Best Uncultivated Poems
There Winter Lonely Fallows Deeply Dream
Long after that ripe golden sunset gleam
Cool silvery tones, wavering light;
Then winter lonely fallows deeply dream
Into the grayish ghostliness of night.
Far off, yet looming bold and strangely near,
Within starry heavens they are aureoled,
Forested mountain-ranges far westward rear
Their high guardian towers as of old.
And lo! above their ancient stormy deeps,
In pensive grandeur, icy frozen browed,
One glorious forest summit there keeps
Transcendent vigil alone, pure and proud.
And we who see that shining symbol turn
A moment's while from its lone transient mood;
From that brief moment we clearly discern
Our lost souls within Nature's solitude.
Robert J. Lindley
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 160
Total # Lines: 19 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 103
https://www.google.com/?gws_rd=ssl#q=fallows+meaning
fal·low1
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
1.
a piece of fallow or uncultivated land.
verb
3rd person present: fallows
1.
leave (land) fallow.
Origin
Old English fealgian ‘to break up land for sowing,’ of Germanic origin; related to Low German falgen .
fal·low2
'falo/
noun
plural noun: fallows
a pale brown or reddish yellow color.
Origin
Old English falu, fealu .
Translate fallows to
Use over time for: fallows
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/aureole
Aureole
noun au·re·ole \'o?r-e-?ol\
Popularity: Bottom 40% of words
Definition of aureole
1
a : a radiant light around the head or body of a representation of a sacred personage b : something resembling an aureole UNSUPPORTED CODE
2
: radiance, aura UNSUPPORTED CODE
3
: the luminous area surrounding the sun or other bright light when seen through thin cloud or mist : corona
4
: a ring-shaped zone around an igneous intrusion
aureole transitive verb
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Note- Sorry my friend- I know I promised you a sonnet on winter and Nature written today but my muse insisted on two more verses.
I learned long ago. my muse is a very vindictive beast when disobeyed.
When words like seeds remain uncultivated,
in somber silence the poet within me dies.
In the misery of my perishing poetic oasis,
petal like poems refuse to infuse idealistic pigments.
But without words, a midnight beast lurks in thoughts
hidden behind metaphors written in psychedelic ink.
My beloved is a black rose who's thorns are like blades.
Her pecan lips lustfully devour my heart's purple blood,
because she loves to see me bleed in musing rivers,
flowing upon shores of her poetic fibres.
On dark murky days her tears plunge like acid rain,
melting through my shiny white knight armour.
For, she is the ebony queen in my chessboard of life,
in position for 'checkmate' against an ivory king.
In my troubled mind,
the sun is like a timid yellow umbrella,
hiding behind grey ashen clouds, which in clementine hues,
appear like orange smoke polluting my toxic swollen lungs.
And I can't breathe without her sugar lips
bringing me back to life with her special scarlet kiss.
Yet, I am her willing prisoner,
even in absence and distance,
we remain eternally chained,
as spiritual word weaving lovers,
prowling and howling like wolves
wandering under the blue moon.
Number 4
FOREST SHOWER
From the steaming highway
Stopped for a light
looking through
A giant peering in
woodland so thick
and deep in thought
No thunder nor lightning
the mood is mild
Promenade
but a moment’s estimate
Thirsty forest trees with half-wet stature
hug in the dark forest glade
So quietly drenched the scene the freshness
a million tiny eyes within
without
The chatter whether angry or happy shelter
Drops from high above mingle symphonic
in the mist
Pristine
as it might have looked those past thousands
Serenely innocent
Perhaps a meadow
with sharp hooves plashing puddles
Happening on roses wild
a few
A stream trickled down from distant height
so marvelously clean unobtrusive
Oh to go down on both knees
drink from white hands
Wild flowers unknown uncultivated
a treasure of weeds
All is wed in perfect loneliness
An ancient hunter’s blood recalled
To run
To cool the feet
To bathe body and spirit
Just to walk through such weeping nature?
Oh no!
Sacrilege!
Invasion!
No!
Leave I must while the freshness the aroma lasts
A final glance
A shiver
Eyes fixed for a second
Stealing memory most dear
Seeping storing in soul’s special place
Shavuos, a holiday with two different faces
One in an uncultivated desert
The other on a cultivated farm...
On Shavuos itself Jews soar to the highest of heights
But this poem's about the run-up, pre-flight
For it's all about how well you prepare
that determines the outcome when you get there
God whisked Israel from Egypt to Sinai in 45 days
Then gave them the Torah without undue delay
One face of Shavuos is therefore called 'Weeks'
Jews count seven of them, then on Sinai God speaks...
The Festival of First Fruits takes five years to evolve
For the first three, there's no touching a tree
In the fourth year, that fruit tree is holy
In the fifth year, in Jerusalem, Israel partakes, finally
What is the reason for these two different faces
God didn't tell us, He left us no traces
But I think there's a lesson: We reap what we sow
~ The longer we anticipate, the more we grow
Wildflowers are uncultivated vegetation.
In forests and towns growing without cultivation.
Like most they are used in home medication.
Dandelions are nutritious and can ease pain's vexation.
Fever few staves off migraine attacks while,
Low immune is boosted by berries and chamomile.
Our bloating and gas is helped by chamomile tea,
While sore throat pain is helped with a bit of honey.
Eucalyptus oil can help make sinus pain moot.
Retaining water and PMS, try some chaste tree fruit.
Send out for a book on natural cures.
Don't poison yourself with drugs bought in stores.
I'm just writing my story
Leaving out all the glory
I never tore them; yet the pages and spine are all but broken
Its letters are scattered, yet still the words form a concise omen
Would you read it back to me slowly, please, as you reach the bitter ending?
It hurts my eyes, you see; this heart could use a break from all this bending.....
Being devoured alive inside is such a epic novel unsavory
Moments, however, are kept in order by thoughts of your light upon my gnomon
They just keep coming, though without a care as to whether or not they are heartrending
It's so sour to own a form of pain that is this condescending
A barren land uncultivated and so divided from this yeoman
Painless by comparison to a nose job given by the grindstone of life's knavery
Just as I finished; then, the ink ran dry right before me.....
It's in this here and now that I've broken out
I wanna scream, but they drown out every shout
Then I think of all the things I ought not talk about:
Have they ever not been a couple minutes too late?
Do they ever have their story straight?
Inside me, hope has made its case to abate....
Hung from ropes unknown, can you relate?
Am I the world's least astute gadabout?
What I feel is that my intentions are drawn and quartered; based fully on others' self-doubt
But there is no way I will let this point of pitiful; be an excuse to live life by copping out
It is not a sliver shame, that I have never felt what it feels like to dance along with the coldest feelings of winter, or holiday away with the warmest summer breezing, or either skate swiftly on the snowfall iced grounds.
I might be called a complicated bush man, for this. But I do not feel less aware intelligently or less creative to life affairs.
Because, I am wise enough to know,that it is the same heavens, that someone on the sea sees, that is the same view someone on land sees also. There might be difference in the atmospheric temperature, but the heavens will always remain a sky and not a scarf or scar.
I am an alien to summer, autumn, winter, spring and definitely a super alien to snow, but I am not an alien to hope, understand and experience, and surely my faith and hope of being in a snowy, summer and winter environment, shall never expire, this I known!
One day, I shall make summer my muffler of inspiration,
autumn, my soulful air of perseverances and continuity to excellence,
While winter, will be my successful coolant, to fluid up the burning inspiration of my unborn books.
Till then,
I shall humbly wait and boldly work on, sincerely to a fashionably attractive endeavour, till I completely erase the uncultivated feelings.
And when I have achieved my crystal dreams of dancing to the summer breeze and clothing myself with snows, then I shall shake the sown feelings off, and start dreaming of visiting the moon.
But Never Forget
Stoned out his lonely mind and drunk on booze and oblivion he headed straight
into memorial abandon doomed and entombed smashed forgotten and lost forever
He once was Jack but his friends called him Daniel or Beam a proper lad walking
the tight rope which snapped under the influence too staggered to walk thus he
took his proud chrome machine home from his drinking hole past the cemetery
Ten drinks too many ten commandments ignored the message of grapevines which
haunt him though he still is too pickled to wake from his coffin nailed in the sand
He turns in his grave deliriously trembling from within crashed skull and bones a
statistic foretold an accident waiting to happen grape wrath wreaths draped over the
anger of the innocent victims of his reckless slaughter in another man’s family’s grief
Buried and berried his final resting place revolves around the plight of his victims
overgrowing vines drape the tormenting obsession with liquor not bearing up to
the promise but a killer instead creepingly depicted through the inscription of
'bastard’ carved in the stone hiding the shame he never absolved nor confronted
His mates do not remember him much and do not visit the funeral grounds as they
are always too drunk and only occasionally toast to how much drink he could stomach
and after a while the rampant sleaze of uncultivated excess sprouts just as untamed
as Jack the lad and his liquefied liquidation of a moribund life lost in the undergrowth
When the dust and the seedy sediment has settled Jack’s mother still mourns what
still festers under the surface and the descendants of the hapless casualty killed in
the process wish for the grape vines to smother to maybe forgive but never forget
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
Along Iran's alluvial fan,
spanned a virgin, untested
train
A scourging blight the tender,
fecund suckers did restrain
A heartier tulip bloomed on
Tunisia's arid plain
A docile wave the royal
Jasmine blight to stain
Transplanted in Egypt; a more
fertile strain
Leaching the arid soil, the
tyrannical oasis did drain
A hybrid sprouted on Libya's
fallow terrain
Fertilized by a torrential,
nitrous rain
To Oman's tepid steppes,
uncultivated varieties shrouded
fenced row and lane
Disparate pods releasing
incendiary seeds seeking an
aggregate gain
In Syria's suburban parks a
mutant variety skirted eminent
domain
With underground cisterns to
water it's hostile mane
In desolate Sudan, a floral
chalice did simulated hope
contain
Anon, pilfering hands it's
potting soil did obtain
Asparagus shoots, tender, and green~ killed
By late winter's artic blast and hoar's frost
All that intensive work, tossed aside, lost
The natural world rode in so skilled
Though maybe there are some shoots like love's thrill
In poor soil, lies quietly hidden tossed
Like an uncultivated field with plow uncrossed
Once worked, planted its destiny fulfilled
Those darkened stems once contained hope
The promise everlasting that slowly faded
One hug, one kiss would be the saving grace
Stir asparagus, send up telescopes
Withered heart~ beat once again unaided
Fern fill the plate and flower vase
Ages have passed in a matter of moments, imputable spells cast by one-eyed
wizards and inapt sages, a garden of thorns has blossomed in a field of stone;
broken is the plow by which the farmer lay, uncultivated are the best of the crop,
but treacherous are the ones effortlessly manipulated; Comatose is the white
light which arrives too late, always choosing to ride a wind that never blows,
Around the picture can be flipped, but even right side up it still might be upside
down; Learning can never be bad but believing you know it all will set you afire
and leave you unaware you are burning
There is something wonderful about two people
who are mentally mated,
They will inspire one another
And put each other on their best behavior.
A human alone can be an uncultivated spirit
And only a fraction of what she or he
Is capable of becoming.
Many accomplished people have been aided by a good companion.
Together, the right two will double their joys and halve their sorrows.
And, hand in hand, they will go forward at a surprising pace.
As they do, they will discover the things they share
Are crafted to their enjoyment.
In this state, a difficulty can take on a new light
And become an opportunity
For one to stand heroically in the vision of the other.
And love grows by bounds!
If, through the years, they continue to be blessed
By the right mental reactions toward one another,
And to the circumstances they encounter,
They will enjoy a seasoned maturity and learn to laugh at life's inefficiencies.
When you relax and laugh, you eliminate tension
And stifle the toxic atmosphere around you.
Each of our species benefits from the right companion.
To love and be loyal to your love is a divine thing.
It is also natural.
I’m lost in a foreign country
But I’ve lived here all my life
Recently I came into money
I bought a tractor and a Bowie knife
Now I’m farming the land, rotating crops
Doing it like the slaves
One of these days,
I might just forget to behave
I don’t get around much anymore
Since I was shot up in the Gulf
But I’ve only got the highest respect for war
It’s the reason I still have a pulse
So I pour cement, do whatever it takes
There’s always county roads to pave
I’m keepin’ busy,
In case I forget to behave
I learned a new kind of love this month
By the unborn moon’s new light
Check out this, it’s my latest stunt
With no net, I created a life!
And I’ll stand guard at the side
of my new little pride
Keep your tortured toy Jesus away
Today, we’re playin’
a game called “Forget to Behave”
Reading the great philosophers
Finding out where truth is at
Between the dream and the disbelief
lies the Cuervo bottle’s missing cap
I played the drunken fool, the uptight mongoloid
the uncultivated man in the cave –
You know, the place they send you
In the event you forget to behave.
2011
She came in, alright
In the still void of the night;
A stillness only raped by the resonance of her loosely fluttering nightie
Mercilessly thrashed by the whistling wind; wintry as it wafts on lightly,
Transmuting the skin sallow
Yet, she came in …Poised, but fallow;
Graceful but uncultivated, like two contrasting auras
Forged into that one chief essence that wriggles the finest floras
Into a verdantly scented existence;
That which enriches mankind’s olfactory empiricism. Hence,
Has my soul been charmed, and shall be spoiled for days.
An anomaly, not for my regal ways-
An imperial blood craving eternal confluence with turbid waters;
I’m a Prince in love with one of the peasant farmer’s daughters.
An unfitting art crafted by Gaea…
But like my soul itched for, she came in…
Elegantly writhing her way to share with me under my bedding
And we danced the night away, aired with Sayer.