Best Tilled Poems
Mark
The earth turns its face from you
as if ashamed. You
who tilled the soil, now marked
by what the soil received.
Your brother's blood—
how it murmurs, how it screams.
Deafness would be a mercy.
Wanderer
At Babel, you watch them build
their tongues a discordance of hope.
You know better.
The tower falls. Always, things fall.
In Athens, questions hang in the air
like ripe fruit. You reach for one
find your hand empty.
Constantinople burns.
You've seen this fire before
in your own heart, in Abel's eyes.
Love
Her laughter—sunlight on water.
For a moment, you forget remembering
the weight of your name.
Time, that relentless thief,
steals her breath, leaving you
with pockets full of silence,
her absence echoing in your eternal night.
Witness
Verdun. Mud and blood
indistinguishable. You've carried this earth before,
will carry it again. In Selma, voices rise.
You join the chorus, unseen.
Your story spoiled, yet written
in every cry for justice,
a testament to your own unending quest for peace.
Grace
The sea spilling secrets
waves crashing against the shores of your soul.
In a quiet cell, you contemplate forgiveness—
that impossible shore.
Your heart is a vessel of unspoken prayers.
Each wave a reminder: the divine
as elusive as your peace.
Mortality
She sees you—truly sees.
Beyond the mark, the myth,
to the man who carries centuries in his bones.
You learn to love in moments, not millennia.
Each breath a gift, each touch a benediction
her presence a bridge to your humanity.
Return
The earth no longer rejects you.
You lay down, finally
into the arms of the brother
you've carried all this time.
Abel smiles. You close your eyes.
The silence, at last, is sweet.
Where does the
selfless sun hide
when heavens
r a i n bloodstones?
Burned and inscribed,
from monsoon monsters,
gnawing at our bones,
the shimmering
darkness imbibed,
If only drifting shades of gray,
where the tempests
of hell sway,
would hear the hymns I sleep to
when the clouds steal on cue
the soul of illuminating skies.
I listen to the echoing symphony
of s i l e n t sighs,
convincing soothingly,
pulling me back to soar
new h i g h s
amongst electric choirs,
as angels swiftly swing,
on saffron strings,
to the bass of cellos rising,
above tuscan tambourines.
Yet, I keep drowning in needless tears,
from pearlized ponds of fears,
seeing life as how it
has always been forged,
a disappointment
fed through
filthy forks, who’ve gorged
on the first
of every scintillating ray of light.
But, what if the sun, too, needs a savior?
Like an eternal gem that beams
upon dreary dawns set upon her
draining every heavy lampshade
of stars within spheres
of novae, lest the opulence give
way to bruise and decay.
Perhaps, grim gales gusting in
wrathful bursts
shall finally be the
serenity I need
for I’ve tilled every field
of hurts like raspberry
from the scent
of rose water,
For sometimes, that’s all it takes,
heeding to freeze through
malevolent thorns in icy lakes.
We loved the land
We tilled the earth, under sun we toiled
We pledged our souls, to nature’s whim
The King of France none to pleased
We took the sacraments
We held our faith, mournful to fates embrace
The British demanded a new oath we take
And scalped we were, both sides did partake
Our villages burned, our fields afire
Our woman and children, in hunger perished
We feared Monckton, a hunter of death
And from him, to ships hold, deported at best
We preyed to Canada, to lend us a hand
Evangeline an angel of our land
The darkened forests, to where we fled
Became bloody in battles, and turned to red
For Redcoats wandered in search of scalps
As Father Le Loutre preached unheavenly deeds
He was bloodthirsty and in skirmishes his evil flourished
His Mikmaq warriors helped rivers flow to blood
We lived along the rivers edge
We fought them all, to no one did we pledge
As serfs we served, to whom did rule
In the end, the forest sang our quiet eulogy
The vessels sailed from Halifax
With their human cargo of Partisans
Off to the West Indies, and a new land
Disease triumphed where Lord Laurence failed
And so the voyage, onward went
The traditions of Grand Pre, to Louisiana was lent
And there they settled, peace at last
As angels of their battles, in sacrifice did rest
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Goodness gracious prater comes.
Writing winsome words of woe,
Endlessly stopping, never to go.
Whiling away the endless hours;
Scribbling sigils, clawing, I cower.
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Goodness gracious prater comes.
Envy those not thus engaged.
Envy the prattle on the page;
Stroked, petted, tilled and hoed;
Fields ‘pon fields, rows ‘pon row.
Oh how sad, oh how glum,
Frantic fretting, fear comes.
Wading through the endless nights;
Waiting, waiting for the light.
Writing, writing, scratch and scribble;
All this soulless, mindless, drivel.
Writing, writing, writing on;
‘Till the coming of the dawn.
The moon kissed the sun goodnight
And the stars walked shinning bright
The night a pleasant silence brings
An occasional flutter of angels wings
Showers of stardust fall from way above
For someone's heart, for someone's love
For a soul who uttered a prayer
To be granted because they care
And in the night when rainbows hide
The Fairies fly and Pixies stride
Gnomes and Elves work hill and glade
In natures name the hour is played
Soil is tilled and seed is planted
Burst of colour for morning granted
Tiny lanterns that sway the night
We take as Fireflies with our sight
While we gently dream in sleep
Flora's workers a promise keep
Bring the dawn and fill our eyes
All of colour and deep blue skies
When your heart
corresponds
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write
back to me
what expressions
you so badly
need
to bleed;
the characterisation
of letters
are alphabet soup
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos
like bells ringing
over a tongue
not speaking,
I swallow words
hungrily
then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page,
bulls eyes
staring back
through the black holes,
the other silent horns,
all silently complicit
small missions
of truth
cornucopias,
wearing through
the thin fabric
of ludicrous
fantasy
feathers that fall
from soft pillows
quaking against
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting,
the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense
of it all,
you know you're in it,
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs
brushing against
all the others, removed,
flotsam and jetsam
in the wash, sensing
the path they all took,
but the mystery
of never quite knowing,
like a smell, pervades
charcoal tears
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted
witnessed through
gilt edged windows
full and jaded
to a gate opening,
the sound cracking
like a mouth
terraforming
dustied and green
the shaman soul
found underneath
it all, humourously
rustling sage over
the external,
a serious novice
for burning
small
exorcisms
smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets
small
exorcisms
for burning
Candide Diderot. ‘24
violins.
Hopes are buried treasures
Gold daffodils of spring
A faith seed planted deep
Watered by love's well-spring
A farmer's garden tilled
With no evidence green
Faith inside the seeds
Waits for warmth and rain
When everything's right
The plants spring forth seen
Hope's now evident
Confidence shown
Hope now revealed
An assurance
Support displayed
Hope's exposed
In flowers
Garden seed
Faith, hope
These two
Seen
"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not seen." Hebrews 11:1
Inspired by Dr. Ram's contest
Diminished Hexaverse has 6 stanza's
Hexa means six...
Happiness is heaven, ecstasy gratifying
Sensual and satisfaction zest and delight.
I am quite confident; it comes all the year round.
It comes in the springtime when new buds appear
And nature's perfume fecundates the parks.
The season is warmer and children can play,
Listen to them, it’s laughter all the way.
It comes in summer, with hot and humid days,
We lie near each other savoring our ways.
The sea is calm and bathers can enjoy
Both a refreshing swim or some cold lollipops.
It comes in autumn with air that's so crisp
As the first snowflakes bring down the red dry leaves.
Thanksgiving is organized, a sumptuous feast.
Tilled harvested fields prepared as the chill is a beast.
But wet windy winter comes cold and hoary days
Snowfalls cover the roads and all stay snug in homes,
Everywhere fireplaces radiate warmth and shelter,
For many people think that happiness is not far away.
And so, as the year draws to a miserable end,
Let’s open a bubbly, and happy greetings send.
Regardless of our faith, in Love we can believe,
For Love's within us all, if we choose to retrieve.
Should we choose to leave Love in a dormant state,
Then we invite into our heart the bitterness of hate.
Those who believe in the power of Love,
Radiate and spread around all the beauty of.
Those who deny Love to flourish within their heart,
Spread misery around, since it's all they can impart.
We have all been blessed with the greatest Gift,
Though some choose to away from Love, drift.
The presence of Love or not is always crystal clear
In how we treat others; how others we revere.
Love is not selfish, cruel, apathetic, unforgiving;
Does not embrace greed or a miserable way of living.
Instead, Love is selfless, compassionate, and kind,
With consideration for others a natural state of mind.
Love is not ego serving, boastful and bragging;
Doesn't tune out a guilty conscience nagging.
Instead, Love is humble, modest, and reserved;
Accountable and accepting of what's deserved.
Love is not jealous, envious, resentful, or bitter;
Nor shallow, spineless, a flip-flopping fence sitter.
Instead, Love cultivates virtue, values, and integrity,
Making real in oneself a comfortable place to be.
When, our Gift Of Love, we cultivate with care,
We then reap to scatter Love seeds everywhere,
Always hoping they'll take root in another's garden bed,
Where there's being tilled the opposite of Love, instead.
When in our hearts we grow Love, we never have to feel
Afraid that another will come along and from us, steal
What we are growing and therefore, in possession of,
Because all they can take from us is some of our Love.
Once in the thief's possession, Love can only grow,
Infiltrate and change the current seeds they sow.
So, when we give the Gift Of Love and without request,
We can know in our heart we have given the very best.
In this day and age of money taking precedence,
Love is still free to receive and to dispense.
Love cannot be bought nor can Love be sold,
Making the Gift Of Love untouchable by gold.
We need not save our Love for special times and places,
Just for special occasions and to gladden special faces,
For the magic of Love is released every time we give
And multiplies within us when the Gift Of Love we LIVE!
Written by Artsieladie/Sharon Donnelly
©2017-12-24 16:52:00 (EST)
All rights reserved.
To see and yet not see, the world around,
As time passes unattained, unadmired, silent.
A ghost in a realm that seemed to confound.
To which dereliction a truth compliant.
Yearning for yearning is a futile dream.
While gathered thoughts grow from worthless gardens.
Tilled by false promises of self-esteem.
Left with lies of invisible pardons.
To die in a place where life is barren,
And no one understands the crying voice.
From rags to bones a cold lifeless carrion
Died alone to perish, a beggar's choice.
To be an old story that was unheard.
Those around never heard a single word.
contest Oblivion
12/9/15
I shoot up above the silent, spellbound crowd,
Gaping down at their bright hands with glassy eyes,
Then I pierce the satin clouds that dress the skies,
And drift in space toward that eternal shroud,
The vast field of stars that angels tilled and plowed.
How the crowd tilts down their heads with gazeless eyes,
Staring tongue-tied at handheld luminous lies!
Yet I, head high in the clouds, remain unbowed.
But what have I found, while the world wastes away?
Some seek lowly lights, others shoot for the stars;
Some keep as pets the very pests they should slay,
Others spread their wings and apace fly away;
To light up the pages of our dim memoirs,
Let us wake up and roar, we must seize the day.
We strolled along deserted lanes
lined by straggly rubble walls,
adorned by yellow cowslips,
perfumed with early wild narcissus,
and music, a fine harmony,
performed by finches of all colours
Whilst blue **** and sparrow fly from tree to tree.
I lingered there, hoping I could get away
from the fathomless worries of the weary world,
or perhaps find rest in an eternal quietude.
We walked hand in hand, listening to the rill
Its clear waters zigzagging downwards.
She stared at the rivulet with wonderment.
I admired her composure, her interest
In all around her, a stoic tranquillity.
I invited her to sit besides me on a wooden bench.
Enjoy the vast silent panorama of the countryside.
No other human could be seen in the vicinity
Except far off, a farmer tilled his field.
She put her head against my shoulder.
We uttered not one word. It was pure bliss.
I realized love can be silent,
For utter silence is true love.
Rebirth glides -
a bee balm ballerina
with dainty airs
sails soft upon enchanted wisps
of Spirit’s blown kiss..
wandering a nectar network
weaving amid shaggy blooms gilt-tilled..
a dancer in gold dust
her slipper feet
of light and peace
bring blessings of fruition
to wild-garden's frilly lavender fillies
FROM OUT OF THIS EARTH, IN EVERY GENERATION
MUST ARISE A MIGHTY PROPHET...
SO DON'T YOU HAVE NO FEAR, YOU HAVE DONE YOUR SHARE, YOU ARE THE HONOURABLE
NATTY DREAD.
YOU BROUGHT US OUT FROM IGNORANCE,
AND FOR THIS WE WILL THANK YOU HONESTLY.
ALTHOUGH WE KNOW THAT IT WAS WRITTEN IN THE BIBLE THAT MANY WOULD BE
CALLED,BUT ONLY FEW OF THEM WOULD BE CHOOSEN.
ROBERT NESTA MARLEY, HE LIVED HIS LIFE FOR WE.
AND NOW WE HAVE GROWN, WE ARE THE SEEDS HE HAS SHOW, TILLED BY HIS IMPERIAL
MAGESTY.
OH BROTHER BOB YOU WERE ONE.
YOU WORKED FROM DAWN TILL DAWN.
NOW IN THE PHYSICAL YOU HAVWE GONE, BUT IN THE SPIRIT YOU WILL CARRY ON,
THE WORKS OF MARCUS GARVEY.(CHORUS)
NOW BOB ARISE,
OPEN THY EYES.
BECAUSE WE WANT YOU TO KNOW, I 'n' I HAVE DISCOVERED YOUR FOE,
TRAMPLED BENEATH THY FEET.
SO IF YOUR TRODDING IN A STREET,
OR IN A HIGH MOUNTAIN.
DON'T YOU HAVE NO SHAME,
REGGAE MUSIC HAS BROUGHT YOU FAME,
YOU ARE THE HONOURABLE NATTY DREAD.
(C)1982, 1996, 2006 ALBERT WILLIAMS
I love to season sense engage.
It clears parts mortality dazed.
When young, summer’s tune range
is firmly, soul-deep engraved.
When grown, human ways hush
man's faith with factual mush.
Summer composed odes grant
faith prose that hopes maintain.
The soft song of a summer breeze
lifts aloft a wonderous spree
of smoothed, spliced rapture
too song silky for feel capture.
Summer’s charming, velvet songs
hold notes of mystical essence
assuring we’re a spiritual presence.
Seasonal airs of sensual flairs
are fluid trilled, space tilled, and
sound honed by summer’s hymn.
Feeling air's first tune blend,
early man named it wind.