Best Wheat Poems
A field of wheat cloaked in dewy silence
the orchestra tunes up with avian arias
bullfrog basses and a choir of cawing crows,
xanthic sunflowers turning their heads to better see,
the daylight trajectory commencing with lazuline layering,
a breeze glissandoes on harps of oak leaves
tomorrow is now today,
and I am grateful.
An officer of the law taps on my door
my breath and heartbeat screech to a sudden stop
preparing for the next-of-kin speech, or
where-were-you-on-the-night-of-the-23rd interrogation,
instead she informs me my car is ten inches in the red
and with a smile suggests I move it before I get a citation
pulse resumes as oxygen reunites with lungs,
and I am grateful.
A mask sitting by the front door; my ticket to commerce
the media replaying riot scenes, lockdown measures,
sporting event cancellations, worship restrictions,
death tolls, closed restaurants, and drive-by graduations.
Yet I am virus-free, housed, gainfully employed,
surrounded by family and electronically socialized,
I have my necessities: I am well-fed, well-loved,
and I am grateful.
written 30 Aug 2020
Blowing Blissfully In Immense Wheat Fields Of Fertile Minds
Upon the soft winds and the unenduring pallid breeze
with its ragged, hot breath a flaming torch of frozen tease
she that keeps her knives ready to cut in so very deep
and poisons the pleasurable hours that tender heart sleeps
her beauty its mirage displays a glitterings of gold
and her spoken words cried by spirit far too damn bold
she that has the magnificent beauty of a siren's face
stole ravenous beating heart, without any to replace
as I drown in deep waters polluted by her foul breath
I feel the lying whisper of a very painful death
as pale sky and bold seas both cast their powers far adrift
and in glory oft Heaven sent, dear blessings that uplift.
Blowing blissfully in immense wheat fields of fertile minds.
Are visions from word magicians, immeasurably stone blind!
Robert J. Lindley, dark sonnet
March 25th, 1973
a saraband
Your tirade comes, it doth commence,
a hundred miles away I sense
your raging, whiny voice so tense.
In restful tones, my evening sigh
doth thank these stars, you’re in L.A.
I shirk my duties ever nigh
and thoughts engage where'er they may.
As I recline, dark quickly falls
and in my dreams, I snub your calls.
Yet when I wake, receding walls
resound your dire return to home.
I sense both hearts long to be free.
Go claim L.A., just let me roam
these miles that winnow thee from me.
effervescent swirling clouds
in turquoise summer skies
float like flocks of fair sheeps
in far away exuberant fields
beneath are cyclopean cypresses
touching celestial bosom
in deep periwinkle and corn flower
whilst wheat fields
are golden fleece
waltzing with the west wind
oh, how can I forget
the paradisiacal poppies
sitting placidly along the wayside
like your eyes glisten
in your pensive mood
unaware of my presence
9 March 2021
Notes:A Wheatfield with Cypresses is any of three similar 1889 oil paintings by Vincent van Gogh, as part of his wheat field series. All were exhibited at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole mental asylum at Saint-Rémy near Arles, France, where Van Gogh was voluntarily a patient from May 1889 to May 1890. The works were inspired by the view from the window at the asylum towards the Alpilles mountains.(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
All Yours (March 22) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Divinely composed,
Conducted by the soft breeze:
Orchestra of grains.
First Placing : Poetry Marathon 2025
Sponsor: Mark Toney
{ FREEDOM “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }
YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT
Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free
your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man, cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death
how you endured those precision needles
wanting to drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets
we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time was now or endless pathos stalking minds
Laurel and Hardy keeping hearts unlocked
on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel
your lips still sucking dripping nipple
freedom moonwalks on a
yellow field of wheat
You are under attack, whether you know it or not
Knowing all you lack, wanting the rest of you to rot
Everywhere you look and in everything you turn to
He is a crook, not about to say he's going to rob you
He is in your own home if you have never told him to leave
There's no place he can't roam in so making others grieve
He's out to steal your very soul, is that so strange to hear
It's much easier to cajole when you don't see things clear
he'll even harden your heart for that is the most important part
Long ago it got its start look at us now we've become so tart
This is not just some game or some race that we may run
This is about our shame being forgiven by God's only Son
he knows all that very well but he doesn't want you to see
he wants you in hell because he doesn't want you to be free
There is only one cure, He's right there hanging on the cross
Our Lord and our Savior, I pity all those who would just toss
And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat:
Luke 22:31
KANSAS WHEAT FARMERS
The sky so still, one summer's afternoon,
as golden seas of wheat filled up the eye,
this was our dream, and harvest time was soon
but then the dark came to a troubled sky.
The clouds rolled in, and thunder filled the air
as winds blowed in the scent of coming rain
whipping our sea of gold from here to there
and ruthlessly tore at each golden grain.
When all at once, the wind died to a still
and sinking hearts, as stones of hail fell on
to where the dream was helpless to the kill
and beaten down--the dream we had was gone.
Then kneeling in our faith--though now in pain,
we pray for strength to try it all again.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Golden wheat planted
amongst lowly grasses
Must learn to withstand
life's stormy weather
(c) Copyright Christine Kysely
(May 13th, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin)
To sing a song charming and sweet
what I need is handful of wheat,
guess who am I
love that blue sky
not in the Twitter still can tweet!
==========================
Placement:9th; (October 2011)
Contest:Cereal Limerick
Sponsor:Irma Linda
The blinking downing sun of August
adorns the very tall stalks of wheat
with his last golden warm sunrays...
as the green kernels bend on stems.
The grasshoppers rest on soft leaves,
awaiting more wafts of cooler breezes;
black ants carry wicks in small droves,
until they reach the fragrant groves.
It's two months before harvest time,
the eyes of the farmer show no dire;
he can't wait for the kernels to ripen,
in mid October he will know his gain.
Delve in his mind, his thankfulness
is gratitude for a year well-earned;
sweat has paid off with huge profits,
the wheat field is a frontier of gold.
Running fingertips
through tall sharp wheat, at peace alone
here, life's my indulgence.
01/02/15
In fields of golden crisp wheat I run.
I go there each and every morning to draw closer to my Lord.
To feel the husks ever so soft rubbing up against my skin I run.
Gleefully I run as a happy young colt set free from her stable.
Galloping through hundreds of rows of silken wheat.
And I spin around in circles and look up to the majestic blue skies too.
Everything around me is your essence.
The skies reflect your warm eyes.
The rows of golden wheat represent your heart.
Wheat is the mainstay of your smile.
Tender and sweet.
Ever so inviting.
Light and refreshing.
Without your smile my day would not be complete.
Running through golden fields of wheat.
gwendolen rix
1-29-15
Psalm 145:2-4
2 Every day I will bless You, And I will praise Your name forever and ever. 3 Great is the LORD, and highly to be praised, And His greatness is unsearchable. 4 One generation shall praise Your works to another, And shall declare Your mighty acts.
The first person who grew wheat
would have been called “wheat”
and hence the local chieftain and village folks
would have given a nomenclature
to his discovery,
honoring it with his name
it would have been his name
or something rhyming with it
like “cheat”, “heat” or “eat”
or perhaps “treat”
there was probably someone called “gehu”
in India, who grew this grain
and there is a resembling treatise of words
“gay hun” (I am gay) proclaiming sexual choice
giving it a contemporary feel
of an alternative orientation
were they different people who grew it
at the same time, in the different parts of the world?
was it really Mr. Wheat
Or el trigo, blé or weizen
Spanish, French or German
was the wandering original Mr. Wheat
or cheat or heat or the Russian pshenitsy
who propagated this and we missed his chronicles?
and we missed his chronicle of travels
and basic grassroots experiences
of the genesis of rotis and cakes
of flavor stimulants, of bakes
and of the grass of wheat
for a figure conscious succulent lass
wheat and all its ontology
and the first one’s ecstasy
whosoever it was
had a higher calling
than the current day diminution
There are fields of gold
In which wheat is found produced
Walking you find the new crop
Deep yellow throughout
Field has food that creates bread
Enhanced rows of pure delight
Russell Sivey