Fallowed Poems | Examples

Upsets and Underdogs

Kiwi Cricket's Shangri La...


"Can still hear the deafening din of the Indian crowd chagrin.

Stunned shell shocked silence at mandarins' sins.

Yet somehow still so loud

Like thunder down under in the proud

Land of the long white cloud.

Daring to dream of derring do plunder.

Upsets’ unctuous umami.

Shocks’ sumptuous serendipity.

Cast asunder as against the odds.

Hallowed Gods' anguished..felled & fallowed.

Kiwis vanquished the voodoo of Indian home hoodoo.

This purple patch, so perversely plush...got a hunch.

Would make even Prince blush, proud as ribena punch.

Sporting nirvanas cavorting with crepuscular career nadirs.

Can’t pillory this Test expedition, like the Everest conquest & Hillary.

Black cap sedition…Indian perdition.

Tradition debunked by spunky funk.

Not once, not twice but thrice.

Teeming..awash with gleaming beaming white.

Emancipation...damnation & salvation.

The Indian’s cardinal sin…not being able to play spin.

No way you can naysay.. just 

Another Bill Murray Groundhog day.

As we learned..the underdog winner.. we yearned had turned.

Fat cats burned & stats spurned..into a dog's dinner."

F Words

A bird feeder full, hung from fallowed fronds

The apparition of this swarm of finches feeding: Felicity in flight





(All glory to Ezra Pound)

The Poems I Never Wrote

I didn't pen the words,
I didn't script the lines, 
To extol her virtues,
To praise her perseverance.

They lay in my chamber,
Fallowed in my hind part,
I was naive with words,
Stagnant with its fluidity.

She stood tall like a bamboo,
Unruffled by life's vicissitudes,
Unperturbed by its tempest,
Unscathed by its inferno.

She pushed back the tide,
Meandered the clouded pathway,
She wrestled the assailants,  
Freed from midnight's grasp.

Time after time she prevailed,
Until she took a bow,
It was time for her to leave the stage,
Pull together the curtains.




October 7, 2022.

Travel

Snowflaked angels falling lightly
In darkness of the evening stir	
As I fallowed footsteps queerly
On old-fashioned horse with spur  
  
To travel where others have been
Places where others have verified
I passed by the sleeping village
And fields frozen near by

Watched thatched roofs full of snow
Where other travelers sleeping lie
Then I rode the trodden path
Through the forest of antient blight

Into a meadow of angel buds
Blossoms of bright yellow groom
Wind stoked petals bright 
Near a brook cheery and cool  

I let the horse graze the land
I laid my head on soft ground
Hopping the brook will tell me
Where and why I came around

Parade of Silver Roses

"You will come to the grave in full vigor, Like the stacking of grain in its season.
               — Job 5:26

Abraham breathed his last and died in a ripe old age, an old man and satisfied with life; and he was gathered to his people.
                — Genesis 25:8

PARADE OF SILVER ROSES

Ripened with wrinkles and jowls of joy,
why cry over fallowed days, 
when the brightness of youth
squeezes you tighter than foremost days.

Giggling, kicking at the mound of enjoyment,
the parade of silver roses laid at the grave —
that’s how the whippersnappers see you,
those tug-a-war children that hound at the heel
of your beloved grands of glockenspiel.

Supercilious satisfaction as you tether your cane
to tenderness and affection, aggressively pointing
only at those crooks who choose to lambast insane,
ruin your days and keep at arm's length the babes.

Silver in your hair, spun by hands with stigmata holes,
and you’ll breathe your last and first breath all the same.
With seasoned wheat, such golden beauty,
ecstatic at heaven’s attraction, standing in frame.

3/9/2020

The Silent Pitch and Sportsmanship

It is not a conversation you overhear,
Like the questions rolling underfoot,
"Who goes there?".
You can see the grass has told
How tall to grow
To the chicory, dandelions and clover.
At the edge of the pitch
Where competition is stiff,
They grow bigger, taller and bolder;
Yet in each new match, every plant,
Agrees to a height and no taller.

Till in the next field over, where it's wild and fallowed,
It's to the death, all bets are off, and no foul.



2,21,2020

Luck Is a Girl's Best Friend

In the stark semi-private
Shared by rotating hip replacements
Her bed was along the far wall
Boasting a south facing window
With a view of a fallowed field
And the phases of the moon whose light
Set the specks of windshield
Embedded in the helmet
On her bedside table
To sparkle like diamonds




9/12/2019

Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Ironic Zink

Rooted Within

Carrying them with me,
   traveling through time

Words seed my memory,
   new meter and rhyme

Spreading them freely,
   over days fallowed thin

New verses sprout upward
    —rooted within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

The Final Harvest

Those drunken nights and barroom fights
  now seed my fallowed ground

Where women spurned and lovers churned
  rule memory’s lost and found

Those wasted days and sleepless years
  like wine have aged within

Fermenting each unwritten page
  —reharvesting my sins

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

Rooted Within

Carrying them with me
   traveling through time

The words seed my memory
   new meter and rhyme

Spreading them freely
  over days fallowed thin

New feelings sprout upward
   —rooted within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: February, 2016)

What Burns Within

Spiritual injection,
soul to the bone marrow gene therapy
Regeneration revived me,
when grace was bestowed abundantly
Dipped my soul in the water,
emerged with a spark of godly desire
I wanted to be holy ...
be elevated higher
I felt the fire
as it began to burn within
The flames of purification
burned away all my sins
And the fire kept burning within
Melted away my stony heart,
reshaped it into a new spiritual organ
More generous,
more compassionate
More empathy,
more circumspect
What now burns within,
grows more intense everyday
My old desires all burning away
Embers of the past cremated into ash;
buried under the tree,
next to the leaves of all my ill-gotten cash
Resurrected bones born in the fire ---
I walk by faith on the water of troubles,
every blessing from above now doubled
What burns within ...
is a gift from the Everlasting Almighty
What burns within ...
birthed a new spirit that guides me rightly
What burns within ...
cleared away all my doubt and pain
What burns within ...
fallowed my soul to be born again

Avariciously She Wanted To Be a Poetess

Two Poems



Avariciously she wanted to be a poetess

Cryptic colloquial eloquent words possessed

Often elusive eschewed from the theme

Limericks and rhymes avoiding etymology means

She an emissary of exonerated poetry banned

Refused extrication to facilitate an easy read

Hoped the fallowed grounds would lead the thieves

Foolhardily challenged the spies of poetry

Used furtive and feasible ingenious loquacious words

For the myopic poet seeing past opaque platitudes

A potentate poetess unconstrained by rules

Made a prudent decision of quiescent raconteur

 

The timorous young woman without any means

Observed scant observations of her apparent world

A sense of rectitude despite the rancid rooms

Holding profoundly laud regarding the state of penury

Perhaps, she myopic to any morose situations

A genius idiosyncrasy to others observations

Reading her books extraneous to any interpretations

Choosing eruditions to edify accusing disdains

Definitively making her way, condoning opinions

The cantankerous say.

Escaping reality with ambivalent

Articulate assents by way of academic astute ebullience

Pale Sleep Awakens In Fallowed Dreams

Pale sleep awakens.
Another light scorns the earth 
as crooked fingers lash down,
their jagged streaks slashed by 
nagging pall puffs, shattered 
by lofty white swirls.

Breath drawn in- then out,
burying itself in rusted, fallowed 
dreams and nettled streams of 
daylight bleeding through 
slatted blinds.

Humming drones of life
whine along bustling streets.
Sphinxian machinery grinds 
stone to dust, settling somewhere, 
lost in a terra incognita- finding homes 
in pink blushed skies, and seaports where 
the smell of fish and oil hover over wharfs.

Market flowers wag brilliant heads, 
seeking homes. Songbirds scold, 
haggling over baptism in shallow basins.
Dead leaves rattle on pavement, 
scratching destinies, left to southern winds.
The sun tips its hat to the moon,
and slides to an end...to begin again.

Where Witches Roam

Wicked winds and wandering mists,
Moonlit hours and secret trysts,
Spells and charms; unhallowed loam,
Stealthy do the witches roam.

Boiling cauldrons, smoke and fire,
Fallowed fields, dearth and dire,
Ungodly grants that demons give—
O’ thou must suffer not a witch to live.

Just Then

..just then 
 
It was just there, a few weeks ago, 
When the Sun was high; 
Nestled with Fleabane; 
Pillowed in Stitchwort. 
 
Barely fern-like and feathery, just new, 
A small Astilbe, from somewhere. 
 
Growing was newer, just then, 
Hinting boundlessness, endlessness; 
Stirring  in Bindweed; 
Rising in Buttercups. 
 
This slanting-orange morning, just now,  
Spade in hand to save the Astilbe, I find it gone; 
Taken by Redroot, 
Fallowed by Sorrel. 
 
Barely reddish, silent, nubile green, just new, 
The small Astilbe from somewhere, now gone! 
 
I guess it was a moment’s treasure, just then. 
Like oblique light upon the wood, just now. 
Or parched Cocklebur, 
Or withered Hop.

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