Best Silo Poems
Every flower has its own color
With annual observation,
this we springtime discover
Give a womb kernel cede
of acknowledgment
To the spectrum birthright
of each other
We are all one,
tho’ from a different umbilical mother
Notice the bloom of time,
come rain ... come sunshine
First eclipse dawn —
tyranny tares grew with the
the golden amber grain —
The face of nightshade oppression
had a dark tone
Steel magnolias was the fetter fragrance
of the pyramid rule chain
Pharaohs, (of no melanin discretion)
who wore the ornamental godhead,
sat atop the pinnacle
While the slaves were downtrodden fed
at the bottom below
Their crowning achievement
was to erect great tombs
But papyrus thieves in the temple
stole the toil of the ruins
Skin for skin,
this is a-fertile sowing season true
Each summer solstice empire
passes into autumnal decline view
Every bird has its own color
And the length of each wingspan
differs from one another
Take an umbilical hover,
acceptance flight
To the spectrum birthright
of each diverse other
We are all one,
tho’ tear delivered
joyously from a different womb mother
Notice the migration of time
come swaddle skybound ... come burial ground
Last obscure sunset
was the Legion silo bane talon —
The thorny wrinkles of oppression
had a pale monotone
Caesars, (of no pigment distinction)
who wore the prickly spiked laurel bled,
sat atop the carrier chariot
While the plebs were commercial shackle led
to the amphitheater above
Their crowning achievement
was to deify great destructive bombs
As scrip crooks in the palace
pilfered the taxable gift of the palms
Skin for skin ~ Epidermal blend,
this is birds of prey a-nesting season true
Autumn equinox tech empires
passed into cold war, nuclear winter view
The nature of wisdom
teaches cross-pollination pure acceptance love:
Tho’ each fruit has its own color
Why then, doth this root of affinity divides us?
This is crystal clear!
Yet, what is the color of water,
of which thee Mist of Life doth bring?
It is snowflake known —
Tears of repentance
is from whence salvation doth spring
Categories:
silo, metaphor, nature, truth, wisdom,
Form:
Prose Poetry
On the gurgling remains of Winter
as she seeps back into the earth
on a path around a lake
flanked by the casualties of winter's breath
cattails...
brown and bent with broken heads
backs turned to the pale yellow corn stock stubble
standing in mud clad fields
that lie beneath scattered hints of green
where a red barn and silo stand in wait
A gentle breeze... a ripple on the lake
cattail fluff floating in the air
a symphony composed by songbirds and frogs
drifts across the land and bubbling streams
that cut across the path
Moss lies abreast the thin skin of winter
still remaining in places
where the sun never shines
A blanket of burnt amber needles
and prickly cones
lie beneath a dark green canopy of pines
impaled by glinting spears of sunlight
where the path...for a momeent...is lost
Thump...thump...thump.. the beat of leather souls
on wooden planks over the marshlands...
The lake erupts in torrents of water tendrils
falling from the wings
slapping the face of the lake
as geese take to the sky...
And beyond the forest of pines...
the oaks and maples
display their new burgundy buds
and the few remaining
leaves of Autumn...
all crinkled and curled
still clinging to the past
on a well-worn path
that circles around a lake
with no beginning and no end
where the seasons come and go...
as do... I.
Written: April 30, 2018
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Categories:
silo, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Calm in the center of the carnage,
inaction seen by detached retinas
Silently viewing
societal norm walls falling
Violently by lewd winds toppling ...
house of marked cards folding
Rendezvous bluff blowing in the bedroom again,
lust treasure memories buried under closet debris sin
Like a thief in the night,
you always wanna take out more than you put in
Step lightly
into the storm building inside of you
Blow the farm silo doors down,
set the milch cow on the barn roof
Step darkly
into the center of the storm,
Rest your troubled mind
inside the heart of the dead calm
Wait until the storm is abated and gone
Then, go outside of yourself ...
see the wreckage everywhere
The twisted limbs of your lovers
strewn in shocked poses of incredulity
Look of lonely etched on their faces,
saying: How could you, baby, do this to me ...
Why did you leave me outside to die horribly?
Blowing them a kiss,
you shovel them into piles of compost
Fertilizer love turning them into ground feed,
and as soon as you finish the dirty deed
Another tornado is forming,
another hurricane is coming
Step inside the fury swirling,
sit inside of the storm, where it’ll be safe
Every new lover wanna shelter there,
but they came to the wrong-hearted place
This poem was inspired by a poem titled
"The Evolution of a Broken Heart" by
the talented poetess, Leanne Lovejoy-Burton
Categories:
silo, allusion, dark, pain, storm,
Form:
Rhyme
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
Drenched the RUSTIC creaking barn
Its tortured wind scarred face
Snarling at the SWIRLING winds
A lonely BLOSSOM sprouts atop a fencepost
Mice scurry about an empty silo
A naked scarecrow dances in a barren field
Dreams carried away on the dust
They had returned, the children’s children
To piece together a family history
To sit and weep while viewing pictures
Of weathered, beaten faces
Twisted, tarnished features
Unable to EMANATE a SYNTHETIC hope
Causing a sadness to consume
The ILLUSION of a TIMELESS SILENCE
Categories:
silo, farm, history, memory,
Form:
Verse
As the ink dries swiftly,
peer into the invisible thoughts
these poet eyes see
Blink blink
The world is on the brink,
following dire voices
that speak darkly
Many underground secret plans
are silo hatching
No peyote ingest is required
to see the sign
of a mushroom cloud looming
And soon mutation burst opening
Nuclear rain is not a small-talk,
weather topic
most people care to discuss
at cocktail gatherings
Blink blink
There’s plenty of mouths excess wanting,
and even more famine bellies needing
But they both pale numerically
in comparison
to the torrential violence bleeding
And the talking rear-ends say,
“Have a Balaam mule work day”
As the share-the-wealth resources
get pilfered off-shore —
Somewhere clandestine secure
That kind of information is classified!
I’m pretty poetry sure
many have heard that line before
Blink blink
As the white paper turns yellow,
the time of Man
is turning fiery red sunset
Apocalyptic visions
of city heaps glowing in the uranium night
Cold pocket calculations
of nuclear winter burnings, so solar bright
Goggle minds having
no sense of mass extinction urgency
Blink blink
This be what these poet eyes see
Categories:
silo, introspection, perspective, truth, wisdom,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
You can
drive your whole life
not look upon the face
of harbingers in spring wet earth.
Remembering the ephemeral warm
Mediterranean summers
clean Petrich or fresh rain
bucolic life
setting.
Yielding
a nostalgic
propinquity city's
efflorescence dress brick building.
The epiphany of an old church as
it sings the echoes of erstwhile.
Redolent warm feeling
Victorian
versed homes.
Yester
years fine brushstrokes.
Trees towering on the
outskirts of the demesne beauty
Unique, intertwined dalliance with the
farmed and the wild a wonderful
serendipity finds
quiet hunger
of life.
3/31/2016
The city's two-block business district consists of the original brick buildings built in the 1880s and 1890s
I use to work in the Oakland School. They have left the very small town the same, it's like walking into the past. It lays in a valley surrounded by mountains. A very old silo still stands where they use to burn the woodchips. Very beautiful old town.
Categories:
silo, nostalgia,
Form:
Rictameter
Grandpa’s rustic, once crimson red barn sheltered so much and so many different things
From biting bitter cold, to cyclonic winds, and hard-drenching-down-pouring rains…
Great memories lie heaped, buried in antique red rubble and sifted gray ash
Decaying on open flat grassy plain along with the historic Civil War past…
The red barn was where I learned about his cranky, short tempered, milking cow
Never wander too close to hind legs for they will surely send you tumbling down…
The weathered red barn held fabulous hiding places for rodents, snakes, and me
I know its brave red heart protected me from countless accidents and waiting dangers…
I acquired great joy sliding down its majestic shingled low-sloping roof
Continuously riding into insidiously giant pillow-soft snow drifts…
Sacred memories of childhood absorbed in knot holes and immense pillared rafters
Echoing in the attached silo and milk room where laughter gathered non-stop…
Along the country roadside, down a pot-hole filled gravel dirt road, were neighboring farms
But not one barn could match the strength or beauty of Grandpa’s weathered red barn…
Copyright © 2010 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Fifth Place Winner ~ "That Old Red Barn” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Rick Parise
Dec. 10, 2010
Categories:
silo, red,
Form:
Prose
Run turkey, run!
The farmer's on his way;
He's got a big ol' axe in hand,
No time to weep or pray!
You can hide behind the barn,
Or crouch beneath the shed;
The oven's nice and toasty,
He's comin' for your head!
Don't go near the outhouse,
You won't like the air;
The stench is never friendly,
I'd stay away from there!
That bale of hay is useless,
It's weak as moldy cheese;
You'll surely blow your cover,
With just one mighty sneeze!
Forget about the silo,
It's packin' tons of grain;
If you can drive a tractor,
Freedom's yours to gain!
Keep on runnin', turkey!
Straight to the horses' stable;
The farmer hopes to see you,
Basted on his table!
Just when all seems hopeless,
Don't surrender like a punk;
Run out to the forest,
And cuddle with a skunk!
Go back to the farmer,
Surrender with a sneer;
One good whiff and it's over,
No turkey for this year!
Survival of the smartest,
Mere wisdom's proudly bred;
The farmer wanted turkey,
It's chicken wings instead!
Categories:
silo, holiday, thanksgiving,
Form:
Rhyme
Categories:
silo, business, nature, seasons
Form:
Shape
Across America (In Tercets)
The silo stood silent and serene
its deep blue shine mirrored sun’s glow
on this bright day.
The barn spread wings to either side
yet who designed this idyllic scene
I cannot say.
The house sat high atop the rise
to cast its eyes on all who breathed
in peace below.
Its presence seemed to echo peace.
Who bequeathed this treasured dream
I think I know.
Yet ere the world beheld such ease
this earth lay wild in untamed wind
and savage stream.
Beasts who roamed this virgin land
warmed native ones’ spindled huts
within their dream.
If cows who lie in comfort now
and rest in peaceful shade to dream
chewing their cud
could comprehend the farmer’s yen
for treasured ease he leaves to them
I know they would.
Categories:
silo, america, farm,
Form:
Rhyme
Love without Beloved,
Beloved without Love,
neither alternative could be
me without you
you within me
both equivalent would be
We.
We without you,
or me,
this simply can not be,
we takes both equally
bidextrously
ambivalent
Without me,
just you,
or me,
which We cannot
co-arisingly be.
I could not be me
without a you,
nor you
without a me,
as I, you see
we're not at home
in silo-by-silo
universality,
confusing coincidentality,
poor performing
economicality,
dismal absence
of ecologicality,
teleologically teasing
merely biological We.
If no Earthy EcoSystem,
then no Me.
If no Me, then no exegetical
metaphysical
metamorphical
polycultural
permaculturing Be.
If no Belonging,
then no longing.
If no longing, then no hope
of Belonging.
If no becoming, then not Being
seeing
sensing
souling
solving
resolving
resonating
hibernating
sublimating
en-double-lightening We.
If synapse
were not quite so closely haunted
by relapse
deep learning might be
as boringly unpredictable
as gravity's self-creational
bi-relational
lapse.
When East and West learn to divest
of Othering culture's absence,
as South and North learn to invest
in Other culture's apart-sense,
then PermaCulturing Design
will co-redeem
sustainable We
polyculturing our healthy Planet
polymorphic economics
polypathic ecologic
becoming PolyWealthy Therapy.
Messiahs turn Left
to Rightly Prophet
and CoMessiah Right
to EcoProphesy Left
and back again
to revolution Earth ethics upside down,
with SunGod's cooperative rays on top
of Earth's economically rich
deep pie charts
and global graceful synergy spread wide
warm watery reception,
challenging bi-generic tree-ringed contractions
of grace,
karmic abundance,
a Bun Dance away from narcissistic ignorance
Ego's fancy prance,
of why when we each and all come together,
in love's full climaxing bilateral embrace
we turn our identities future side down
a pace
in this HereNow timely space.
We each come to redeem our Ego investment
born of Earth's long-spun
cosmic fun
regenerating narrative,
double negative binding Identity
creating SuperEco-Normic
sticky Bliss
Is not
Love without Beloved,
Beloved without Love
neither alternative could be
me without you
within me
both equivalently
must be
gummy We.
Categories:
silo, earth, language, love, math,
Form:
Parallelismus Membrorum
PROPHETIC DREAM – JOURNAL IX
On the outskirts,
Framed on either side
By a farm house a barn
I discovered this winding path
It is early autumn
The trees about the house
Are full of lingering gold
Various harvest implements are seen
A silo rises in the foreground
With a tool shed beside
And the receding meadow beyond – cut
in two by the path – a luscious green
Far distant is a dense, black forest fronting
purpled mountains
I am just past my 85th birthday
And the mysterious future, creeping ever
closer, much on my mind
The dream vision is so colorful so clear
That when I awake
I must just lie still and wonder
Categories:
silo, april, autumn,
Form:
Free verse
I just finished flipping the calendar to March
I keep a paper one hanging on my kitchen wall
despite everything being digital
I’m old school some would say
How is it each day I’m at work every minute I'm there
passes like an old woman with a walker running a marathon
while months and years fly by like fighter jets breaking the sound barrier
Life is like that ride at the amusement park shaped like a silo that spins
slowly at first, the velocity incrementally increasing
until the world becomes a blur
finding yourself pressed against the wall by an unseen force
unable to move a muscle without exerting extreme effort
My birthday is a little more than two months away
I don’t feel old or look anything like I imagined (and feared) I would
when I was in my early twenties and forty seemed like such an ancient age
I'm older than my parents were when they became grandparents
making my entrance into this world when they were only teenagers
in the early hours of that late May morning
I was a bit older though too young as well
when I took up the mantle of mother
When you have no hope you cling to anyone that pays attention
in order to feel you have any worth
that you matter to someone even if only for a few precious minutes
I’m reminded of men I’ve seen who are likely in their sixties
their silver hair, if they have any at all, blowing in the wind
as they race down the road behind the wheel
of a brand new expensive sports car they had aspired to own
since they were sixteen but can only now afford to buy
who will soon find themselves waking up to the fact
that some dreams left unfulfilled for too long grow stale
realizing it isn't the thrill it would have been back then
when women would have paid equal attention to both car and driver
each complimenting the other instead of such a stark contrast
reselling it a year or two later concluding it’s not worth the expense
investing those funds in a pre-paid funeral and life insurance
Categories:
silo, age, car, dream, grandparents,
Form:
Free verse
Drugs dont have rivals, only those into drugs have rivals
Money in a place of poverty living lonely needing sophisticated money for simple survival
sitting lost in a culture trapped in another dark drug addicted silo
People say this place is one of the darkest drug infested places I know
too much of us down here or up there are trapped in self-inflicted drug addicted denial
We sometimes too high or drunk or just plain stupid too even pay attention to our own child
A life caught up in drugs running crazy can get too wild
Criminal cases racked against a place in one crtain file
Drugs aint got foes or enemies until we make up our own lies though
Doing anything to get high over friendships is when the drugs themselves become rivals
Categories:
silo, fear, history, life, sad,
Form:
Concrete
It rests in peace on the old farmer’s land
A sizeable wood frame with a silo
The late farmer and his hard-working wife
Lay ‘neath tattered crosses near the barn door
Members of the Greatest Generation
Rarely visited by their grandchildren
But, oh, that barn held animals and hay
A buggy that was mounted to a horse
Taking their clan to the Lord’s house Sundays
Still sits within the red barn’s pine board walls
Reminders of a time not so long past
When the work ethic was exemplified
Viewers see it now, wonder who lived there
Farms with old red barns succumb to decay
*For Rick’s “Red Barn” Contest
Categories:
silo, nostalgiaold, old, red,
Form:
Couplet