Best Prairie Grass Poems
A new borns cry
Tearful last good bye
Swaying waves of golden prairie grass
Shifting desert dunes - an hour glass
An acorn dropping among forest leaves
To mighty oak - a lifetime of dreams
The changing moon - to full again
Each morn' the sun - new skies begin
Eagles soar high - our hearts go there
These ripples in time - we all share
©Donna Jones
The ground is damp
it bleeds through my thin cotton skirt.
Crest born, I sit and wait the dawn.
My fingers weave into the high rye grass.
The house below is quiet still.
The children sleep.
The dog’s with me.
We sit high upon the hill.
Peaceful heart, Venus I spy
the morning star, the moon, and dawn,
God could see them in my eyes a tilt.
Barefoot bliss, Champ for a pillow
down I lie and sigh.
The children sleep.
My man’s returned.
Now, we sit high upon the hill.
He lies with me. Grass stains my skirt.
He weaves dewed daisies in my hair.
Crest born we writhe beneath the sky
above our farm on prairie grass.
The house below is quiet still.
The children sleep.
The dog runs home.
We sit high upon the hill.
Contest: Into Night's Dwelling
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Date: 1/8/14
The brittle stems of Queen Anne's Lace
reduced to barren winter bone;
a hoarfrost Ermine coat embrace,
impaled in soil that's turned to stone.
The flowers now are wicker cups,
wear Bowler's hats of purest white;
the snowflakes that they interrupt
await the wind; resume their flight.
The Junco in the Prairie Grass,
drad colors blending, stem and snow;
his flitting business come to pass
without a glimpse of style, or show.
White crystal mist; the morning still,
a cold and colorless display;
the fenceposts marching up the hill
like soldiers, slowly fade away.
This day in its entirety
constructed thus to fit the mood,
cabin bound and winter weary,
must you in my lament intrude?
From deep within the Cedar tree
in blazing red from cap to tail,
you interrupt my woe-is-me,
insure my pensive mood will fail!
Aquafirs miles away in my mind
warming with springtime sun
lapping upon the shores of my memory
sending involuntary movements to my legs
moving thoughts to music echoing in my limbs
Beethoven's 5th. Symphony catapults me out the door
into glorious sunshine
hiking trails, dormant for months (seems like years)
staring at boulders basking in the sun
touching bark on trees grooves of my growth
smelling the earth dug up with my hands
sifting my life turning my face towards the sun
warming tidal planes in my mind
recalling the ebb and flow of me upon this land
marking my scent in the woods (as men do)
tracking the sun as
it moves across my day foraging sprouting edibles
as earth releases life
pausing to lay down in prairie grass and nap
in sweet scented dreams refilling all my senses
for the journey...
I have still to travel
I have still to travel...
03/29/14
© All Rights Reserved
prairie grass swaying
gently to the wind's music
in step with its beat
I long to soar with the eagle
To fly uninhibited about the earth
Looking down onto the mountains
Admiring their rocky faces
To feel the clouds brush over me
While having the wind streamline down my back
To meet the evening sky with all its brilliance
And circle in the beams of the full moon
I long to perch high in the limbs of an evergreen
To inhale the freshness of the first spring shower
Listening as the raindrops filter through the branches below me
Forming puddles that trickle gently over the edge of a stone path
To live in the moment as it is, not as it should be
I want to mount to the sky effortlessly
Gliding and drifting aimlessly
With no care for the hour of day
I want to watch the crimson sunrise at dawn
While resting on an old black oak branch
Then dip down into the cool bath of a large stream
And emerge with a rainbow trout for breakfast
I long to call out to my mate in song
To meet me at the top of the bridge
Overlooking the peaceful flowing river
Or in an open meadow filled with prairie grass
Oh, how I long to soar with the eagle
To fly freely about the earth
Copyright © 2010 Lena “Lolita” Townsend
Chicago's been dubbed the windy town,
but Great Falls has that tag nailed down.
If you're facing Montana's fierce wind,
you're moving where you didn't intend.
Prairie grass rolls like ocean waves,
tumbleweed mounds resemble graves.
Aspen leaves' fluttery swirls abound,
scarcely settling their golden mound.
Longhorns stay bunched within a draw,
hoping the wind will soon lose claw.
Snow gusts into drifts high and wide,
pickups and hay-balers shrouded inside.
Who sent this wild, careless wind
the bronco busters cannot unbend?
This, I suppose, could be left unsaid:
Keep those Stetsons jammed on your head!
~
Here I stand
in a lonely field
of prairie grass
and dandelion
watching
faint ribbons
of apricot break
across a weary
horizon
And as I see
the enchanting
beauty of the
morning sun
embracing the sky,
my heart wishes
I were that sun
and you were
that sky
Argent moons myriad known, beneath an endless zenith sky
When hotter suns unaltered and stars ruled as aperture fever of a night
Around a fire this Naabeeho song begun, sung louder than a heaven's choir
As “Soaring Feather” was tuft mothered, from Navajo out of Chief Eagle Gray's desire
But, now less wild panes opaque of Dine', behind leather eyes am I
Brittle bone to withered dust, a desert sage that dries
And I plead one last dream before doors beyond forever
Gazing east, out cross, fallen white of Navajo still November
I am blinded into vision winds, so quickened unto rapture
Swept along the swaying prairie grass, messenger of earth then after
The billowing, ghosts of buffalo left innocence roaming over head
And I rise in the morning mist, wings tall on Appaloosa's empathic wrath
Regrets ascending gallop to step upon plateau in reach of raven's tail plumose
Reborn as Yei to hunt the sky, shed the herds of swifting nimbus
A changeling caught within a current writhe, transcending into tempest, high
Quelling ages and ages of limitations, let the lightning bolts of redress fly
A warrior of the Holy Ones, my tabernacle on mother earth drifting dies
But, on painted horse run rising up, a brazen spirit storm comes alive
Free amidst the gale, thunderous beats in temporal instrumental
As clouds begin to blacken, past native spirits dance ceremonial into tornado
Hozoji drums beating round and round, whirlwind roar of nightly chants
I, Navajo dreamer stampeding across the azure plains of my once pure native land
Recompense only to scourge prejudice away and humble the most of evil men
And then stillness, a silent healing song, as forgiveness is a welcome friend
Copyright 2012 Micharl G. Smith
A newborn's but a fertile field most parents would propose
to plant with seeds of servitude lined up in perfect rows.
Tilled with proper spacing and of weeds there is no trace,
but as for me I'd sooner see a field of Queen Anne's Lace.
People will move random rocks; make rows with every tree
finding satisfaction in their want of symmetry.
But facing one direction just neglects a lot of space;
as for me I'd sooner see a field of Queen Anne's Lace.
Scattered willie-nither by a warm and kindly breeze,
seeds should put down random roots where ever they may please.
For neighbors, Blue Stem Prairie Grass or maybe Golden Rod,
A stately Black Eyed Susan or fluffy Milk Weed pod.
I find no pressing reason all need serve the human race,
as for me I'd sooner be a field of Queen Anne's Lace.
i prepared a simple supper
but with great love i cooked
that main meat of refined wheat
durum semolina, traded as rotini
an Italian pasta to go with beef, a grace
from a Canadian cow grazed in prairie grass,
spiced with herbs from the hunted tropics:
ginger, garlic, turmeric, and coriander
powdered, with red pepper powder
and red pepper crushed, black pepper
(also powdered), added to the onion
chopped, fennel, fenugreek, and cumin
(all seeds), and the magical mustard,
adding leaves chopped: basil, chives
and parsley, with garam masala, a Bharat
special, sprinkled with hardly a pinch of salt
before adding the slow-cooked African beans
and Mexican sauce: chopped and crushed tomato,
and boiled potato, after being sautéed
in the US canola oil to enhance the taste
of minerals and more already in my pan:
folate, iron, niacin, riboflavin, and thiamine
already mixed in carbohydrate, the main
with Chinese additives: citric, soy, and seasonings
unlisted; likewise the two sealed cans
that curtailed my sprinkling salt for supper
came with corn starch, sugar, more spices
and blackstrap molasses, and a poetic muse
One day while wan’dring far afield
I heard a tortoise shriek
“Oh, curse this shell, infernal cell…
I haven’t got all week!”
I dropped down low, I snuck up slow
then spied him through the brush
and though he scarcely moved an inch
he wailed, “I’m in a rush!”
The world a-turning; daylight burning
the angry tortoise crept.
I asked him what the matter was
and at my voice he leapt.
He ducked his head and pulled his legs
and huddled in his shell.
I laid down in the prairie grass
and waited out the spell.
“I’ve naught but time.” Said I to he,
“There’s no need for your worry.
Besides, I know I heard you say
that you were in a hurry.”
Slowly…just as turtles do
He showed one of his eyes.
Then slower yet, his head appeared
but he refused to rise.
“What do you want?” He asked of me,
“You’ll make me later still!
I need to get across this field
and over yonder hill.”
“The hare’s asleep o’er in the sage
he thinks he’s got me beat.
So, there he naps, but joke’s on him…
I’m lightning on my feet!”
“Except my shell keeps getting caught
it’s snagged in all these flowers.
Unholy pack, upon my back
I’m wasting precious hours!”
With that he threw his tortoise fists
and did a little spin.
He almost got me on the nose
then gave a tortoise grin.
The flowers had all lost their grip,
his twirl set him free.
But the thing that happened next
was magical to see.
He gave me a slow tortoise wink
then went off like a gun.
I’ve never seen a beast of field
that he could not outrun.
I sat up in the meadow grass
and gave my head a shake.
A few feet off, I saw some ears,
the hare was now awake.
Although, that came as no surprise
I only can assume…
that he’d awoken at the launch
which made a sonic boom.
I dropped down low, I snuck up slow
then spied him through the brush.
And as he rubbed his sleepy eyes
the tears began to gush.
The world a-turning; daylight burning
the rabbit had just slept.
I asked him what the matter was
and at my voice he wept.
05/10/15
Entry for Burning Daylight
Sponsored by John lawless
wheat at its finest.
long before the cut of blade
and grinding of teeth –
it sings through clear wind –
rolling waves, soft in their hush
raising old ones souls,
ingraining lifetimes
upon the wanderer’s skin –
raising hairs on necks –
recognizing sound
as it is meant to be heard –
wheat is heeded wind.
always, wheat whispers
hush…(the heart of prairie grass)
through the mouth of wind.
Surrounded by dry prairie grass
Amidst a sea of broken glass
Like metal soldiers dressed in rust
V-8's wear vests of orange dust
And I, when gazing at them there
Get goose bumps raising every hair
Each time, because I swear I see
Dead headlights staring back at me
Fireflies’ Prelude
By Stacy Savage (Indiana)
The sun surrenders
To the sky
As the moon awaits
With his winking eye
To begin his routine
In the rosy wake
So the sun may take
Her needed break.
Fireflies come
And bid adieu
In their evening performance,
Right on cue,
Above the meadows
And prairie grass—
Pulsating flashes
As they pass
And dance in the air
With lanterns bright,
And the stars welcome
The magic of night.
Editor Stacy Savage is seeking submissions for a poetry contest. Poems can be up to 40 lines and must be about an animal – be it domestic or wild. No limit on number of entries submitted. Previously published works are acceptable. There is a $1 per poem entry fee. All proceeds will go to Madison County Humane Society in Anderson, Indiana, to help with medical and cleaning expenses due to a virus that spread in the shelter that made many dogs ill. Send submissions, along with the entry fee and a cover sheet with name, address, email address, and titles of poems submitted, to: Animal Poetry Contest, 3121 Mounds Road, Anderson, Indiana, 46016.
Make check payable to: Madison County Humane Society.
First place winner will receive a copy of the 1870 antique book: The Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume II, a one year subscription to The Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems, a complimentary copy of the July/August 2015 and September/October 2015 issues of Creative Inspirations, a Humane Society of the United States Christmas blanket, and $20. Second place winner will receive a one year subscription to The Avocet: A Journal of Nature Poems. The deadline is June 15, 2015.