Best Tillage Poems
The rising sun has set.
Night has fallen.
The plow rests,
tillage and toil finished.
The corn ear withers,
but seeds are saved.
The scrolls are opened
event recorded;
the news spread:
"The sun has set,
the old Owl has flown
into the Heavens."
Yet, the sun will rise
and peek over the horizon,
the tractor will roar,
a new crop will sprout,
Green hands will turn brown
the flag will wave,
financial accounts recorded,
hospitality offered,
and the light of brotherhood shared.
Your torch has lit fires
that flicker and flame;
The fledgling will grow
and, hopefully, become wise;
New eras and life-chapters
will begin,
continuing the credo
as a Legacy to you:
"Learning to Do,
Doing to Learn,
Earning to Live,
Living to Serve."*
*National FFA Organization Motto
Pumpkin Patch Shenanigans
Puff white cotton candy, royal blue sky
Autumns breathe over a breadth of meadow lie
Tillage field vines pumpkins that catch a bird’s-eye
Grandpa and black bird grand-kids are back in a flyby
Causing havoc with their big pumpkin patch shenanigans
Fearless Scarecrow having an epic heyday and merry-go-round in the congregation
Stands terrifying and saying goodbye to all that flyby in jubilations
10/14/2015
Contest : The Doesn't Fit Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
Why did the Native Tribal man decide to build the tee-pee for shelter?
Why did the origin of Africa build dirt houses?
The Caucasians and Australians architectural designs formed.
Does anyone know why people of color are called the dumb ones?
A discovery of DNA found that the mongoloid blood was the riches.
Next came the blood of Africa.
Never last are Caucasoid and Australoid..
Are all men created equal?
We learn from each other.
Civilization had to discourse.
The measure of a man ascertains rationality.
Therefore, woman must measure up.
The unearthing via Social Science defined humankind in their cultures.
They travel to Africa to trek in their secret gardens.
They stop first in Europe to research the humanities.
Australia was a philosophical best.
North America is the continent they commence.
In South America, tillage ethos shouted.
In all, they found the landforms to be vast and the social stigma was that of somebodies with beliefs and values.
We have taught each other well.
From war and upward-downward spiraling of discrimination, we are dumbfounded.
Our socio-political and social-religious depiction necessitates our members to
be demarcated.
Therefore, we must be innovative to delineate a diverse world.
________________________________
PENNED ON MAY 30, 2014!
unnatural is a pause of heart,
streams crown'd slow with rusted leaves,
time's slow slide in autumn's light,
must move, always, on to the right,
the tillage of the mortal grasp,
sweat and salted leather both,
of blistered skin on graven plow,
left crumbled shocks of past and now,
grasp the simple and be wise,
ships soon founder, days will pass,
proud men smirk with worldly brides,
while dreadnoughts rust in firth and tides,
on wrinkled brow cold wind blows bone,
dry rattled under parchment skin,
collect the dew, release the sun,
a child's face shines now for more than one,
warmed by friction years in love's cruel reign,
the fleshy cleat held blood coil rope,
storm anchored both the quick and dead,
can generations clot the minutes bled?
but love, ah! again with love,
shivered cool in morning's light,
in small hands fragile forever waits,
cozened the morrow from clever fates.
When Attila retired to the Village
He looked for some peaceful tillage
But the price of land
Was so out of hand
He reverted to rape and pillage
Nationwide Insurance twas on my side yay
cuz, earlier this July forth
two thousand eighteen ja way
windows closed, doors locked, and
car keys visibly splayed
on driver seat oye vay
feel free to call me a horse's ass today
utter anxiety compounded,
plus unable to locate master key,
thence fodder for poem and more to say
rifling thru boxes without success,
an impulse arose to call road
upon learning policy
doth include locksmith service,
ah felt less doggone snappish,
and uttered hoo ray
though modest aye,
congratulated awesome,
fulsome, and handsome
self on quick thinking,
and automatically became less tiresome
pondering for no particular rhyme nor reason
(as a getaway) Panama or Paraguay
then immediate decided,
sans ditto explanation,
but no how and nay
yet honest to dog suddenly felt
like a young lovestruck lad
during month of May
and without further delay
a compulsion arose
to putter along, though
momentarily gazing heavenward
and counting (just beak caws)
glistening black crows
plus painfully aware
a spike in recurrent
"senior" moment of forgetfulness grows,
thus starkly aware significant rustiness
increasingly, frightfully,
and chokingly coats
lix spit tillage harrows
resuming schlepping dishabille
crotchety bedeviled aching
body electric irksome
with fringe benefit (such as
momentary lapse of reason)
quite aware mettlesome
ness of youth nonrefundable,
non-reliable, and non-retrievable,
and guaranteed continued
pricking, viz nettlesome
degenerating aging telomeres,
sensate perspicuity, and oxysomes
leaving a once robust person some
what discombobulated
and easily toilsome.
1. Rain, Ambrosia of existence, by its showers.
2. Besides source of crops, nourishment to consumers.
3. If rain ceases, wide cosmos is famished.
4. If stormy-rain diminishes, tillage also becomes impractical.
5.Rain destroys, as destroyer indeed, preserves ruined.
6.If no drizzling, even grass appears rare.
7.Even ample ocean dries, if rain fails.
8.Ritual, festal offers terminate, if draught continues.
9.Charity, prayers discontinue, if rain offers not.
10.Rain preserves conduct, as existence by water __________________________________________
Dedicated to Thiruvalluvar(31B.C)the author in Tamil
Translated byS.Kandasamy,Musiri,Trichy(Dt),TN,India
Published on poetrysoup.com on 3-12-2013
Email [email protected]
…undeniably tattered and shredded
my itinerary compromised by being
considered as prey and being
expected as a masochistic self-flagellator
losing revenue to the big gun’s atrocious tillage of the mind’s phosphorescence
I bagged the boy’s brigade for being bridges
and then being able to be
nearly my own cerebracy and again
appreciating my own celibacy …
in a rational loss of solicitude for
those obliquely using or anti
I built ramparts against the banality
of the ill-advised and the
ephemeral lacy streak of zig-zaggers
and water-diviners
and lost the locality so as to bequeath my
solid grade before I pop off into
the space of the grey morning light
Now don’t get overstrung
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
flesh rotting alot.
A self-actualized fringe benefit
as I racked up
orbitz round sun -
with increased measured,
(albeit neglected) ragged, and
shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -
sputtering third eye blind, sans
hindsight surveying extensive
emotionally frenzied groveling with
a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
foisted upon formerly entrenched
hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,
viz long stretches of
time irretrievably gone with the wind
found me averse toward
commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
precincts of Lake Woebegone
joyus kneaded livingsocial
natives, now visa
vis (nee this past
and present atheist)
discovered the healing power
of powder milk biscuits,
when accommodated within Norwegian
bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
imposed kickstarted mandate
to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
the sub weighted psyche walls
(over time) easily read
across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
years of existence
pitched yours truly
figuratively teetering upon
precipice of abyss gave vantage
written in telltale creases
countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
schlepping psychological Matthew
Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades
worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
sans recovered anorexic
(NO...NOT... NEVER
bulimic), but feebly
endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
towed riddled rattle trap ship
of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
moxie succombing unrelenting
weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
changed growh opportunities
forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
vehemence doth rage.
Throughout time
I think of what’s mine
My skin, for what has meaning
And a story full of remorse
A period of freedom fighting
Beating “frees”
And a devastating course
A collaboration of cultures
Which my ignorance can’t know
My chapters filled
From an unknown blood flow
A perfected past?
That lies in my future
Of a new view of life
To create my perfect world
Of characters full of blithe
To my honorable ancestry,
Do I have to owe a depressed nation?
Or does my generation,
Feed the hate with prejudice beyond explaination
Throughout time
I think of what’s mine
My hair, for what is thought
To be of the ***** tillage
Is a collaboration of worlds
From opposite sides of the village
A mixture of knowledge,
May form my belief
The soft and coarse strands,
That bring much grief
Although my sensitivity is taught
By my parents sincere cares
Can my judgmental attitude
Be inherited by my forebears?
The only way to know,
Is to listen to the few
i cant reject these thoughts
this undeniable truth
Throughout time
I think of what’s mine
My tone, for what is mocked
And individuals try to change
My sophisticated conversation
And my mature thinking range
But can I really blame one side,
From example I’ve learned
Throughout, my small time
A normal life I’ve yearned
Am I privileged from my token mother?
Or my father’s “mother land?”
Back then, If seen
Where would I stand?
To have my thoughts neglected
I’d starve for expression
For the racism and discrimination
Conveys great depression
No matter my history
To the back I’d be seated
This skin, my flesh
a presentation defeated
As the sky shed tears of joy,
the ground hurriedly swallows these tear drops,
making tillage easier,
dormant seeds sprout out to show that they are still living,
dry ponds come alive,
As cat fish,mud fish and others dance with joy,
I`m not left out,for this is the period
of fishing and nature watch,
I love the cozy atmosphere and spreading umbrellas,
Walking under the moving canopy with my lover,
listening to natural orchestra led by the toad and crickets.
Humidity is high,but one thing is feared....Flood!,
Flood! Sweeping away shanties and littoral zones,
Making many homeless and hopeless,
Babies weep,mothers confused,fathers sad and
government sends relieve aids.
Date: 4-4-2013
CONTEST:"Spring Showers" sponsored by Russel Sivey.
There’s a wizard in the Ivory House,
speaking grandiose
The klu
is in the bewitching words
he spew
This be the klux of the matter —
See the toxic spiellage
vapor wasted
‘pon the global village
His pagan echo klan
got a grand theft,
glib grift,
dragon breath plan
Be [a]ware,
for there’s
a wanton wizard
in the White Tower of Power
And he’s waving a hex wand
of caste hatred,
and touting melanin division
The karma ka klu
is in the incantation words
he insidiously spew
Collecting coins be the klux
of his conjuring chatter
Casting cold choler charm,
which jinn elixir flatter
Hear how his spell bound klan
try to sell
the morally unspeakable —
Froggy spiellage
from sewer mouth toads
Woe what Oz portentous vex power
he stirs angrily
Fear potion that make people cower
The clean air of calm relief
is rancor-pierced
by his adder dagger augury
Voodoo promises
are so soul binding to keep
Many beryl bosoms be boo mesmerized
by the emerald vocal glitter
Potter field sly is that hypnotic disguise
Spell spiellage
always sound leprechaun grand
Violent tillage
has vice spawned ‘cross the land
Puffery pillage
take possession of hearts barren
Each petal, leaf, each vein, each thorn, not any one the same,
Stand tall in there duty protecting Their tillage from the dark winged shadows circling the sky's mains
The wind slightly changes and they sway so waiting on the rain.
Each is there own colour with shades all with different names.
Same race, different names, different colours , different shapes and different mothers.
Many layers and characteristic ways and some blooming, others blossoming and some like to sleep away there days.
Sometimes the wind peels off a layer, and at times the rain lay heavy weighing them down until they drop to the ground, leaving no armour.
The sun singes there edges making them burnt and different to the eye.
Sometimes they are open,sometimes closed, but there's one thing that everyone knows about the beautiful, elegant and regal garden guard's ,
that in all there differences, one thing they all were created with in traits,
That they all smell the same, Subtle but intense, delicate and strong.
It's that distinct fragrance, it's the smell of the ROSE.
.
These vast plains of steadfast savannahs
Haunt me joyfully with the silent hissing tune
Of the setting sun, smiling at the
Sashaying clouds of low skies, and ogling select woods.
The earth is brown here (snuff-brown, I insist),
And with the courage of humble humus soil
Into whose fecund wombs the fattest disciples of yam —
Each tuber a testimony to nutritious creation —are nursed.
Need I guess correctly the mating time of sorghum — in the rains
Or in droughts?
Millets keep decent trysts with their kind,
Aping the pullulation of scattered corn, tomatoes and cactus,
And peripatetic weeds, and all other refractory modules of tillage.
Anointing breeze is wafted by the league of seasons,
The illustration of grazing cattle, and singed
Hirsute peaks of knolls near totems hoisted by
Ancestral masters —on foot and on teething caravans.
The pasture, gold-trimmed, reaches the edge of the world,
And glitters with the power of mirage.
Within you, you belabour the point of nostalgia for mind’s
Aging peace fluttering in the distance, a faint, glistening ray greasing
The elbows of noontime.
Large, mourning boulders jilted by jealous streams serve as tour guides,
Deflecting pirouetting spectrums that harass the eyes as you ascend northwards . . . .
Welcome, Rover!
This is Northern Nigeria,
The foothill of God.
I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.