Long Corn Poems
Long Corn Poems. Below are the most popular long Corn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corn poems by poem length and keyword.
Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl,
Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step,
To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face,
All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea.
By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds,
To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower,
Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows,
Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again.
Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains,
Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do.
Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you,
Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love.
Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time,
Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated,
Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now,
Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life.
Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day,
Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence,
Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments,
Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you.
So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts,
And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze,
Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared,
Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.
1. THE STORM
COPYRIGHT-POETESS-ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
The storm - from where, it comes
Why - comes, it ? Where, it goes ?
When - it came first ?
Forever it goes and comes
Has it any good effect ? Who knows ?
Destroy ! Just destroy ! Just- ! Must !
The nature becomes calm -
All know - it is the before stage of storm !
Oh! Fear ! The nest thinks - on the tree palm !
The storm has no own form ;
Yet - it has very strong action !
Which can break the mother's emotion !
Lives become hopeless by it !
Forever It can stop the heart beat !
Branches never come back as alive !
The buds and baby-birds never come back !
But the storm returns again and again ...!
Bee-eggs never come back -
But after storm - again bees build the hive !
Though trees feel pain -
Yet - branches , buds come back again !
The new branches , buds , baby-birds , eggs -
Take place on the empty places -
The new nests become happy again !
Cont’d
But no kindness of the storm's invisible legs ,
These always break the sweet dreams !
For these bad works - the storm feels the happiness !
To the storm - who blesses ? ! -
Try - in minds - for own love placings !
Oh ! The storm ! What do you mean ? ! -
Now - find and think about blessings !
Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! - - -
Be the well wisher of the nature ! Please !
Not destroys - creations are the lives - keys !
In front good works - down your knees !
Know - follow - who is your creator ? Who is ---
2. AN AIRY AFTERNOON
COPYRIGHT-POETESS- ANJALI DENANDI,MOM
In an airy afternoon-
I float by my little boat, on river-
Smiles, on sky, the silent moon-
I gift it my loving-look, from very far!
Waves touch my feet, which are naked;
These waves are too busy-
These never come back!
Some very little children, they are naked,
They enjoy around my boat, I see and see---
And eat pop-corn from my jute's sack;
Fishes are seen sometimes on open air-
Again hide in deep water;
My white sail- is in joy of freedom!
I reach very far from my little home!
My pets, my dog and my talking parrot,
Freely walk on my happy boat;
I call,"Hey! Children! Come here!
Yes! Please! Stand on my side;"
They do, like my speech!
Then go and on a big horse, they ride!
Which stands on bank, without speech!
I reached into the depth...
But could not withdraw Excalibur from the stone.
Yet I knew I was the one.
Why else my 'Grail Vision' in the sun?
The depths call me to reach further still.
And Mary's eyes bled.
Realizing for whom the tear's shed.
I know not what to do.
Vainity reaching to withdraw from the glue.
I stare blindly in the distance a 'bust' of my former self.
Passing the secret of excalibur being drawn by someone else.
And passing by the oracle of Ephesus, Medusa's eyes
She drew the sword stone in deep catching my contemplations of the mirror.
I could loose myself in her forever.
Secret Sweets. Stained Sheets. and shaking cold she wraps me in the golden fleece.
Covered in snakes, I melt into the secret skin.
Learning the name, I see my fathers before me distrought.
And see now the blindness of the Kingdom Oedipus wrought.
Sophoclese Tragedies and I am forever Oedipus.
Betrayed blessin' between whorish thighs and my camarades' lies.
Where is Helena these days?
Gone so long, I've forgotten her ways.
That's the trick-she sucks in your depth.
I am Horus, my seeds sewn in the west.
Innana's dead. I broke my maiden-named womb.
Long ago I allocated multiversic kingdoms for Osiris' perversion tombs.
And in the mysteries of deep misery.
I have witnessed my seed coming of age.
To lay thoughts like these out on a page.
Christ, Annubis, and I planned this on a street in Greece, A.D., B.C. I can't remember which.
I bare down frost-bitten from the North.
And my Christ of peace bore symbols from the East.
Our dog-eared down-home friend brought simpler lessons from an outdated South.
And we witnessed our births spread out over time.
Three wise men we were singing dark-hearted songs of a blackened Madonna we couldn't find.
So we relinquished ourselves to Daddy Darkest who knew best.
Redistributed seeds, we pushed ourselves to a static line beyond myth; where men like us no longer needed to exist.
Sweet Virgin, Return
I am old and worn thin.
Now, is your time to begin; A collection of stories your heart has borne, but you lay unblemished.
My daughter lay our bones to rest.
Cook them in your stew.
Reigns handover long overdue, but that's not the style you do.
Don't worry about ole Paw. Jimmy Crack corn.
May you be Princess Disarming Charming laced with meaning...
And I awake sleeping...
Beauty, I next to you.
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
To Eat A Peach
Spring is here.
The delicate tree blossoms replace
the delicate white lights of Winter.
From the petals fruit will grow.
Pears, plums, apricots, cherries,
nectarines...
Peaches.
I set the unripe soft rose and yellow
orb on the windowsill.
Two days later I tenderly lift it
and gently squeeze its warmth before
I wash it.
Biting into it...
the sweet liquid is Ambrosia.
The juice runs down my chin onto
my tee.
I greedily suck the peach’s flesh dry.
I daydream as I munch.
Peach cobbler, peach pie with a lattice crust,
peach shortcake, peach muffins,
stewed peaches, peach tea bread,
slices on your cereal, slices in a bowl with cream.
OR...only for dessert?
How would a
chicken breast soaked in a peach marinade taste?
My taste buds begin chattering.
Summer’s here!
corn on the cob, okra, tomatoes:
small ones that pop in your mouth
and big beefy wedges that
garnish crisp celery slices, carrot medallions,
tender Bibb lettuce, sliced mushrooms, cucumbers,
asparagus, broccoli, Vidalia onions, cauliflower...
Watermelon, blueberries, cantaloupe,
strawberries, honeydews, raspberries...
Juicy hot dogs, spicy barbecue, thick charbroiled hamburgers,
hot German potato salad, 3-bean salad, macaroni salad,
potato chips and French onion soup dip,
soft pretzels dipped in brown mustard, popcorn...
chocolate chip cookies, Snickerdoodles,
strawberry shortcake,
chocolate cake with red, white and blue frosting for the 4th,
apple pie
— softball, Mom, doggies —
I awake with a start. There is drool
on my pillow.
Another day begins but it’s really
not another day.
It’s the same day I’ve been living
since 1 May 2017 ~
The day I let the dentist pull
out the last 5 teeth I had
in my lower jaw.
And as I come to consciousness
my tongue pushes
against and spills out over the
the soft toothless tissue that burns constantly
and is covered in a thick gooey saliva ~ place a
teaspoon of Elmer's
glue in your mouth ~ if
you care to have a taste
of my reality.
Summer’s here.
Clear your palate.
Clean your plate.
Barbara Dickenson
1 May 2018
- [ ]
An invisible string was created from the beginning of time,
it is wound around my horn, and bound to your heart
Invincible.
Each time your heart beats, you tug at this string,
drawing me closer to you
You are unaware of this, I love you
yet I fear and resist you, dear Lady
Not only have you captivated me, but my fate is in your hands
I am the last Unicorn in existence
Kings and nobles desire me for my horn,
for it can purify poisoned wells
and they know only you have power over me
Sweet virgin, all I ask is
one song to enchant my ears
one glimpse of your precious smile
one kiss from your ruby lips
one whiff from your perfumed dress
...a single stroke from your gentle hands
and I shall dream of you forever
Betray me not please by handing me to the men
Let me lay my horned head on your lap even just once…
then set me free
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
You are Testing me my rear precious unicorn,
every King has offered more than our beauty holds.
Unfold I will hide with you in a placed to protect us from every face.
Avoiding your poisonous horn, in which I fail to feed my soul with your purity.
I will move you from this revolution in which has troubled the monarchy.
Medieval strings of power to catch you~ your the last of your kind.
My Unicorn you are the medicine, the symbol ones seeks to rule darkness.
With passion I hold a belief that your horn can heal illness,
your strength will carry on.
Every time you returned to drink the waters of a no man's paradise,
I reach out to touch your radiance once a year.
Your horn can cure plague, rage, rabies, fever's and more!
Become my host let me wear you in this mystical amulet.
I will wear you as my jewelry while you lay your head on my lap.
My Unicorn of purity, I will never tell the ingredient and secrets we share,
as we got lost in each others stare.
I will ride with you and never betray your existence.
Together we will gather the fresh fruit and CORN~
My precious unicorn my virginity is your dignity.
Bathe with me throughout my immortal long and healthy life.
I'll sing you a song good night.
Ali-corn you are the weight in gold, all emperors, will fall at my feet.
One kiss with my red ruby lips!
I "guarantee" you a gift only we both see.
"If you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you!"
**a collaboration with pd ^_^!
A Saturday morning in June on a sunny day,
three hundred villagers were in the town square today.
For two hours, all the children, each man and his wife,
made a choice amongst themselves to sacrifice a life
While the grass was growing green with the flowers in bloom,
one person in town would soon be encountering doom.
Some big piles of stones were gathered up by every boy;
Bobby Martin, the Jones boys, and Dickie Delacroy.
As mixed conversations percolated all around,
Mr. Summers and the black box were soon to be found.
This object was very old and showed much splintering,
after being used many years for this offering
Mr. Summers asked the town for a new edition.
They turned him down, not wanting to break with tradition.
With much of the ritual forgotten and not clear,
little slips of paper were placed in the box each year
Old Man Warner, the senior citizen living here
said to Mr. Adams who was standing very near:
“Seventy-seven years I’ve been participating
in this lottery for which everyone is waiting!
I tell you there’s no other way; it’s needed in June.
We sacrifice life for the corn to be heavy soon”.
Mr. Summers called by name, heads of each family;
all in alphabetical order from A to Z.
Every head of household chose individually;
beginning with Adams, and ending with Zanini.
When every man had a slip of paper in his hand,
“Open up” said Mr. Summers with modest demand.
“The paper with a black pencil mark will indicate
its holder is the sacrifice we all designate”
Along came Bill Hutchinson’s wife Tessie running late;
shocked to see her husband holding the paper of fate.
Mr. Summers asked “How many in the family?
Bill replied “Five. Three children, my wife Tessie, and me.”
Mr. Summers took the slip and put in four blanks more;
back into the black box after opening its door.
Then each of the Hutchinsons was told to reach inside.
The one holding the paper with the mark would decide.
Mr. Summers checked the papers and said with his voice:
“We have our sacrifice! Tessie Hutchinson’s our choice!”
“It isn’t fair!” Yelled Tessie, crying loud and frantic.
The people grabbed stones with Tessie running in panic.
They all caught up with her in the middle of a field,
and stoned her to death without any apparent yield!
Based on the short story "The Lottery" by the late Shirley Jackson
More free advice to those* who would be King from the THIRUK-KURAL with notes
[*like presidents, prime ministers, dictators of declining (falling or fallen) nations]
K386: kaadchikku eliyan kaduñchollan allanaal
miikkuurum mannan nilam
Where king is easy of access, where no harsh word repels,
That land's high praises every subject swells. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
The whole world will exalt the country of the king who is easy of access, and whose words are without harshness. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
Where at royal audience all may attend a king gentle of voice and mien*,
That kingdom's praises all will sing. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[* recourse to threats and reprisals can only undermine the good name of the land]
K429: viyavatka eññaantrum thannai
nayavatka nantri payavaa vinai
Never indulge in self-complaisant mood,
Nor deed desire that yields no gain of good. (Transl. G.U. Pope)
Let not a king praise himself, at any time;
let him not desire to do useless things. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
(The king) should neither blow his own horn
Nor occupy himself with acts* that bring in no corn. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
[* like building a porous wall on borrowed cash while tens of millions of the poor sick die in pain, EVEN IF AMERICA will wake up some day to realize that he was after all right about the measures he's wanting to take over IMMIGRATION, unless everybody wants the kind of irreversible situation FRANCE and GERMANY are going through.]
K454: manaththu ulathupOlak kaadti oruvat
inaththula thaakum arivu
Man's wisdom seems the offspring of his mind;
'Tis outcome of companionship we find. (Tranls. G.U. Pope)
The knowledge of a man, while it appears to be from his mind is (really) from his associates. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
[(The king) who makes as if his words (and ideas)* emanate from within himself, (the contrary being the case) will find it difficult to conceal their true source(s). (Transl T. Wignesan)]
[* A king who has difficulty expressing himself in the "King's English" and whose repertoire of epithets is mostly limited to: "terrific", "terrible", "horrible", "horrific", "wonderful", "tremendous" along with threatening phrases like "watch my words" would do well to ask the ghost-writers to step forward and take a bow.]
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
Timothy Catchpole lived in a field
on the edge of a deep, dark wood.
One of a long line of Catchpoles he was,
who tried to do nothing but good.
Home was a nest on an ear of corn,
in a fresh grown field of barley.
On the outskirts of a pretty village,
which folk called, 'Little Harley'
He spent most days foraging for food,
or else tidying his little home.
A harvest mouse doesn't need a lot,
and he was disinclined to roam.
One day, playing 'dead', in the farmer's field,
he overheard something distressing.
Two men discussing the sale of the land,
which Timothy found quite depressing.
They went on to talk about houses and shops,
and destroying a part of the wood.
He didn't know how, or where, or why,
but Tim thought he must stop it, if he could.",
But what to do? He was only small,
and no one would listen to him.
"I must talk to Owl, he's wise," Tim thought,
and off he went, on a whim.
As he neared the edge of the deep, dark wood,
his folly he started to see,
"This is a bit foolhardy," he thought,
"Owls feed on the likes of me."
"What have we here?" asked a big black Crow,
as in front of Timothy he swooped.
"A tasty morsel, I'll be bound."
As he threw back his head and 'whooped'.
"You don't want to eat me, I'm saving your life!"
Shouted Tim, at the top of his voice.
"Why, you little rat, you've no say in that,
it's not like I'm giving you a choice!"
"Please, listen to me and I'll explain,
let me try to make you understand."
Tim took a breath and the words poured out,
about the farmer and selling the land.
"That's nothing to me." Said the Crow with a strut,
and a blink of his gimlet eye.
"What should I care if he builds on his field?
What's it to me? Pray tell, why?"
More confident now, Timothy spoke,
eloquent and without fear.
"What will you eat when the corn is gone,
and us small animals disappear?"
The Crow's beak opened as if to speak,
when the penny dropped in his head.
"I see what you mean." He mused and strutted,
"We'll all be bloomin' well dead!"
"Exactly,"said Tim, "which is why I'm about.
to enter the deep, dark wood.
To ask Owl for his answer to this thorny problem.
Could you help me, if you'd be so good?"
"I like your spirit," said the Crow,
"and, if what you say is true,
the Owl's the very one to help,
stay here!" And away he flew.
Heartfelt light… falls gentle on my dew drenched silence,
When moon is fading beneath the silent blessings,
Raining through the moments, healing with soft expressions
Moments alive with the flames of joy kindled to birth,
Praying into the depths of grace, with faith beyond imagining,
Faith that is the greatest thing since the angelic wings…
Embracing souls with a deep and everlasting peace, serenity
Warm like autumn’s crimson chuckle with its own brand of rustling
From the songs who glisten with the stars, leafy answers
To the wind’s distress – the feeling like a flavor of tempting sincerity,
The abiding of truth in the glowing embers of an emotional storm…
One who delights in the flavors of stardust shimmers, reflecting
Hearts and souls, intimate as the darkness’ ghost – whimsical and fearless,
Listening to the rude remarks of pines and laurels who lust for glowing
Grace, enchanting as deep sapphire skies who breathe through
Twilight dreams, stunning as the fires from September camping like
Endless stories, the ones who never end because the last page
Is the most beautiful amen, the agreement to abide in the pleasant
Yes, indeed… amen to the moments when hope is extracted
From the fears and there is only the evidence of gentle in soul felt tears
Blessing away the rusty realization, the caress of an imagination
When yesterday was the peace, both quiet and bold…
Expressing the music gesturing through the melancholy,
Blending with rhythms of dancing leaves, the season’s abundance
Blessings, corn and apples, pumpkins in bold ginger
Expressions of the harvest collected by the moments in burgundy
Hazy moments, crisp and cool morning rising with the beautiful
More inspiring than the wonders of a summer’s soft kiss,
Chasing the winds of grace, like laughter in the soul, growing kinder
As the moments pass, outshining the moon’s glow and the spring’s show
Flowery and stunning, beyond words – yes, autumn rises
Inside those who know her as the exalting treasure she has become.
Hallowing the ghostlike promise of yesterday’s mesmerizing
The magnificent silence of God’s blessed peppering …
Spice of the season who is forever more wonderful than poetry
Could possibly portray, more like the spell cast by hope
Who knows that His love, His love is poured out on Autumn’s soul