Contest: Hurricanes
Sponsor: Julie Rodeheaver
Judged: 09/12/2017
~1st Place~
Contest: A Storm Is Brewing
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Judged: 05/15/201
Howling winds flung me into the sea
waves lashed kelp ropes around me
my belligerence grew when I was seized
anger brewed the tighter they squeezed
With fists raised and teeth clenched
I resisted the harder they wrenched
voice rang out in acrimonious scream
my face contorted, wild eyes agleam
spittle dribbled from cracked lips
I neared the verge of sanity's eclipse
Man is but an elfin grain of sand
a mortal never has the upper hand
when wrangling with a sea of thunder
I was punished and plowed asunder
beneath coral reefs to ocean's floor
I cursed until I could no more
My swearing wails echoed my destiny
retched was my body from an angry sea
briny foam spit me on the rocky shore
done with me like an oft beaten whore
My crime was that I'd chosen wrong
the one I loved became my swan song
Piercing needles of torrential rain
burning injections increased the pain
Such bitter tea the cruel sea can steep
and I, a crumpet, tossed in restless sleep
Howling winds flung me into the sea
waves lashed kelp ropes around me
my belligerence grew when I was seized
anger brewed the tighter they squeezed
With fists raised and teeth clenched
I resisted the harder they wrenched
voice rang out in acrimonious scream
my face contorted, wild eyes agleam
spittle dribbled from cracked lips
I neared the verge of sanity's eclipse
Man is but an elfin grain of sand
a mortal never has the upper hand
when wrangling with a sea of thunder
I was punished and plowed asunder
beneath coral reefs to ocean's floor
I cursed until I could no more
My swearing wails echoed my destiny
retched was my body from an angry sea
briny foam spit me on the rocky shore
done with me like an oft beaten whore
My crime was that I'd chosen wrong
the one I loved became my swan song
Piercing needles of torrential rain
burning injections increased the pain
such bitter tea, the cruel sea can steep
I, a crumpet, tossed in restless sleep