Best Tilling Poems
Evergreen flavored mantras
did nothing to purge bitter bile from my lips
nor slake the smoldering thirst for a Rosary remedy.
Tick-tock petals unfurled one by one
as your poppy shed its last sepal
releasing a scarlet sigh across sunset skies
whilst I placed a tender kiss upon your twilight.
If but for your gossamer bloom in persimmon perfection,
I would not hunger for your ambrosial whispers
nor rue the earthly drought of undying nectar.
I stray, a waif lost with my armful of loss,
blind behind the tear-rusted folds
of a weeping veil’s eclipse.
My psyche a pauper
rich in the poverty of penniless promises,
empty as echoes in hollow holes
ringing with wringing reverberations.
In the grasp of atheist fingers I clasp Holy beads
tilling cries and whys.
Every tear a sorrow sown in brambles,
whose sloe fails to ripen sweet redemption
in the fertile sham and barren sand of my humanity;
crushed by the tusk of this damnable dusk.
Susan Ashley
April 13, 2020
~ First Place ~
February 5, 2023
2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' FINAL Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 9
Sponsor: Mark Toney
~ Third Place ~
Premiere Contest: Your Best Poem Ever
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Seventh Place ~
Premiere Contest: Crushed
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
~ First Place ~
Standard Contest: Your Best Free Verse 2020
Sponsor: John Hamilton
On pensive planes of wraith-like existence,
Are stoic shadows feigning affection;
Crimson lips of withering consistence,
Have lost their craze for craving confection.
Tear-filling prisms tilling a rueing sphere,
Pathos prowling, pity's wild and roaming;
Reminisce wind-blown is tumbleweed drear,
Bathos like bramble bur clings in gloaming.
Tin foil hearts' echo sad droning down-beat,
Rose petal ballet two rust figurines;
Today's gray sleet does douse yesteryears' heat,
Apathy's ennui directing the scenes...
Love once aflare in fanfare marigold,
Lies now a wizened weed, dried and stone cold.
Susan Ashley
November 2, 2017
To Those That Have Walked Dark Halls Of Deepest Grief
Truth of deep grief and its healing powers;
Are not in the anguish pains that invade,
With the blackest of black in midnight hours
Dancing dark corridors in Hell's parade.
It rests in the sweet blessings of gloom's end
That relief, when one sees beyond deep dark-
Finding that Hope brings Light, as a true friend
Slaying loss, once felt so savage and stark,
Grief cuts down long sad shadows if allowed
For mourning births seeds, of Life thus renewed
By tilling hopeful ground with new love plowed
Thus finding gifts that kindness has accrued.
Such one may embrace, path to better Life:
Where happiness ends pain and bitter strife.
Robert J. Lindley,
Sonnet, ( The Healing Power Of Grief Survived )
Note-
Death is darkest of painful tragedies
Its sting, births misery like no other
It is a black curse without remedies
Epic sorrows when it strikes one's mother...
En France, les demineurs
still search the fields
removing shells,
grenades and bombs
of two World Wars
Would that we had the same
for affairs of the human heart
to defuse munitions lurking
under a landscape of civility
I’ll forgive but canna’ forget
A dangerous occupation
more than six hundred have died
removing millions of explosives
and each year farmers die
tilling their fields.
We’ve laid the mines
of icy civility
to restrict crossing
this no-man’s land
yet your smile lights a path
through this treacherous passage
to the warmth of your embrace.
En fin, les demineurs, ne travailent pas
______________________________________________________________________My poem to remember this week. I wrote it years ago on reading an piece on Les Demineurs in the newspaper.
Quietly now,
my serenading sky
you to me are!
almost radiant and high, facing the light
be about your plants of green
your strewn paths and needles
let rays tend the weeds that harbour gainst your hand
and trowel deep each foot that steps
they live as do I
mountains waiting ire
I watch and yearn the uprooting
the dislocation, the cast away,
each fibre stretched against the cotton
and the curl of sweat
separates...
Ventures a rivulet down your back,
you are the mystery my love
Knelt neath the shading of time
bowed, from the unforgiving branch,
how do I see you so
a dance
to the music in my heart
a dance
that wealds the tilling grasp,
the pain I feel , is white peaks screaming
curling to kiss the clouds
each bead pours from your diamonds stream
and settles on the rock
catching sunlight on your nape,
a nape I've kissed a thousand times
I live a'neath the bowing branch,
allowed my wallow time
in shadows looking down
timeless tunes a humming
little inconsequential notions
swept back, brushed away
a remembered time when ledges cowered,
in rockbeds so dry of love
like strangled flowers
that grow untended, like lies
reflecting summer sunsets under the
mountains of your
unforgiving eyes...
The girl and her smile straddle the rainbow.
Neon hair the fluid cascades of northern lights,
her seafoam cloak the ripples outgrown by the shore.
She adores the breeze adorned with gems.
Emeralds fly from silk strings in wriggle-giggle wind,
as jaded kites made of ruby and sapphire and pearl
sit on a picnic checkerboard in envy-green grass
betting on play-dates with zephyrs.
White dice cubes roll beady-black-eyes at their folly.
She chases books as they sail from trees.
Their soft-covers as nimble as sparrows’ flit.
She leafs through slices of fruitcake,
each nutty page a looney tooney frame of insane;
Mr. H. Dumpty carouses with Mick Jagger swagger,
two baby paisley owls drive a ‘67 mustang car,
the car does a hop-scotch down bourbon street.
Field-mouse-flowers meow,
the moon jumps over the cow,
and she sings “the world needs more bumblebees!”
The golden palm of a five-fingered maple leaf
offers a diamond ring.
Palm trees pull up anchor and hover
in sunset silhouette like Mai Tai parasols.
A two-masted schooner scries seawater for its soul.
She laughs as black-habited nuns ride
upside-down on the roller-coaster rim
their feet kicking the billow-bellies of clouds ‘til
they fall into dreamcatchers sticky
and tricky as spiderwebs,
and a doughy-boy-baker loses
the reins of sugar-cookie-horses tilling
confetti seeds in a magician's puppet garden
where Dali wombs and peacock plumes bloom.
Press and dry; stamped aneath a logo of their own design....
This colourful pigment melting upon red velvet seals
Via the telegraph wires amid these morse code keys
Songbirds, singing their midnight songs unto me!?
Compositions notes to be transcribed from symbol sheets
Covering myself with these their, queen size needs....
Fine silks formed about the countless threads
Words spoken atop their crowned in turquoise, sweet asylums
Letter heads; bejeweled tokens to wear as shining bracelets true
Postmortum promises and then yes, we're wed too....
Pressed and dried; stamped with a logo of their own design
Two steps ahead and side to side, within this, a poetess rhyme?!
Buried between the tilling soils of her rose laden bush
Planted in a portrait that she painted afore the crimson earth
Picturesque, tangled amid her own twist and curls....
Spinning spools which she spun in gardens you see
As she cast her fragrant bouquet webs for all to be
Breathe; delusions digested through her smoke and screen!?
Coloured pigments melted upon stardust dreams; red velvet
Via telegraph wires of higher and highers, morse code me's....
Sealed into their blue realm desires marked in these; infatuations
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Black Balloons Floating By” ~
Death,
thou boisterous ancient foe,
you crept in surreptitiously,
and bore a hole in our hearts.
It's 14 years now,
14 years of longing.
For seven years, the torrential rain battered us,
and we almost succumbed to the intensity of the rain.
Then,
a Moses arose,
lion-hearted damsel
and the lineage was rescued.
Father, I ache and bleed daily,
as I remember your tilling and planting seasons.
You planted many seeds in us.
Father, a little seed has sprouted,
and has borne many fruits,
succulent fruits indeed.
I wished I could give you a bite,
Alas,
the curtain was drawn 14 years ago,
and now you are a complete dust.
Adieu, my father!
Adieu, the muse that brought out the poet in me.
The pain, grief and sorrow that I felt after my father's death forced me to look for a way of expressing the pent up emotion of anger and sadness; poetry gave me the answer. Over the years, I have fallen in love with poetry and no one can break the union
The queen of my heart lies here in state today, and my heart throbs,
Breaking like the darkness of any day, when she rose from her bed
And through rain and cold found her way in peasant haste and garbs
To scrub the pots, the clothes, the floor so her castle was fed.
I cannot regret her life, nor the hard gales of familiar poverty
It was her choice. My mother, Esther Jackson, in her simple life
The mold that makes great women virtuous, and wore the purple silk
Only few could see. She taught us them, nay, made us hard for strife:
This merchant ship that brought home bread, drank tea without milk
That we could form the fool in school; her hands were not afraid
To work and we learnt the royal value of industry, and took pride
Like her in doing simple things well. Against our selfishness she laid
The whipping of her tongue, and kept the best things she had inside
For strangers she expect to come. She wasted no oil, and used liberally
The rod of correction, pleading in our ears the cause of the poor
So that even a Balias, unwashed, unloved, found favor at her door.
When she told us to blow out that "Home Sweet Home" lamp, surely
You know she was saving oil, that she may have something to give away
And we may learn a person is never too poor to give, for bounty
Is not from the hands, it is from the heart. I loved this woman, the way
She prayed, calling each name and action to God, praising him happily,
And full of thanksgiving for each pound of flour and codfish she
Was able to cook at dead of night. You cannot measure her industry,
Tilling the soil, or raising hens and children, you do know her here
Whose fingers fumbled through arthritis to sew her children clothes
Who stood like a man, machete in hand, to fight the one who would dare
Disrespect her gate or threatened violence, the thorn upon the rose
Command respect, and her beauty a fragrance we can still smell today.
Our lamp never went out, our clothes had no holes if we cared
The estate of my spreading life
has been plowed over many times.
Plantations have withered and been replanted,
grain fields have turned to dust,
have laid fallow for years
yet now the corn is high and golden again,
trees felled and burnt now grow tall.
Mind body and spirit maps
have had to be redrawn,
shorelines and boundaries moved.
However now I can walk my mind back into past times
and circle all the seasons of my existence
at once.
Barn doors are wide open to tomorrow lands,
My earth is still rich and good,
my store runneth over.
I am not the master here, just a worker following
a tilling, plowing, and seeding Owner;
I am charged only to oversee
this landscape of me.
When this soil I have worked
at last is blown away on the winds of time
a plantation of plenty
will be reflected in the mirror of eternity,
and I will be a servant of my most High Self
at home once more in my Master's mansion.
Inviting is the vibrant smile, glistening visage of spring
Exciting sensuous hearts in nature’s alluring song
Sighting on marigold arc rising blush of magenta
Lighting dawn’s flamboyance awaited all winter long.
Blazing colors adorn exuberance of flaming-red lilies
Gazing at flowering trees, lilting in tender breeze
Raising tempo of romantic dreams, yearning bliss
Praising gift of ruby roses--beauty blushing to please.
Raining upon parched vegetation new season unfolds
Gaining on glumness of drought giggling river flows
Waning reign of sluggish tones in rear view mirror
Staining sunlit horizon gold, decimating frosty woes.
Sowing crops, tilling lands, farmers under the sun toil
Crowing about growing corn, weather mild, blue sky
Glowing in vibes of new life, hearing chicks’ feeble cries
Showing off emerald vistas where singing Blue Jays fly.
January 26, 2020
Placed 2nd: Writing Prompt- Let’s Write a Lento- Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Placed 2nd: Strand select F contest by Brian Strand
Love is not always reciprocated
Seeming some hearts terminally
constipated –
unable to relieve themselves
and others,
to make lighter many burdens,
the long suffering of less fortunate sisters
and brothers –
yes, love is not only
tender petting,
it is also to help stop daily
fretting – feeling hopeless smothers
love is sinking
wells and tilling fields
giving an extra helping hand
when Nature poorly yields
it is lighting a furnace of warmth
for the aged, by themselves too weak
to battle late hour’s bitter cold
it is seeing gold as not mere glitter
but a wealth that could make life desperate
fuller and fitter
Seek out those children abandoned and forgotten!
Restore a World order that nurtures its vulnerable fold –
Dear God, if love
could only be bought and sold, I would
earn to buy all
give all away free...
My own reserve entirely in Thee
Just down the road, there is a golden field of hay
where there once stood a home where my sister
and I did play. The moss-covered trees and yellow
daffodils bloomed, and the smell of Mother's
clothes drying as the hot, summer sun fumed.
The air was filled with the June bug's song and
the tractor tilling along the farm.
My sister's hair was honey blond and how she
laughed when I would tag along. Eyes of blue as
the sky above but just being her sister, brought
to my heart so much love.
Day would pass and night appeared, and the moon
brought fireflies to enchant the way to the raspberry
patch where we believed fairies did stay. It's time to
come in Pa would say, oh just let us have one more
minute, Pa and we'll be on our way.
Time has passed and childhood is gone but for me
Just down the road, these memories will forever
live on.
I have spent much of my entire life it seems somehow
Cluttering shadows walls with window box residue inside these rooms....
Considering now the hands of times potter and I, but its clay ~
While gently closing these doors, lowering the windows and, drawing the shades
Another moment amid a lifes journey; traveling far beyond chances place
Once more; consolations road winding unto the summit of hopes extended range....
This sphere above serendipities perceptions; reflections penetrating bright ~
Reasons subduing dust, to be placed in a canister of understandings
Soils of purpose and promise gathered within, stain covered palms?!
A tilling and mixture it shall be unto these, renovations dreams....
Such, jewels of visions sprinkled upon the petals and
Brushed about the partitions dividing calls; gentle pastels ~
Clarities lines, passing through this corridore inside
Cluttering walls of a shadows reprise....
Reminding myself yet again as I close the doors and, lower the blinds
My eyes; gliding atop the balustrade unto the newly carpeted landing
Slowly amid silent serenity gazing humbly across, times restoring treasures ~
Once condemned but never lost within; revelations resurrecting hands of
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Master Carpenter
Water
rough, calm
swimming, sailing, surfing
freighters, buoys, fields, earth
tilling, planting, harvesting
fertile, barren
land
11.10.2014
Sponsor Regina Riddle
Diamante Poem
2nd