Long Fallow Poems
Long Fallow Poems. Below are the most popular long Fallow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fallow poems by poem length and keyword.
Mural musings
the soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,
shadowing the speckled sallow saffron
a bluish buff upon the cochineal;
brilliant boneblack
grizzled the engrain
citrine carnation
as
the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical
rainbow-tinted
the magenta mandarine;
unseen
the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,
reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon
the earth green;
bright mosaic gold
mottled the sallow sorrel
virent yellow,oak stained
the pale apricot;
while
blood red,reddish russet
dotted the olive lind;
freckled crimson,
a chestnut maroon,
on fuchsias faded apple green
as burnt umber sank deep
into its sanguine slumber.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Whatever happened to common sense
when did we all become so dense
ya can’t fall off an un-sat fence
dreaming of why and where and whence
trying to figure out farthings and pence
trapped in a world of hereafter and hence
can’t really recall but it’s been that way since
we o’erthrew the king to favor the prince
expecting pure satin – wound up with cheap chintz
our armor now rusted, bloodless, with dents
thrown out of our houses we now live in tents
downwind from the castle’s hungerless scents
venom the substance of our effluence
fueled by delay of our just recompense
and for our actions offer no penitence
our fields long gone fallow wait in suspense
for the word of a dead king “let planting commence”
a king raised to power at our expense
John G. Lawless
©12/13/2021
A Wife Can Elevate Life
Get In with a Bad Crowd,
A Wife May Talk Sense Into You,
Or Push Your Ego To Be Loud,
On Ben Pelet's Wife To The Rescue,
Korach Listened As His Mate Howled,
Result, Earth's Gaping Mouth Did Swallow,
Korach, And On, Meaning Mourn, Was Hallowed,
Feeding Ego, Machlokes, Is Mere Empty, Hollow,
Listening, On Became Healthy, Not Sallowed,
Saved By His Woman Who Turned Barren To Fallow,
Bad Men Called on On, He Could Have Followed...
In Stormy Seas, Ships Survive By The Mermaid on the Prow,
Guiding Us Hapless Sailors, Wives Are Calm Endowed,
When Left to Our Own, Men Surely Capsize The Scow!
the soft yellow streaked the terra cotta,shadowing the speckled sallow saffron a bluish buff upon the cochineal;brilliant boneblack grizzled the engrain citrine carnation as the fallow flaxen,rustic rubrical rainbow-tinted the magenta mandarine;unseen the ultra-marine, tinged burnt sienna,reflecting a golden flame of raw umbery upon the earth green;bright mosaic gold mottled the sallow sorrel virent yellow,oak stained the pale apricot;while blood red,reddish russet dotted the olive lind;freckled crimson,a chestnut maroon,on fuchsias faded apple green as burnt umber sank deep into its sanguine slumber.
oh dear heaven ...
how impeccant …
how subtly innocent and eager!
are you truly as oblivious as you seem?
oh, I am sure of otherwise …
or would there not be so much unsullied skin laid bare -
so few garments that thus adorn the masterpiece?
utter innocence, burning in the motion of your stride ...
a fortuitous feast of flames for the common!
the gods themselves feign deference to such fair symmetry,
and barter the heavens for but a grace of your shadow -
you are pristine virtue, annotated ...
you are torturous fare for the plain and fallow,
and envy for even the inimitable …
innate sensuality trickles from your feathery brow
to your Lilliputian toes, (painted bubblegum pink),
tracing an unblemished dermal landscape
that any hormone-hewn human would consider a dream destination …
you exude a connate allure, inexplicable,
enchanting even the stars -
sky weeping in exquisite anguish for sake of your fluid movement,
saucy, exposed hips,
tossed with coy yet libidinous intent,
their immaculate and fluid rhythm
catching in chests like a cardiac event,
pulling the breath from lungs around you like taffy,
(and not returning without discerned effort),
every gaze in your line swinging in matched tempo,
stupefying all within your affect ...
a mass hypnosis inspired by your walk alone -
ponytail braid and pink ribbon sway in opposite tempo,
adding to the sassy attitude …
eyes, pure white arctic spheres
with polished onyx centers,
set to possess the soul, should they find your focus …
faultless, blue-white smile,
framed by sugar plum lips, shaped to perfect bows ...
oh dear heaven!
such resplendent rapture should they whisper your name!
such divine intoxication should those eyes affix yours!
the gods themselves are weeping wonder ...
the gods themselves!
* SECOND PLACE in the "Free Verse On Love" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor. *
STILL TIME IN THE DARK NIGHT
In the dark night time stops to flow,
unmoving hands of the clock show
how desolate pathos could be
in wasteland for still life lonely.
Sunrise hour clock maker would know.
Clumped clouds gleam in astral halo,
moondusts flush ground in silver glow.
The light of hope shines remotely
in the dark night.
Mystic hope enshrouds land fallow,
bare trees soak it in wood hollow,
wait for the sunrise, wait to see
clouds melt, rains make green canopy.
In still time hides the bright morrow
in the dark night.
July 29, 2018
Rondeau Poetry Contest
Image chosen : 4
Syllable count checked on howmanysyllables.com
An Image attaches itself
to something you once touched or smelled
sends waves echoing inward.
You forgot about it
yet now it weaves itself around a memory
that you had not named –
a singular erotic weaving
that brings its own enticing musk.
Then there is this full-throated flowering
a bitter-sweet interior presence.
Behind your eyes
mind is only an apparition
but this thing you see
is perceived through your skin
as a recollection
of when your skin could see clearer,
it returns now to catch fire
in these fallow moments.
You search
for this emerging appearance
that has yet to paint its face,
watch as it surfaces
as a heaviness of the senses
or perhaps
the very gravity of light.
39 Stripes
You have always been here from the beginning
You planted the greatest sacrifice with 39 stripes
When the world was blind
You asked for nothing in return knowing
You washed our sins with your blood
From your painful stripes, came redemption
For you are our deliverance
No one will ever deserve the atonement
Sons and daughter have all fallen short
For the scourging of 39 lashes
Human kind will never be thankful enough
One day, you will return
For a loud trumpet sounds in unimaginable volume
He took the punishment of the whole world
And said, for it is done
Fallow the old wooden cross
Walk the narrow road
Lean into his understanding
And one day, we will all be together
Hidden behind the clouds forever
Strolling through the dark woods
night approaching as the sun sets
the shadows were now lengthening
casting weird shapes on the floor
Birds pass on their way to roost
all are now settling for the night
squabbles from the rooks over perches
rabbits emerging from burrows to eat
This pause between daytime and night
soon the rabbits will be joined by
badgers coming out to forage and play
night jar starts to sing a real din
Later there will be such sweet sounds
as the nightingales songs ring out
for now this twilight stands in between
a world of half light neither day or night
Sweet scent of night stocks fill the air
as I sit on an old log drinking it in
a shadow detaches from the beech trees
a fallow deer on her way to the river
Now the daylight has completely gone
the moon has yet to show its face
a hoot carries through the dark
the owls glide past searching for prey
I sigh as the stars appear above
each one twinkling pinpicks of light
the sky a canvas on which they shine
at last the moon glides into view
Another day is finally over and done
it is time for me too to head off home
carrying with me memories of this time
closing the door I shut out the darkness
For fifteen years the peak has sat fallow,
abandoned to time as trees and bushes grow,
driving by always evokes a sigh in me,
long ago this hill was where I learned to ski.
But the industry is not what it once was,
snowmaking and insurance drove up the cost,
this place where families once spent the day,
now sits shuttered, slowly rotting away.
The old lodge has lost half its windows,
its siding faded by the sun's harsh glow,
there’s a giant hole up on top of the roof,
and graffiti sprayed by some drunken youth.
Lifts still stand, but all the chairs are down,
stacked in rows, rusting on the ground,
the cables now vanished into the trees,
paint is peeling, the lift shacks all moldy.
Laying nearby, twisted and half-stacked,
as if subjected to medieval torture racks,
sit piles of broken, old snowmaking pipe,
now simply scrap, glinting in noon-day light.
Saddest of all is the half-visible ski trails,
now covered in saplings, young, health, and hale,
where once me and my sibling fiercely raced,
where more than once I fell flat on my face…
The white swath of beauty clad in snow,
that once adorned this peak’s long slopes,
now grows in like pasture gone to seed,
it's become a place where mosquitoes breed.
It may seem bizarre, to some out there,
mourning for the cold and frozen air,
but this place once meant so much to us,
now given over to saplings and rust…
…sigh…