Best Rural Poems
A former place this, a patch where roots rattle,
where stubble has a ferrous frizzle.
A long truncated railroad stop
humming still within a surrogate reality.
As dry voices on the wind, they return
- the homesteaders and journeymen,
the harnessed horses.
Pants' cuffs carry kernels
long planted elsewhere.
Caps, coats, and carts
employed again by the magnetic
echos of an iron labor.
The brown weeds are talkative.
Brown boots seem to shuffle.
A hollow clock clacks,
its guts a nest for ticking birds.
Dandelions anticipate
a faraway flight,
A mid-day heat
thrums fragmented rails.
The station seems almost ready
to receive
as if its world
had not disembarked forever.
I was having a heavenly day far from city noise,
when a north wind swept me up, swirling and twirling;
and tumbling, I found myself under a tree branch,
beneath cool emerald leaves in a country wildflower field.
Nearby, a raging stream flowed on it's twining journey,
and a blue butterfly lay frozen in place, broken on a rock;
waiting to die, I listened to the birds twittering brightly,
and whispered to blue butterfly, I will not leave you.
For hours I stay in this serene rural place of beauty and death,
but my weary eyes closed and I had a dream of gliding;
then, the sun caressed me and butterfly wings of blue,
with delicate hues, only the Lord above could create.
The sun rose higher in the azure sky and she waited,
then, she lifted up in a gentle swirling breeze;
and blue butterfly hovered, hesitated, then was gone,
from this heavenly country idyll place far from city dwellings.
_________________________
November 20, 2019
Poetry/Idyll/A Rural Blue Butterfly
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1199-844-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to FGI Blog Series 9 - Idyll
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
Rural doctors
In quiet towns where roads are few,
Where fields stretch wide and skies are blue,
There walk the healers, brave and true,
The doctors of the rural view.
With bags in hand and hearts of gold,
Through rain and shine, through heat and cold,
They journey far where need is great,
To serve the towns that time forgot.
In simple clinics, makeshift rooms,
They fight disease, dispel the glooms,
With limited, yet mighty, tools,
They stand as pillars, patient schools.
Their knowledge vast, their skills refined,
In every touch, in every mind,
They bring a hope, a healing light,
To places often out of sight.
For every life they gently save,
In every soul they make more brave,
They build a bridge, they pave a way,
For better health with each new day.
In fields where whispers of the past,
Meet modern care that’s built to last,
These rural doctors, strong and kind,
Are heroes in the humblest find.
So let us sing their noble deeds,
Their tireless work to meet our needs,
In rural lands, they stand and serve,
With endless heart and steadfast nerve.
Written Sept 1, 2024
© Dr Upma A. Sharma
~ These days I roam
My soul's outskirts,
For I can not stand ...
How much it hurts. ~
Let us sit together
And let me dwell in your mist
And I will tell you a story
About city life versus rural life.
Now, the city has been known to be a place of lights
But many have discovered many fights
And a violation of a list of human rights.
It is a place where so many people you meet
But people barely stand to properly greet
And will often look down at your feet.
-For this is a place one has to fight very hard to be heard,
To be respected and to get ahead.
You will further be told about finding so much gold
Though one soon learns that they grow old
Before you can see it or at least hold.
It is also said to be a place of opportunity
Where one has to reach the possibility
To showcase their innate capability.
A place where you can reach for one's dream
But have to really always scream
To get hold of your cream.
Besides the frustration of daily traffic always bustling
You will in some ways be introduced to the game of hustling
If not being lured into the activity of gambling.
-This is because while fighting to be heard and ahead,
you have to compromise your sense of morality to get what you want.
The city has clusters of buildings so high to tower
And various people on the mission of gaining power
With the innocent and poor getting driven lower.
In the city, it is said that there is a lot of honey
Where you can either make lots of money
Or end up being called a donkey.
Many get attracted to the city's glitz and glamour
But then one learns that you have to do a certain favour
In order to keep up this fervour.
-On the contrary on the streets you see more beggars
And hawkers begging for cents.
When you are in the city it is vital to stay awake
And you will notice that most things are fake
And be sure to make no mistake.
-In the market you have a choice of buying organic vs non- GMO fruits or vegetables.
Whether to buy hundred percent hair products, make-up or household produces.
Along the way things remain the same
Very important not to forget your name
You just need to keep up with the game
Of being humble and tame
In order to win the fame.
-Now, one soon learns that they actually
Yearn for the peace and reality
Of rural countryside life.
Reason for early school dropouts in the rural village-Srilanka
The poor knows not where to turn
when they don't have a proper way to earn,
families are filled with hunger and conflicts
in the stress of their lack they do not know where to fix.
Education for the village is a trouble
when they have problems as double,
the male and female the falling teenage
will never know what to do at their age.
When parents fight and lack
the kid's mind goes in search of sack
filled with tears and fear,
which never will disappear.
Children go astray at their young age
Parents don't care at that stage,
tears flow fears grow
none will know what they go through as they go.
Esther J
My loving cousin
Nongmaithem Manihar Singh ,
had not seen for decades;
how time can sting,
after his passing I went
to his home at Yairipok Bazar
where memories roam
to attend the Asti sanchay.
That country market place
miles from my house in Imphal
I have not visited for a long time.
During my childhood days
long ago in the sun
I wandered there often
where the small market spun
that was busy only at dusk
selling fresh produce from the fields
and ground.
At the time of his mother's death
more than two decades ago
still it was a traditional marketplace.
My mother her sister had passed away
more than two decades before her
leaving a silence that echoed evermore.
After they left us our bond grew thin
we have not seen each other ;
it's been far too long since than.
That day
the rural landscape had changed
so much from what I remembered,
It felt like a touch.of nostalgia
The market place now was much bigger,
more bright modernised and crowded,
a bustling sight.
I recalled then the old days and my long past,
with memories swirling like leaves in the air.
20.01.2021
A somber dawn breaks upon a hillside
strewn with hedges of dew
drenched blackberries
Written 8/19/22
FIRST PLACE
Your Thoughts On Blackberries Contest
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
Outside a quaint town in fair Vermont,
by my family’s vacation home,
is a small field with fences and sign,
in the warm month’s it’s a place to go.
They have a flea market on weekends,
rows of tents pitched under mountains green,
for most people it is just old junk,
but it is fascinating to me.
There’s a tent that’s selling goat-milk soap,
I did not know that that was a thing,
the man behind it smells of hippie,
but not too much, since he’s still selling.
Next to him are magazines that
were new back in my grandfather's time,
postcards from before the depression,
so many that it boggles my mind.
Across from that, old iron housewares
from a century that is long past,
rough-hewn evoke memories
of a wholesome time that couldn’t last.
Besides that place, hand-turned wooden bowls,
from a shop the next county over,
their pretty, yes, with natural lines,
but at that price, I will say, “No sir!”
Then there’s the tent with all the old books,
dangerous place for men like myself,
it’s foretold I’ll pick up old novels,
but which ones? I can never foretell.
A guy is selling old comics books,
another is hawking baseball cards,
gaudy women’s clothes are over there,
near cheap tools and pieces of old cars.
There’s the guy with army-navy stuff,
yellowed manuals from World War II,
and more knives than you could ever need,
yet I still walk away with a few.
Of course there is the hot dog vendor,
with cheap prices you don’t find these days,
then a tent with essential oils,
I just roll my eyes and stay away.
Buy cheap bandanas for the nephews,
little guys will think that they’re so neat,
the I meander back to my car,
let the wheels take the stress off my feet.
Act 1: Scene 1: (As the curtain opens, we see the bulky frame of Farmer George. He paces
the worn floor of his large open kitchen. He has just come in from harvesting his crops.
Seated at the table is his wife, Florence (Flo), a more educated person, demure, and usually
calm. Today she sits, as if in peril, large green eyes darting nervously back and forth as they
follow his every move. Across from her on the table is an uncut melon; next to it, a large
knife. Both husband and wife appear agitated, and an argument is about to ensue as George
leans suddenly forward, glaring at his wife’s startled face, placing both his large rough hands
heavily down on the table squarely in front of Flo. . . )
Flo: Mercy, George, what’s gotten into you? You’re nearly giving me a heart attack!
George: Don’t tempt me, woman. I want an explanation from you and I want it RIGHT
NOW! No more ‘a this dilly dallying around. What in tarnation was ya doin’ out there?
Flo: Why, I’ve been in here cooking, can’t you see?
George: Cooking? Cooking? I’d say you been cooking up something all right and it ain’t
been here in this kitchen!
Flo: Why, whatever do you mean, George?
George: I seen you out there by the barn, Flo. Don’t you deny it.
Flo: I am being perfectly candid with you. I’ve been right here cooking you this supper since
4 o’clock! Why on earth would I be out behind the barn and at this hour?
George: That’s what I wanna know! I seen you from the field, Florence. Not more than
fifteen minutes ago! I might’a lost some hearing, but I sure ain’t lost my sight yet! You was
runnin’ toward the house like yer skirt was on fire. So whaddaya not telling me?
(Florences’ gaze settles on the one kitchen window, and suddenly her eyes get very large. At
this precise moment, a loud crash is heard from outside. Bruce picks up the knife from the
table and dashes off, bellowing, exiting stage left.)
For Rambling Roses' Act 1, Scene 1 Contest
I remember georgia with her hair
curled up in a summer dress.
bug zappers hung in porches
let the humid air curl down further,.
Sitting there or over here next to you watching
the neon apostolic ghost gather in its congregation.
Mesmorized by the inability of the local insects not
to stay away from the light.
Suicidally brilliant in a quick flash gone forever..
Rural so inspirational, how beautiful and pure,
Green pastures and the golden sun shines down on pretty lands,
Hills and rocky spaces blessed with native greens around it.
Stand on the edge of every rock to see far and wide,
The breeze swooning along the fields in utter content silence,
Such joy to see lush hamlets, distant woodlands.
Gathered nests in trees with birds singing so tranquil,
We come and go but rural stays, we enjoy the beauty of this rural way.
White cars stationary on their roofs blocking rural arteries whilst severing others
Unexpected loss of vertical hold and bodily functions frozen in the failing headlights
Beautiful greenery ablaze, beside the twisted wreckage of man.
A movement shakes away broken glass and the tarmac writhes free of the terrible pictures
Running on the wide screen’s of my mind. Dripping petrol explosions and decapitation,
Gruesome pictures I dreamt up while reality passed the windscreen and
I, I sat there screaming inside.
Luminous blue and an echoing voice rouse me from that dangerous moment,
The phone weighs in once again in my hand. I’m rambling, or worse, but I get the message out
And the comfort of my task ends with the depressed red button as
The door clicks open
A familiar face brings mind of the other and I’m out into the cold darkness
Stepping slowly toward a nightmare vision that grew up in the dusk
I find her and for a second we’re back laughing and smiling. Over her shoulder I see
The groupings of people that sprung up from hedgerows, their halogen shadows
Merged with the darkness of the incident. The car is much too white.
Too strange an angle, yet there they sit
Tingling on the verge of the roaring tributary
And casually stemming the tide
Stooked up sheaves,midst growing clover
In wind and rain,toppling over
A polished blade ,glides to and fro
Timber echos in the glade below
The hands tick around,one by one
Tedium ends,with the setting sun
BAT SONG
(This Song was written in 2009 for a dramatised Rap Music & Dance Group in Rural South Africa. They wanted an amusing song with a message incorporating an unusual rural image. It unfortunately was not performed on stage, but the young teenage group had great fun practicing the drama-song.)
[TWO CHORUSES]
She tried to fly
was too blind
Up she went, fell, fell
flapping webbed wings
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
On electric pylons rested
she was persecuted, prostituted
they stalked her, sallied her
stoned her
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
Sirens screeched, screamed
What are you ?! Who are you ?!
you simpleton sleazy bat
we will slice your wings
in a dirty night
[CHORUS 1
Dark dank night
Not knowing when
not knowing what
Blind bat, bland bat
blank bat]
THEN came beckoning
Bella, Bella, Bella !
abating abating
up on electric bars
a fast bat out of bell
out of bell
not batting a lid
singing batwing
snippets
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
No fear she fluttered and flew
I’m flaunting soaring strange
no slicing webbed wings ordained
me no belittling blind
crazy as a dime
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
A scavenger slunk away
sirens slipped into sewers
cities in distress
raised up their brows at
beckoning bats doing
a bogey woogy
doing a bogey woogy
a batty bogey woogy
[CHORUS 2
Velvet night, vortex night
knowing when, knowing what
bold belly bat !
bold belly bat ! ]
©GhairoDanielsPoetry
&Song2009