Best Village Poems
They are walking! Walking, walking, walking!
Long stretches of walk - hundreds of miles of impossible uncertainty,
in blazing sun, in sweltering, muggy, heat - running away from an Inferno.
Home, sweet home! Villages with shady trees!
Destination!
Thirst, hunger, bleeding.
They trudge, fatigued babies hanging on their shoulders like sandbags,
starving infants clutching hands, tears dry on their cheeks.
Men and women - walk, walk, walk!
Leave cities where cruelty is the only language,
Villages with shady trees -
Home, sweet home, far away.
Burning sun, sweating bodies, dry throat, growling tummies.
Slog beside railroads - follow tracks,
no trains, no buses, no trucks, no vehicles,
only two weary feet to carry them to their destination,
plodding with all their might until the body can not move a step further.
Lie on the tracks - it’s hard, it’s cold, it’s comforting!
Come rest, come sleep, come death -
Blood-stained tracks-
Destination never came.
Beneath embered brands of burning roof,
The firefighter waits.
His mask is on; he’s donned his gloves,
Ready to enter the fiery state.
Once again to battle beast,
Whose heart burns with flaming hate.
On hands and knees he treads with care
Over blackened brittle floor.
Making way through smoke dark rooms
Fighting fear from door to door.
Outstretched arms reach for muffled screams
Heard above the deafening roar.
Hoping to find before too late,
The source of curdling screams.
A scenario played all too oft
Within the hero’s dreams.
The task at hand his only thought
And the safety of his team.
Crying, scared a young child waits
For rescue from choking heat.
Then through the blackness something tugs
And pulls his trembling feet.
A Vadered voice says “it’s OK”
And hugs him to the street.
The fire alone remains to beat;
And return to fight he goes.
To find the beast alive and well;
Destroying, as it grows.
He aims his weapon at the seat
And from it water flows.
The devil dies as fire gives in
To the water’s cooling spray.
The house is gone; but at least,
No lives were lost today.
So back he jumps on bright red truck,
And into night he rides away.
In quiet contemplation,
The firefighter stares.
Holding back a hundred thoughts
That known might seem him scared.
But he pushes fear aside,
And treads where others do not dare!
Let me tell you a story....
of a little girl who didn't want to be a Princess!!!!
it happened a long time ago, in the life of an adorable girl of seven,
who lived in the busiest humming city, enormously crowded.
a gentle dreamy-eyed girl, who chose secret corners to read,
and play with her cherished dolls' house, which her father built.
as it happened..her father found a job..and it was an idyllic countryside,
excitedly she followed family, felt fortunate to be close to nature.
a fairyland of her dreams, a picturesque hamlet surrounded by lush fields,
lived in a cottage encircled by a gorgeous garden, bird-songs, and swings.
she went to the village-school, which was a mere walking distance,
carrying her backpack, water bottle, and books she needed.
her father was the powerful manager of the local textile mill,
where most of the villagers worked, and earned their living.
all the children glanced at her as if she were a Princess,
but this soft dainty lass craved to be purely one of them.
she noticed...those children were walking barefoot to school,
no backpack, no bottle of water, no shiny expensive clothes.
end of the day, she returned home, and declared to her caring parents,
"I don't need the backpack, bottle for water, or the stylish shoes...
starting from tomorrow, I am going to walk to school barefoot"
her parents were shocked, but didn't disagree with her at all.
from the following day, the warm friendly girl of seven,
felt totally comfortable and undoubtedly right, with her decision.
all children were frolicking with her, no more was she a distant Princess,
she was their delightful friend...sharing the same life they had in the village.
she still remembers those eyes which sparkled with wonder at the way they were accepted,
a lifelong memory was created, the gesture kindled a feeling of oneness.
April 16, 2022
For N - Form Narrative - New - Poetry Contest
Theme:Life
Sponsor: Constance La France
SECOND PLACE
The Village of Hardine
The Village of the Windmill
I may do things the old way
Milling grain with windmill dreams
Slowly, that's how we caress our desires
While the windmill turns
My ears listen to the birds that sing
My village is quiet now
Love letters left here long ago
So I mill my grain, as wildflowers grow
Softly I dance inside my head
Wishing my lover, she was not dead
Habibte, my memories are for only you
I sell my grain, and pay my dues
Within my heart, is only, only you
Droughts and war, habibte our love stronger still
Holding you, now a silly illusion
Back then so soft and so true
Our love
Torn from our grasp
Dream of me habibte
I know you are high above
Dream of me
Soon I will hold your angel wings
No wars or evils shall keep us apart
I mill my grain on this dreary day
Knowing soon, we shall both fly up and away
Love has escaped us here on earth
The seventh day I sit by your grave
I sing you songs as you did to me
Oh habibte, let death bring me to thee
I sigh each time at your vision of splendor
Let Kassab make us this miracle
Love has patience, habibte
Wait for me
As I wait for you
Kisses forever, boukra
There’s a small village not so far away
anyone who hears it dreams to be there,
Its beauty lures like white fairies at bay-
their billowy gowns prettily unfurl;
As its homes sprout as mushrooms of winter,
scooped by mountains like petals of flower.
When we ride to ascend its spiral road,
curtains of snowflakes are crystals in view
Winter wonderland is right there, behold!
At the swinging bridge over river-snow,
when you frolic around, feels no adieu
Lulls notes of perfection, not made askew.
Night comes around, nocturnal critters sound
to keep its eternal fascination
While animals scamper on thick snow ground
lit by tiny lamps on trees, let’s sojourn
to embrace the glorious celebration-
Winter Wonderland’s Yuletide Season.
Takayama is Winter Wonderland,
Not so far away, it’s found in Japan.
Dec. 30, 2018 10.50am
A try of Urban sonnet in 10syllables
ABABBB- CDCDDD- EFEFFF-GG
A poem in remembrance on one of the cities I visited last March 4-7, 2018 in Japan.
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.
She well knew his place of abode,
And swirled inside, a vengeful tornado,
A celestial radiance had encompassed their love,
And then he disappeared on Christmas Eve,
Without a word!
Her heart had turned to stone, her eyes
Flashed around for something to write with,
Nothing, so cut her finger deeply
Her blood flowed freely
As would, a wounded bird.
Wrote on the wall in blood,
That all his future loves, would leave
Him with a broken heart, at Love’s Station
Of Departure, for she, Hypnotic Poison vowed
That he alike be cursed.
He had mesmerized and betrayed her,
His heartless, unfeeling, selfish soul,
On a windy, stormy Christmas Eve turned
Her heart to stone and blood to poison,
That is what the village said,
And what I heard!
This poem is pure fiction and the title of the poem is of a perfume. The story is in actual fact the ending of some horror movie, whilst browsing through Netflix to find a movie we wanted to see.
Heavily laden boats, rectangular sails billowing
Under seas of low cloud, braving the fierce Yangtze;
Held between snowcapped mountains, earth and sky
Indistinguishable from steaming mist and rolling fog;
A long drawn straggle of Grey Geese plummeting down
From breathless, rarefied air to stumble awkwardly onto
Plum coloured mudbanks; an unrestrained, excitable
Cacophony of frenzied honking! Then wild monkeys
Provoked into howling each side of the river.
There, at the juncture with Longjin Brook, stilted homes,
Half-hidden by bamboo groves, crouch at the waters
Edge; maidens will come to wash clothes
Whirling wooden batons, twittering like golden swallows;
Fragrant wildflowers enhance their sweetness.
At drab, pale, first-morning light, fishermen cast
Nets over the cooling, placid blue waters;
The fish that swim here are said to be the finest
In the province.
We will exchange Black Carp and Blunt-Snout Bream,
Wrapped in moist bamboo leaf, for glutinous rice
With the clans that tend the terraces inside the fertile
River valley...
Does not the Emperor insist upon good commerce?
If you are dissatisfied as a peasant
You can take the ancient "old tea horse road"
And burden your back with heavy bales stacked high
On a rail;
The road will take you all the way from Zigui
To Tibet...or even further perhaps,
And sombre ravens will soar overhead and taunt your
Every footstep.
But I will remain where I am, in the
Village On The Water
Nestled deep within the Three Gorges;
My life, the endless horizon stretched beyond,
Held in balance as if it were Shaseng
The Shadow Play Stone;
And each new morning awakening to slow,
Chiming bells.
Gradually the crystalizing dawn -- more hardened
Than folded steel --- more sharper than
The blade that cuts!
Wisps of thin vapour, once loitering insidiously
At the steps of each staunch door,
Swirling away -- seemingly almost alive!
Coiling and uncoiling. Has all the litheness of a
Dancing girls weightless silken ribbon.
Until, retreating back, high, into some lofty,
Inaccessible mountain...
Dissipates as if just abandoned dragons breath.
The trees and streams are no longer so solemn.
Circling over the temple, above the brittle lands
Frosted chill, red-beaked choughs noisily engaged
In agitated clattering...
But now the temple bells are commanding those
Monks to prayer.
The blind and withered monk, who sits alone
In his unassuming corner, reminds us:-
"An emperor who abuses his power unsettles the
Equilibrium of the whole nation, the workings of
Nature,
And the livelihood of all people;
His responsibility is to maintain harmony in
Himself and the empire...
By acting in accordance with Confucian principles".
It is for them to contemplate what we cannot
Comprehend:-
We are peasants and it is not expected of us
To understand such wise things; nor should we.
We understand the fish and their ways, and the
Ways of the Blue River...
Just as monks understand our gracious lord Buddha.
Rouses the sun. Slowly lifts an enormous sky.
Glistening hoarfrost spun from bramble to
Bush -- strung from bough to branch like
Giant spider web;
Stiffened grasses that so pleasingly crunch
Underfoot;
And from these grasses, droplets of moisture
Ready to be released like slow weeping tears;
They will join with and sweeten the vibrant
Spring waters -- clearer than quartz --
That stream in tripping rivulets over yellow rocks
To splash from shallow cup to pouring pool...
Once you have tasted these waters you would
Have little more need of wine.
Wine is for idle men, or for our warring masters
To drink when celebrating great victory;
What use have we of intoxicating wine?
It is better kept as an offering...
Lest the river Gods grow angry and
Spoil our catch.
To Quick To Speak To Dumb To Hear
When my hollow present blows
The dying embers in the heart grate
A fond childish Cinders glows up
The frozen black memory melts past colours,
A sparkle of rainbow recollections,
As I walk up on our trodden pavement
I saw a slash of sea between houses
Thy red dress like a bright red boat
Sink in golden sand, blue fishing nets
Brown fort walls, green lichen beach,
My soul speaks, my lips moves
A frequency of meetings, a wave of hugs
As I net to catch these moments
Like A street urchin’s yellow fists
Holding the rainbow in his tiny grasp
Central Village, ah bitter-sweet your love
The golden sunset above
The black smoke of sugarcane burning
And the boy on Twickenham's mead yearning
Sometimes again like flocks of birds in flight
Across the evening sky
Memory comes winging at the edge of night
And old men only sigh
For all life treasures seem in the past, gone
And every new dawn
Is empty, but of the world's weariness. My pearl,
My diamond in the rough was she
The troubled, bright eye, beautiful girl
I did not know joy she brought to me
Despite your violent lanes, broken fences
You showed me life without gilt and pretenses
There is a beautiful little village
Down a long rainbow coloured country lane
Known to only a few
Where collective colourful characters reign
The residents of Rainbow Village
Are a creative colourful bunch
Who meet every week religiously
At the local Village Inn for Sunday lunch
Mr Red is the local policeman
He is driven and a natural born leader
Decisive, firm but fair
Authoritative while following police procedure
Policeman Red married Miss White
The villages well loved librarian
An independent calm gentle soul
A compassionate revered humanitarian
Together they have a daughter
A little girl called Pink who is ten years old
A playful ,sensitive, loving child
Adventurous and bold
Dr Brown is the villages doctor
A warm natured, comforting, reliable man
Who is married to Dr Blue the local veterinarian
A kind ,caring dependable bloke who will help anyone he can
Miss Purple is the towns local artist
Beautiful, talented and unique
Unbelievably imaginative and creative
Her colourful creativity is displayed on every cobbled street
Mr Green is Rainbow Villages resident gardener
A young man totally at one with nature and harmony
The village is abound with happy, bright colourful flora
As far as the eye can see
Mr & Mrs Orange are both school teachers
Both are optimistic, enthusiastic and love to teach
Energetic ,cheerful and passionate
Learning and education never far from their minds reach
Mr Grey , l should say Mayor Grey
Has the village and residents best interest at heart
Always calm, composed and diplomatic
Supporting locals with their creativity, colour and art
Miss Yellow runs the village general store
A lovely outgoing lady with a heart of gold
Always trying to accomodate all the residents wants and needs
Her produce is quality so be quick or it will be sold!
Mr Black is the publican of the Rainbow Inn
An intriguing powerful fellow
A somewhat mysterious man
Who is secretly and hopelessly in love with Miss Yellow
Rainbow Village is a wonderful place to reside
Full of incredible interesting and varied folk
Not always do they see eye to eye
Yet come Sunday all gather and unite over lunch and a joke
Nor ahead of
Nor behind the times ~
The bell-tower floats her chimes
It Takes A Whole Village to Raise a Child: The Farmer
It has been said that it takes a whole village
To raise a child; How does a farmer help
Families raise the children?
Farmers live near the village; and together,
Everyone helps raise the children.
How do they help?
The farmers near the village grow food to sell.
They plant, tend, and harvest vegetable crops.
Veggies: lettuce, beets, cucumber, and tomatoes
Collard greens, cabbage, onions, and potatoes
Green beans, artichoke, peanuts, the list and work
Goes on and on and on—
Farmers hire many workers to harvest their many crops.
Products are then, sold and sent to many vendors.
Although there are still some independent farmers,
Some farmers, like those in olden days, grow on rural farms.
Families, men, women, and children working together,
Using hoes, beasts of burden and hand plows to work the soil.
Children helping along side watching adult examples—
However, these days, big agriculture businesses own farms.
They use huge machinery to operate their many acres.
Food producing farms: planting and harvesting to feed masses.
Their products, like smaller independent farmers’ products,
Are sent to markets in their homelands and abroad.
In the process of providing food and cotton for people,
Agriculture businesses and farmers alike set examples.
Good or bad, the children watch wide eyed
And ears perked!