Long Fields Poems
Long Fields Poems. Below are the most popular long Fields by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fields poems by poem length and keyword.
I am the seamless season of rebirth
That every year rejuvenates the earth,
Lays down carpets of green on the parched hiils,
Leads flowers to bloom in gardens and fields.
My hair is smiling sunshine, sunny bright,
A sparkling golden crown of morning light,
I awaken the world with wary hands
Across the sleeping, silent snowy land.
I softly share secrets to all the trees
To wake up from slumber, with a soft sneeze,
And buds slowly unfurl in soft and white
Like silent stars sparkling amidst the night.
I paint the meadows verdant green and gold,
A story whispered, endless ages old,
The dandelions, brave, brainy and bold,
Their sunny faces, men like to behold.
I melt snow on hills and river beds,
That erewhile frozen, start to flow instead,
I chase greyish nimbuus clouds on the blue
And sprinkle on earth, raindrops soft and new.
I stay a scheduled stretch, then start to fade
As summer`s searing shine begins to raid,
But leave behind a wholesome memory
Of beauty, hope, delight and ecstasy.
On fields where shadows of old battles lie,
We find no lasting peace, but watch it die.
The broken promises, a hollow sound,
As ancient rights are buried in the ground.
With polished words and flags of gentle hue,
The world proclaims what it’s resolved to do,
While buried deep beneath the legal text,
The human spirit suffers and is vexed.
The children ask their questions like a prayer,
For freedom’s breath and for a world to share.
But gilded cages and an iron fist
Maintain the order, and the rights are missed.
For peace is not the absence of a storm,
But justice’s presence in a truer form.
Not silence bought with fear and grim despair,
But liberty that fills the common air.
So let the verse, with fragile, measured rhyme,
Recall the cost throughout the march of time.
That peace, to stand, must rise from human worth,
And claim, for all, their birthright on this Earth.
Not with the sword, but with a voice unbound,
Until the equal, righteous truths are found.
Look high to the hills to see peaks of icy water laden tops
Water is flowing downwards into winding streams
The permeation of ponds, lakes, rivers and the mighty seas
Thus a supply-chain like feed supplying all watery needs
The Sun's fierce heat induces water evaporation
A dark daunting nimbostratus starts hovering
A mystical misty moist cloud of condensation
that produces many rain droplets pouring
White-water overflows in steep canyon gorges
Grapes, figs and dates in the fields are made ripened
Flowers flourish and many fruits can be eaten
Water is flowing resolutely and continually,
into the great ocean's mouth
Sun's incandescence purifies water:
Water vapors are making an upward ascension
to clouds of cumulus, cirrocumulus and cirrus
These are white fluffy aeronautical rain vehicles
The waters again start descending:
To form again white snowy watery capped ice tops
This upon many mountains zenith spots
This a perpetual, continuous, isochronism
of the Life supporting cycle:
Ice, Liquid and Vapor
All making an ever vibrant and repeated musical
crescendo, nature's "Watery Phases"
Her cremated ashes still remain sealed in the same nondescript box
white, powdery and chalk like material
devoid of any vestigial semblance to her once living and vibrant self
that unique persona pulverized and vaporized
(housed former svelte and tall Arthur Murray ball-room dance teacher
a half century plus prior to demise
which beauty, charm and grace quickly caught the attention of my father
who courted and eventually proposed to this young flirt and tease of a gal)
inert organic matter now represents sole residual embodiment
reduced to dust and near nothingness
former corporeal being of blood, bone and flesh
weighing no more than a few hatch marks on the scale
absence still bears down heavy like some millstone round the neck
per the black hole void created by defeat with Grim Reaper
toward this woman who helped birth and nurse me into manhood
momma’s only grown son still feels ripples of grievous sadness
no matter the years of suppressed anger and rage
in addition to emotional conflicts between us
which invariably wrought unpleasant relationship
and a legacy of discord writ large across the tapestry of my life!
Force fields from this lithe Brooklyn native
(whose pronunciation a dead ringer giveaway to any amateur and junior linguist)
lives in the guise of aural spectra
especially within the hallowed sanctity of Glen Elm domicile
and continues to emit indomitable and unfading rays of pure energy and light!
A Letter to Mr. Frost
I walked again with Mr. Frost
‘cross dew dampened lea
quietly gave thanks to him
just for inviting me.
I gazed at leaf and tree and limb
the beauty that he saw in them
resembling lovers, children, dreams
serenaded by clear pastured streams.
I skipped through fields
followed footprints bolder
down hardscrabbled paths
past boulder on boulder.
We stood in the cold
lonely darkness in white
dreading the miles
left to travel that night.
We took the less traveled
so that we could seek
the duplicitous meaning
of that tongue in his cheek.
John G. Lawless
5/29/2014
John Deere riding lawn mowers in fields of high grass
can sometimes be cruel to small creatures that live within.
My brother, Jimmy, twelve years old at the time,
noticed a puff of fur fly out from the side of the green beast
as he ran screaming and flailing his arms at my father.
With tears running down his cheeks,
Jimmy searched the surrounding area for other rabbits
that he could secure away from the rotating blades.
He came upon the brood of new born bunnies that
must have been the offspring of the clump of fur
now nestled in the shreds of grass.
My father tried to explain to Jimmy the futility
of trying to save four newborn rabbits,
but Jimmy would not listen as he removed his shirt
and placed the four, still furless, wet bunnies inside.
At twelve years old, Jimmy had already saved
the life of a robin from the mouth of a stray cat;
raised frogs from tadpole eggs found in the small
pond of water formed in tire tracks down the old dirt road;
helped our pet dog deliver a litter of eight puppies;
rescued a butterfly cocoon from a fallen branch;
and nursed back to health a box turtle ran over by a car
on the road in front of our house.
With a shoebox full of grass, a light bulb for warmth,
and an eyedropper of milk, Jimmy stayed with those
bunnies day and night.
As days slipped by, eyes opened; a bigger eye dropper was needed;
lettuce was introduced to the shoe box; and furless bodies
became covered in a soft brown fur coat.
Jimmy was never one to become too attached to his patients;
he did not do what he did to try to add to his menagerie of pets.
When he was confident that the bunnies were ready to live on their own
he began his long hike into the fields, far removed from John Deere tractors,
farmers, cats and dogs; and, released the four, healthy bunnies into the world.
Twenty years later, no one was able to do for Jimmy
what he continuously did for the creatures that he so loved and adored.
We lost a good man that day. May he rest in peace.
Sweet friendship comes in many forms
you worked for years at the local meat store
your presence, the sparkle that lit up the room
with a cheerful smile, and bright eyes, blue.
You greeted all with warmth and care
made colorful signage with great flair
delightful pictures on all the walls
cows, fences, green fields, and blue waterfalls.
We connected, had a bond, you and I
always exchanged highlights of our lives
you welcomed me with a big, sisterly hug
and never forgot to ask me how I was.
Yesterday, I walked into that little store
as I had done so many times before
there, at the entrance, right before my eyes
was a picture of you, and a note that you’d died.
The shock of your death, a sudden fall
jolted me…this could not be, no, not at all!
For I had just spoken to you, not long ago
you were full of life, so happy and whole.
The sting of death, that final farewell
I never got to say goodbye, I could not tell
how much your sweet life meant to me
goodbye, dear Paula, as you go to God eternally.
Written on 7/11/2022
I step into the frigid air
To gather up the morning news
A long eared rabbit startles me
A maverick rascal breaking fast
One last dash upon the lawn
In his mouth a garden bloom
Through the fence, and down the road
Making haste, without excuse
To fields of barley, and fields of loam
Thunder-blue are lupines bold
Standing oak trees, proud and tense
Dressed for parades of scrambling feet
On Easter morning's golden dawn
He scurries home by sheer routine
In bunny slippers, softly made
I shuffle back into my den
I smile and watch the rascal go
He had his fun, and I have too
The window frames the early sun
Morning coffee perks again
Let the cat out, read the news
Discard the worry, eat the food
I had a laugh, as well I should
Drink the day, and digest the good
________________________
For Carol Brown's Contest: Bunny Rabbits
2/28/12
Before we go to bed we vegetate
No need for teacher but a compost heap.
And as we vegetate, we drift to sleep
While in our dreams our little mind debates
But mostly we’re unknowing in this dark
Where God himself may manifest at will.
His dazzling darkness makes our souls be still
And wait for strikes by living ,glowing spark.
But in the morning ,we come back to strife
Take up our work and suffer every stroke.
From sapling to the oldest,strongest oak
Each must choose again its proper life
Every look we cast at others strikes
Reflects and shows us what we have become
And when there is no movement, we are done
Our mind and heart have chosen what they like.
So in our end we vegetate again
And no more rise to labour in the day
We fertilise the fields passed on our way
We show the end of woman and of man.
A daily round becomes our life and death.
We live because we’re breathed by sacredness.
How times were different so long ago,
when pure survival dominated life.
No extra frills to fill long hours- bestow
enjoyment- mostly work to ease our strife.
We girls, mid-afternoon, when school was done,
might go to fields to gather wheat for bread-
not going to a park and having fun
like city girls, who walk with friends instead.
We'd go back home- arms holding chaffs of wheat-
begin the process- thresh, winnow, and grind;
roll out and bake before we'd earn to eat-
unlike in towns where bread for sale you'd find.
But, happiness was ours in modest ways;
survival of the family- the goal.
Fulfillment and achievement ruled those days-
not happiness for self, but for the whole.