Many,many a years ago;
Along the oceans billow
In an admixed susurrance blow
And unraveling the twilight shadow
A lone valiant bard lies-
Been there till the sand dries
And listened by the ocean's cries-
And slept by the shore of ocean's eyes
Many,many a years before;
By the time of tulips hoar
I heard a lutenist lore
To whom he played for
A lady called Anabel-
To whom his heart fell
To a lady named Anabel-
Yet far he couldn't tell
Many,many a bygone days;
On a day of summers haze
And the glistening twilight blaze
A maiden danced upon a rolling hays
Lulls and she lulls with a gilded lyre
O' her eyes of brilliant sapphire
Lo thither a flame or a fire
To be fair and be fairer; her attire
Many,many a time agone;
He sang a dirge all alone
To her,those mournful tone
Wilt the corsage once she own
And he sang a dirge at bleary noon
Smelt the freesia,whitish as moon
Quoth he,'await me I'll come soon
await me I'll come soon'
put me in a jar and leave me for days
I do not care if there is food or water
But a light is important said Molly Hays
There must be a stack of books
and a light for reading in the dark.
It could be rather fun, a kind of reader’s lark.
On Sky shielded palm,
When sun couldn't make rain calm...
Nothing remains so.
At Moon subtle cheek,
When stars wouldn't look that weak,
Nothing remains so.
Over running days...
When strength couldn't make nice hays,
Nothing so remains.
Behind crawling nights...
When nerves wouldn't silent frights,
Nothing so remains.
Around oily shrine...
When deities couldn't dare dine,
So remains nothing.
Far burnt sacrifice-
Baal failed; Elijah suffice,
So remains nothing.
Like ...
Light, In the silence of an empty night
Shines nothing, finds no fault or expose shrines...
Rather enhance fear to ignite lone fright,
Far away ever experienced designs.
Its rays can't burn waiting sacrifices;
Neither could its whisper silent dark sky.
The farmer made
Wooden pitchfork
Lift lot of hays.
We are old MacDonald’s great-grandchildren
who help him in his fields during weekends,
We gather chopped hays and feed his chicken,
then watch him works with his farmers and friends.
We love working in the fields together,
We ride ponies and horses…we’re cowgirls!
We greet his hardworking farmworkers who’re there
while they cut rice straws with their sharp sickles.
Our grandfather owns large hectares of land,
Ranging from the foot of the blue mountain
to the spot where we, three sisters stand;
Tour around freely! Ride in his land train!
Beyond grandpa’s rice fields are big orchards,
And behind are gardens with vegetables
where we’ll immensely enjoy afterwards;
Healthy foods will be on our long tables!
Our grandpa is so happy to have us,
He says, “ With triplets grandkids, life’s so nice!”
So, when we go back to school he gives cash,
buys new dress, pair of boots and hair bowties.
If only I could pull the time each day
I’d rather stretch, drag or expand in anyway
Then, I can be more productive than I thought
I can even start or finish my tomorrow’s work.
If only I could pull the days each week
Home and school work done, my joy at its peak
I can render much time to all my sweethearts-
Like loved ones, friends, music, poetry and arts.
Yes, that’s if and only if I could do these two
But time and days slip too fast, there’s nothing I can do
I’ll just value each tick of the clock to the best I can
Let each moment gauge my worth and strength as a woman.
But If only I could transform into a fairy or magician
I’ll cast my wand to lay instantly my day’s accomplished plans
Like an abrupt rise of stocked hays in a farm or barn
For everyone to play, roll and enjoy as we run around.
April 20, 2023 13.31pm
This or That, Vol 17 Poetry Contest
By Edward Ibeh
clouds as fluffy as the whistling bliss
encircling in the sky, eyes fonder and kiss
abaft the hidden pillows of lace
brightness over hays above Thy grace
Oh, emeralds of days
Life is the stages on bedded roses
Loving you becoming lights side
Of my hills lovely shines
In ticks of love ,clock remains as our veil
Roses are blooming to be guest's gender
Once my mind wandering to daub you,
And compile crannies in your core
Bow and show it to my world
Please should I be your cinnamon?
O' dear cowslip of my scents
I hope to soothe you a day and two
For when fluids diffusion; in shadows we mingles and knocks many!
'Tis together we share pleasantries
Your love should never flee away from I:
And I vow'd to water your hays
Hurrah!I named you my "my lovely pigeon"
You can make me your leather ball,
Play me where you like
But I know I will come back to you
Someday,
Cos' you definitely need me again
To make another bounce,
but then I might be filled
with wears 'n' tears of this game
And I might not be able to bounce
So breath in me your air
Your California is still green
Lets I become a sudden rain dropping
On an old California
And your field as hays
By Gideon Idudje
Green dragon with your gnarly ways
Eating asparagus all your days
Biting harsh straws within your hays
Writing your Shakespearean plays
Ice cold snow cone has turned you blue.
Wrens in your ears cheering you and me too
Sweet of them not to make us shoo
Dragon your loyalty to me is true.
Green dragon of the ice and snow,
With your extra-terrestrial happy glow,
Poet of my heart, as you know
Do take to the skies. Now please safe go.
A Cowboy never says goodbye,
it’s not in his nature
A Cowboy never says goodbye,
the prairie his teacher
A Cowboy never says goodbye,
the wind his closest friend
A Cowboy never says goodbye
—his heart to only lend
(Hays City Kansas: August, 2019)
His skin like the patina of worn out leather,
burnt and cracked from many hours in the sun.
Across the wide plains in the hot Texas weather,
he rode tall in the saddle to get the job done.
North to Kansas City on this last cattle drive;
then back down to Fort Worth he hoped to survive.
Weary and tired from his night spent under the stars,
as he pushes the dogies along the Chisolm Trail;
across the dusty open range, pristine with no scars,
unlike the plains today, fenced and crowded and frail.
On his last cattle drive for the Goodnight Ranch,
heading up north across the Red River branch.
This proud crusty cowboy, way back in the day,
rode with Jack Hays at the Battle of Plum Creek,
when Buffalo Hump’s Comanches went down in dismay,
now just an old timer, tired and grey and weak.
This last cattle drive before his spurs are hung,
this cowboy’s patina, the legend of which songs are sung.
June 29, 2018
Empty eyes,
tired of teardrops...
They croon of ages long gone
when chaotic deeds were done...
Empty skies...
deprived of dewdrops...
they cry of seasons unknown
when chaotic seeds were sown.
Empty arms,
waiting for warm embrace,
pressed against drenched pillows
they beat against besetting billows.
Empty charm,
once garnished with grace,
She lost her bliss and royal ray...
hanging with hays keep beauty at bay.
When I strike the strings and music flows
Words drizzle while standing in meadows
Nobody around, but I hear the crowd
Hays bang their heads, bow and cheer aloud
A Rock-star, I feel, within again
Here, nobody lies and none to feign
Telling stories of life through my song
So, come on dears! Let's bang-bang and bong
10.02.2017
He is the Lion of the tribe of his home;
his arrival makes everyone run and roam...
Tantrum and torments are the daily bread
with which he feed his family as the wicked head.
To his wailing wife, he is a bad bed-sinner;
his children dread him as the belt-winner.
Daddy's palour-seat is the throne of thraldom...
and his presence is the beginning of boredom.
Making financial request earns a death sentence...
everyone preen in the pomp of pure pretence.
Ask and he shall grumble, knock and get a slap...
even mom dare not take a quick afternnon nap.
Daddy is the commander in chief of the harm-forces;
the children's wrongs attract grave choices...
If you escape being detained for days;
you may have to feast on nothing but hays.
Horrible husbands have a spare tyre outside
who often feel they are better than his bride.
A tiger cannot change his soul and skin!
The fire of wickedness burns without within.
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