Best Silos Poems
Yesterday’s sweet corn
now rests among the shucked,
where norms’ victims lay.
Side-by-side in rusty silos,
awaiting the gristmill;
dull substance feeds the masses.
Look at us, Mr. Kipling.
What became of “The Man Who Would Be King”?
Laugh at us.
Anesthetized aspirations
embalmed by mediocrity,
hacks without hopes rest in a garden of low expectations.
Individuality sacrificed,
we are the dull fruit
carried in coffins created by conformity.
What is left to feed the next generation,
but the seeds of monotony
without a kernel of creativity?
*May 26, 2018
Categories:
silos, angst, metaphor,
Form:
Lyric
Early morning and the gantry cranes
at Webb Dock look like long necked
dinosaurs lining up to drink from the river -
and the sky is aglow as it might have been
when tinged by the first hint of that asteroid
slamming into Yucatan on the other side
of the world 66 million years ago.
This is 2025 and no asteroid threatens
our fragile planet, yet more subtle
things do - things that reside in the dark
precincts of the human soul that pour
out pollution and in silos and undersea,
stoke embers that could at anytime
break free and incinerate us all.
Categories:
silos, fire, world,
Form:
Free verse
I am tired of counting the red dwarf stars in the Milky Way.
I am tired of counting the 7 years of grain in Pharaoh's silos.
I am tired of counting the steps to the sacrificial altar of the Chichén Itzá pyramid.
I am tired of counting the people swallowed by the Antioch earthquakes of 115 & 526.
I am tired of counting the victims of the 1737 & 1839 India cyclones.
I am tired of counting the departed from the Influenza Epidemic of 1918.
I am tired of counting the death toll of the 1931 China floods.
I am tired of counting the total military and civilian casualties of WWI and WWII.
I am tired of counting the number of Jews killed at Auschwitz, Belzec and Majdanek.
I am tired of counting the drowned in the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami.
I am tired of counting the biomass of plankton in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
I am tired of counting the needles on the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center
I am tired of counting the cracked and dirty windows at Riker's Island prison.
I am tired of counting down the clock until the our Sun becomes a red giant and dies.
God help me! I can't sleep. I can't sleep. I can't sleep...
I'm immortal. I have OCD. I'm so tired of counting sheep.
Categories:
silos, bereavement, dark, death, depression,
Form:
Free verse
Silos stand like sentinels
Weathered barn doors creak, cows moo
The snow dances with delight
Birds find shelter in the arms of eaves
Poem is written in "Lind30" form. A form developed by Robert Lindley
7/7/7/9 syllable or word count; poets choice.
For: Winter Wonders Within Nature Contest
Sponsored by: M.L. Kiser
Placed 5th in contest
Categories:
silos, nature, winter,
Form:
Free verse
an hour before docking
it was ice cold and freezing
as the vessel like scissors
cut clean through the swell
and the ship’s horn then sounded
and woke those still sleeping
startling the standing
and the seagulls as well
and the door opened outwards
on a windswept and dark deck
as a lighthouse and headland
appeared to our right
and the radar was turning
mixing mist with the morning
as we looked over railings
still wet from the night
and the lifeboats above us
were secured by strong davits
as we walked round the ship’s deck
to see what was there
and the noise of the engines
grew loud and then quiet
while the spindrift and windchill
danced wild with the air
and the lights and the silos
of europoort holland
shone bright in the distance
and focused our view
and we stood there transfixed
with our backs towards england
as dawn beckoned others
to stand and stare too.
Categories:
silos, journey, morning, sea, travel,
Form:
Rhyme
an old ripped tarp argues with the wind
the NO TRESPASSING sign trembles
an underdressed scare crow ‘crazy dances”
mocking a city dweller manically hailing a cab
the warmth of the red barn lies to the field mice
offers only the emptiness of progress
sad hollow hope of grain-less silos
silent feathers watch as hunger preys
upon the return of every sunrise
an old ripped tarp argues with the wind
©1/20/2019
Categories:
silos, life, winter,
Form:
Free verse
I was one of the cool set,
navy blue duffle coat, scarf around
my neck, seated at a table
in Pepe's Coffee Lounge
discussing Baudelaire
and T.S. Eliot and the demise
of the political elites.
The conscription ballot hung
over our heads helmeted
in a flowering of uncombed hair
in the winter of 1966.
We thought the world was about
to tip, that the old regime
was coughing its last
on Craven A and Camel cigarettes.
Booze was cheap and jobs
chased us down the street.
In a hundred buried silos,
annihilation was just a push
of a button away.
We partied hard beneath
the threat of that mushroom cloud.
We're old now, sit under the cloud
of our own thoughts, replaying
scratchy, worn out tracks
retrieved from the sleeves
of our neural LP's.
What we tore down back then
has been replaced with more
sinister demons that eat away
at the collective soul.
In the end, everything
is just reabsorbed.
Some of us still frequent
coffee shops and discuss
Baudelaire and T.S. Eliot,
still write poetry,
shed a tear
at the melancholic beauty
of a setting sun.
Categories:
silos, nostalgia, social, sunset, time,
Form:
Free verse
Y/our relationship with ecology and economics
incarnates polypathically,
multisystemically therapeutic,
like positive human relationships
and richly fertile sacred dreams
between DNA's biological unfolding and Vitamin D's
absorbing ways.
Our actively cooperating economic design,
political intent,
power assumptions,
love,
light of truth,
beauty,
multisystemic refueling therapy
for ego and ecohealing community,
Appositionally driven
shriveled by exhausting lose-lose practices
feeding shriven anger,
silos of fear and suffering,
haunted by monopolistic
monochromatic
mindless monocultural nightmares
of Black Hole entropic proportion,
socioeconomic pathology
wilting and suffocating purgation
monotheistic punishment
pantheistic imprisonment.
Black hole reverse-eco-normic competition
never ends with enough,
timelessly continues longing for infinity
of heaven at hand.
Ecological cooperation soon builds diversely inclusive sufficiency,
together,
healthy warm kinda wealthy,
but just right,
pricklygoo co-invested
muse amusing culture.
If we don't fly apart first,
we might learn to fly
and swim
and breathe together,
drinking from the same aerobic/autonomic fountain of knowledge,
in bull-bear fueled nutritional flows and ebbing markets
polyculturally optimized self-with-other resilient design.
EcoTherapy practices peaceful Earth development,
proactively nurturing
co-passionate bipartisan
notBully/notBear balanced
therapeutic EarthTribal nutrition.
Categories:
silos, earth, environment, nature, peace,
Form:
Political Verse
a flustered tango of Gypsy moths
drumming the porchlight; chalk artists;
the endemic disappearance of farms—silos lost
in unkempt fields; space stations; the sunlit-scent of lemon
oil on cherry wood; birth; the chasm between cultural
appropriation & cultural appreciation; the history in our dust;
loneliness & heartbreak; trivia; funky funerals;
climate change, hurricanes, earthquakes & neglected
victims; heirloom charm bracelets, homemade
wind chimes & the homing sound made by a singing bowl;
masquerade balls; cityscapes hidden in ant hills; fly
fishing; serendipitous skinny dipping; missing children,
teddy bear memorials, forensic identification, monsters
never found in sleepy towns; the horrors of zoos—
elephants gone mad, lions robbed of their pride;
book reviews; civil unrest, bad cops & good cops & young men
gunned down; brand new fire stations; cancer survivors who wear
baldness so beautifully; my favourite pair of jeans; river rocks
found by dearest hands; a letter that can never be
received; joyful celebrations; incandescent dragonfly
dreams; twenty million at risk of starving to death;
wildflowers shaking pretty little heads;
misogyny disguised as religion; forgotten veterans who die
a bit more inside every day; the rainforest, shrinking;
saintly stoners & postulant prostitutes; toxic smog;
madmen with warheads; cheese cake & ice wine;
every personalized Kama sutra move & the God-given
ecstasy of body on body language; holding hands;
why one giggle can change everything; Thanksgiving
prayers; abandoned minefields, boy soldiers & devastating
amputations; the songs of the working poor; lightning
over the lake; his timely phone calls; brotherhood & sisterhood;
love in its every form; old maps; twenty-one gun salutes;
the extinction of the Galapagos Giant Tortoise; being
five, being twenty five, being ninety-five; kites; dogs chawing
on ragged rawhide; church-like museums on a Sunday
afternoon; make-shift picnics; deja vu; thrift store
wedding dresses; long drives with comfortable silences;
fading freedoms; censorship; seamless moonlight;
introspective dalliances with self-acceptance; the power
of purpose; how to be the bigger person; how to go
in a new direction; how to rise above . . .
Categories:
silos, poetry, writing, , memorial,
Form:
Free verse
Fields flat and barren, hungry for seed, thirsty for life
As far as the eyes can see the last whispers of winter still on her virgin lips
Begging for toil, yearning for care
Lost in a timeless moment
waiting for the warm breath of spring to once again brush over her face
to call on her motherhood
She cries, the children of the earth hunger, let me take them to my breast
give them nourishment, for is this not my purpose
The many silos stand in tribute to her labors
farm houses and barns sit as oasis in a great desert
From these sands come the hopes of tomorrow
In chorus they sing an endless refrain, a song of today and yesterday
A symphony of faith for the future
Faith that the rains will fall on her strings, that once again her music will be heard
echoing to the corners of the earth
Heads bow in praise
another chorus
the song of the corn
Categories:
silos, birth, earth, farm, garden,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I live in a state shaped by glaciers long ago
In the middle of the heat, we want it to snow
The breadwinner of many homes is what we grow
Here comes another winter, around forty below
Watch out for black ice roads wherever you go
Summer is six months away, yep, don't ya know
Melting snow makes for one big old muddy hole
Changing seasons so often, a backcountry expo
Minnesota fearing Green Bay Packers on a roll
Wilderness found up north, catch it on a pole
Mississippi flowing to its west into the soul
Universities preparing us, system educational
Wisconsinites moving forward on our loam soil
Architectonics with Frank, ingenuity and toil
Hydroelectrical powered first on the Fox flow
Conservationists residing, protecting fallows
Sesquicentennials of livestock, corn in silos
Characteristically unique, breadbasket tempos
Categories:
silos, dedication, history, native american,
Form:
Rhyme
The pious dealings
Of Isis doth stealing
Pillaging and raping
In Allah’s names saking
They, who worshiping in utter silos of hate
Are enemies of all civilized states
Western senses, selling moderation
Those extremists won’t buy that sensation
Islamic terrorists are not of the book
Lets not blame the west, we are not the crook
They view kindness and compassion as imperial weakness
I say, lets conquer sharia law with even more forgiveness
Don’t be fooled with words served with sugar
When after tea your head is sliced and severed
There is no righteous or wrong towards God
He loves all, regardless of Islamic blasphemy or hog
Categories:
silos, abuse, allah, evil, religion,
Form:
Free verse
Haiku 110
silver silos...
snow-filtered
sunlight
Categories:
silos, light, winter,
Form:
Haiku
LET HIM GO, SASKATCHEWAN
Let him go, Saskatchewan,
Send his spirit home to us
You have little use for his smile and wit
For you have endless horizons
And waves of grass and wheat.
Your silent silos stand tall and straight
And do not need his fixing.
Oh, let him go, Saskatchewan,
For he is so dear to us
He loved his satellite TV
And Rush, the rock band
But tools were his real passion
Drills and saws and building things
A true northern man.
Please let him go, Saskatchewan,
His family wants him near to us,
You have interesting places like Moose Jaw
And a city for the Queen.
Places where wild spirits dance and sing
So let us have him back again
To frolic in Muskokan fields.
Pray, let him go, Saskatchewan,
He was once a part of us.
A bit like his father, alone in the end,
So much like his mother, stronger than you think.
He’s applied for a new position, we understand,
Working for St. Peter as a heavenly handyman;
I guess that God just needs him more.
Categories:
silos, death of a friend,
Form:
Free verse
Harvest Bounty
Season of harvest, horn of plenty;
Tiller of soil reaping the fields:
Grains and legumes, hay and vegetables,
Fruits and plants, and gourd family genuses;
Filling silos, barns, pantries, and cellars.
Grapes abound, on vines climbing trellises,
And plump, red tomatoes dangle from stakes,
While apples grapple to keep from falling,
And livestock fatten on pastoral grasses.
Reaper of fields to feed the many.
Crops quenched by rains and meandering streams
Are ripened under the inexhaustible sun
And spring forth produce abundance in season.
Cornucopia spilling over with autumn goodness.
Categories:
silos, autumn, farm, thanks, thanksgiving
Form:
Idyll (Idyl)