Best Rows Poems
gilded hours’
intense writing,
sunrise
through twilight years.
fine riffling through strange*
fodder, of
poets,
i call friends.
mind-blown’
evident
sharpening
tool - seed-sown’ harvest.
in rows of yellow corn
we
stand TALL together.
10/6/2021
Yalto is a form invented by Edward Ibeh
Line 1-15: 3,4,2,4, 5,3,2,3, 2,3,3,5, 6,1,5 syllables
*Strange as in unknown, from a stranger
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
there is a lull of stillness
a hush of soothing calm and tranquility
and a thousand birds chirping
among the rows
and rows of graves and graves
and quiet stone statues
I see some birds have made their nests
in some very odd places
could be a blue jay
a warbler
a sparrow
a chickadee
perhaps a finch
or robin
or cardinal
their voices mingle in the trees
and there is a peace on the green paths
among the rows
_________________________
June 1, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/among the rows
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1257-535-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
I watch the magic happening
As yarn becomes a shawl;
The knitting needles of my aunt
Are at her beck and call.
Her fingers wind the wool around
Without her even thinking
And rows and rows of stitches show
Without her even blinking.
Her expertise is such that
I just really can't compare it,
But best of all is when she's done,
Then I will get to wear it!
A whale kilowatt is a power source indeed. Floatation over gallons is a fantastic idea. But when a raven flies in a circular fashion it is then time for the washing party of grizzly bears who arrive at the exact time of the water gush. Questionable motives from biscuit faced men who seek to destroy the litters of puppy and kitten in houses in a large percentage. Yet the economy is often spoke of by slugman. Slug man is often unwise. And the words of a lemon can be very acidic. Tight thin lips. Tyrannical trays then. In rows of fourteen. Court not a courtier in a moonlit castle. Harmony stems from historical figures and walls and fabrics dripping the money like treacle in a tart. Oozing. Oiling a land then. Not good said camel. I am a desert soul. I am an ancient beast. Courageous through many winds,many storms. Yet the interjection in the sky of a swooping metallic bird with a very pointed beak creates much erosion to the soil of my birthright. Oh great one in the sky beyond the human filters. How I ling for my nomadic life. How I long to visit the oasis that is now a crater. Ominous clouds form a global shroud. Whilst the pin chosen contains energy rays from sky personnel who are intelligent and therefore non human. And so the ninth donkey brays to form the dance. Then skip. No sleeping now. The red embroidered cloth will fly again. Rise rise. Missions of mooing. And brave the temple chambers. How like a tidal wave is a faith. Old. Olives. Ollum. One. Ignorant swarms of classical closet worshipping masses outs weighed by the farting from an elephant, and a belch from a camel's tongue. One on om.
August skies bring summer showers
Thorny thistles, starry flowers
Perseids burst before my eyes
Star crossed furrows, in disguise
Garden angels of the night
Prickly blossoms of delight
August skies bring summer showers
Thorny thistles, starry flowers
___________________________________
Inspired By Nette's Contest: 'Star Dust in an Octelle'
Carrie Richards 7/6/13
how still the sky
that falls between
rows and rows of white crosses
in snow white Yule marble
lies three,
known but to God
"No Greater Love"....
echoes
like Taps in the breeze.
My perfect garden has meandering paths
With shady benches along the way
Perfect rows of varying heights
Rows of brilliant blossoms
Vibrant colors to stimulate my soul
Laughter is melodious
Birds sing in beautiful tones
The azure sky, soothes my soul
A lazy swaying hammock rests in the corner
Tempting all who pass
The soil is soft and moist, no weed in sight
For A Rambling Poet's contest
My theme my garden or gardening
Santa came with his reindeer
Swiftly did they fly
Over hills and valleys
Decorating night sky
The only thing they left me
On the new fallen snow
Was not even packaged
Little brown droppings all in rows
(This was not an original idea
My church sent my husband
and my self a little bag with
Chocolate Covered Peanuts
all tied up with a bow and
a little poem telling about the
droppings.)
Rows Of Houses
Rows of houses,
line of sight,
Helmet rooves
about knee height,
Squinting windows,
barrel of gun,
War in the garden
had begun.
Traipsing boots
in blooming red,
Spike the spear,
a rose lay dead,
Gullies, trenches,
rows of fence,
Dared the battle
to commence.
Rambling thorn
and injured men,
Muddied faces
in a badgers den,
Shell shocked sycamore
fluttered dim,
Love, the enemy
withered grim.
Twigs and limbs
were neatly pruned
Crazy paved,
the earth doomed,
Smoky pires,
incendiary bombs,
My love and spring
lay in tombs.
Children digging,
banners waving,
Mums and dads
under crazy paving,
Rows of houses,
gone askew
Yet in the garden
a poppy grew.
© RJVHorton2016
The Relevance of Last Winter
David J Walker
The acrid odor of a
Butane fueled
space heater
Seemed better
than freezing
In the sub-frigid air
of a February
prairie
winters
day
We set fire
To dried mesquit limbs
Cleared from
an adjacent pasture
last summer
It seemed better
than freezing
In the March wind
Bending its way
Into a town of little interest
By 4 pm
The light was failing
ice was forming
On the tractors casings
Ours
Were the only lives
Exposed
To the
Mercies of the miseries
Of a winter storm
The small farmhouse
Stood alone
The warm refuge
At the end of a field
Of long fallow rows
Awaiting
The next seasons
Best efforts
Deo
Conservator, Investigator, Pastor, Diplomat-Truth-Teller
Sibling of a Royal Priesthood, a CHOSEN Generation, Adopted by Abba
Lover of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit
We are inclined to slavery; addicted to mental processes; hating Silences!
Fears our tomorrows will be stillborn - we awake churning old thoughts, hates
I'd like to slow down body and thinking before bed, watch that mind, love
In ReNewEd Earth, State of Grace
FORGIVEN
IN THE GARDEN
Plant
Flowers
Marigold
Splash of bright orange
Shades of red roses
A bed full of pansies
Don't forget rows of sweet peas
Hyacinth and daffodils too
Lilacs and Lilies fill up a space
Fragrance and beauty grow in my garden
Copyright, Kathryn Search
Love is not an orderly garden where flowers grow in perfect rows,
but a wild field where flowers dance in the wind without rules or boundaries,
a force that takes deep root in the hidden corners of the heart,
where desires are born from old longings and forgotten dreams, a pulse of the soul,
spreading entwined among rocks and shadows, seeking hidden light,
even when the whole world cries out that it shouldn't be so, for love,
this is my story, written in ink of stars and unfulfilled longings,
a symphony of dreams that defies storms and blooms in cold, somber winters.
A flame dancing against the backdrop of endless nights, where silence becomes
a quiet song, and each heartbeat a verse in the poetry of eternity,
for this love is an expanding universe, a realm of possibilities,
a fragile balance between the chaos of the world and the harmony of meeting souls.
A dance of souls that refuse to be confined by the walls of conventions,
and soar in free flight toward unexplored horizons, a force that transforms
each moment into a living miracle, an unwritten story waiting to be told,
for my love knows no bounds of time, finding its way to the light.
A shooting star leaving its mark on the sky of our memories, a universe
of longings and dreams that burn intensely, shining in the darkness of eternity.
The landscape changed
From peace to bloody war
A hellish muddy landscape
Those men had to endure
And when war was ended
The living had moved on
The dead remained on parade
To forever guard the Somme
The landscape changed
From bloody war to peace
A sombre mark of the passing
Of those who fell before the cease
Serried ranks of white crosses
Marking those who stayed
To be forever remembered
These fallen comrades on parade