Long Furrowing Poems
Long Furrowing Poems. Below are the most popular long Furrowing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Furrowing poems by poem length and keyword.
"I'm very happy being me, although sometimes I'd love to be a bird so
that I could fly." - Joy Fielding
Furrowing the crisp layers of thin air
flies the migratory songbird of charm,
the cheerful Robin on the frilled wings
soars to the fringe of clouds in the sky.
The bird of transparent crystal morning
tweeters the tune of sunburst horizon,
in the secrecy of its silky scarlet breast
pulsates the cadence of avian delight.
Over thrush wrapped in the silence of dawn
it sings to the melody of the nascent sunrays,
the welcome carol for the ascent of a new day,
in north wind the enchanting notes drift away.
While on smoky sky the storm clouds gather
little Robin sings on bough of wind-swept tree,
when the rainbow arc spans the drenched sky
it flutters with the rhythm of the celestial hues.
Outside my window on the green visage
the red bird perched on the lofty branch
sings the sunrise song that sails me by,
in the new unfurling sky it’s time to fly.
October 9, 2019
Contest : Writing Challenge, October 2019 - Bird
Sponsor : Dear Heart - Wiishkobe Ode
Rising from within,
bliss bursts on our skin,
furrowing each node,
played out as an ode.
Vaporised presence
ignites love's incense,
astride God's bliss beat,
vibrant head to feet.
Thus simply present
in this joy current,
tingle renewal
is continual.
Dance of bliss delight
at play, day and night,
churns to birth nectar,
piercing each vector.
Borne of cosmic drum,
magnetic bliss hum
surges to expand,
our cognitive band.
Each cell stands alone,
dancing on it's own
gyrating in rhythm,
within body prism.
We would if we could
make bliss understood ~
rapture intimate
and immediate.
Bliss is a secret,
which none can ferret.
When God's our sole aim,
we become the flame.
30-August-2022
The Man Who Cannot Find His Way
I am the man who cannot find his way though a part of my life has already gone,
I stumble I burn and feel how the ashes scorch my life toward a cosmic and sad sunset,
I am the man who cannot find peace and my heart breaks in two halves apart,
and if there were still another life to live I'd want it never to rain in my soul.
I am the man whose tears flow furrowing his face over time like an eternal river,
and I feel how the whole world flees as if it were in countertime with cosmic rhythm,
I am the man who never knew what peace is fighting to separate good from evil in the world,
and now he seeks his rest praying to God with trembling empty hands raised high.
For life is the divine gift but it has often not wanted to smile upon him at all,
and you wonder what you did wrong completely when all evils lie in ambush hidden,
I am the man who does not cease yet to weep and hides in his own shadow dark,
and if his life breaks apart he would want to know by whose fault everything shattered in two.
So from my small trial of conscience I beg you to draw some benefit and lesson wise,
and I would want you not to offend my being to live loving beautifully and pure,
I am the man lost between cosmic paths who cannot find the way to peace and rest,
I stumble in the ashes of life burning toward sunset praying for a life without rain.
Tears have furrowed my face over time and the world flees in cosmic countertime away,
I have not known peace fighting between good and evil seeking rest with God above,
life the divine gift has not smiled when evils lay in ambush in the darkness deep,
I hide in my own shadow weeping asking myself by whose fault everything broke this way.
SERENITY
Hitting hot hammer scorching Sun shines up high.
Weary thirsty Jacobin cuckoo to cry.
Clouds melting in rains with thunderstorms to fly.
Rainy season trying to moisten soil dry.
Fury of passion like glowing ember got shrunken.
Chasing Summer Rains appear in sequence
soothing dry spell on aqua opulence
softening tremendous heat in cool essence.
pacifying hot wrath of Summer, though intense.
Rains bring bliss, command of Summer was shaken.
Whimsy wind furrowing white torn pieces of cotton clouds.
In seamless sky luminous Moon is allowed
Glory of rufous auburn Autumn stepping loud.
Carrying pearly pristine peace Autumn feels proud.
Calm tranquil serenity to awaken.
08/26/20
'Serenity Awakened' Contest by Regina McIntosh
----I thought I had posted this a while back...guess I didn't. Oops. : ) here it is...couple years old.
When sorry words offer but sadness and pain,
When weary thought drifts into the tides of shame,
When heavy darkness fills my soul,
Freezing last embers upon the coal,
The love in my heart burns in vain
It burns in vain, for I can never quite reach
The paths that entangle, while the demons breach
It burns in vain, for I try so hard for naught
My tears in a frost-bitten muddle—construed and caught
As snowfall sifts ice onto disdain,
As afternoons crawl into midnight shade,
As every mistake has torn me apart,
This foolish soul crushed—bashed from the start
The love in my heart burns in vain
It burns in vain, for reality is but a fret
Knowing tragedy shall befall, though it comes not yet
It burns in vain, for I have hurt you still
As I try to escape the furrowing doubts that kill
So now I cringe, and cower, and remain
So caught in your sorrow as I turn away
So sorry and hateful for what I put you through
For as I falter, you are ever true
The love in our hearts burn in vain
Yet, somehow the yester-embers among the frozen coals return
Upon the frost-bitten windowpane—somehow they burn
A northeaster snow storm is rampaging air
A roughshod young warrior, launching ice as a spear
Without any warning, he comes from nowhere
bending trees into sickles, while he conquers with fear
Plowing up roads with a gust and a till
Burying leaves along the gutters and streets
Furrowing rows out of valleys and hills
Prodding the herds with a howl and a shriek
The sun takes retreat with solemn dismay
and holds fast his tongue with whimpering sounds
Rendering helpless, behind hail and flay
Biding his time, while the snow pelts the ground
From the sphere of the dawn, into cold afternoon
war is schooled by the whims of the moon
___________________________________________________
Contest: "Pick A Subject" ----Storm
Resubmitted for Brian Strand's Contest: 219
We live opposite a huge farm,
I find living here such a charm,
The cows and the sheep,
Abundant, as the farmer does his
His rounds in his Jeep
Makes living where we are,
A dream, but city life is not far.
This farm has horses too,
Though not too many just a few,
And pigs and goats
And pretty small winding roads,
It has a small river that winds its way
Beside a road, it takes all day
To walk along and pick wild flowers,
I adore sudden summery showers.
Mealies and sunflowers are planted
And manure is put down once a year,
Ridding us of sinuses, that’s quite clear.
The sound of the tractor ploughing,
A joy to hear, as it’s furrowing,
The land, planting seeds that grow
And look like soldiers such a show,
They stand up straight and tall,
Never have I seen one fall.
I pray for rain and fear a drought
So happy when dark clouds about,
And love a downpour feel the relief,
The mealies feel, for sun like a thief,
Steals a probable storm, but when rain
Pours and drizzles for days, mealies gain.
Beautiful plants that now must,
Wither and dry, and wait for first frost
Before they are harvested, or it will cost,
The farmer his whole crop, if not done
Just right, they will rot,
And the farmer will reap naught!
I watch this every year,
But now I sadly fear,
Will see my farm no more,
Which gave me joy, galore.
A new era starts on the 1st November,
Moving into a secure complex, so December
And Christmas will be in our new abode,
We have reached a crossroad,
Which I’ve decided to look forward to,
A move which had to happen, we knew!
Footnote:
In S. Africa we refer to corn as "Mealies"
John B. Jackson
1880-1911
Norma knew.
Norma, my erstwhile friend of a thousand hunts;
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb,
As we sought out promising locales, and
Our clever quarry, from points near and far.
From the salty marshes by the Pio Pico adobe,
To the broad summit of Sycamore Canyon,
We left tracks only the night ‘coons could find.
So, did we learn anything in life, me and Norma?
I once spied a tern furrowing in a breach.
Norma was ready and loaded for the kill,
As I drew a long bead,
Held my breath, and pulled the trigger.
She, my Winchester 1895, lever-action,
Reduced that tern to feathers in an instant of smoke,
With white pillow plumage in complete upheaval,
Flying all about, and interspersed asunder!
That single memory was on my mind,
Before slipping eternally through the veil.
I remember closing my eyes, and there she was!
Appearing before me as a haunting ghost,
As she was, on the day she saw me kill the tern,
My disappointed mother, telling me I was cruel,
Cruel and heartless and mean,
For destroying “God’s creature.”
So, it was on that same day I put Norma away,
Lock, stock and barrel; stowed in silence,
Under the rafters of my humble bed;
I said a final goodbye and adios amiga,
To my once ballistic sweetheart,
And the love of my wild, youthful days.
Never again did I kill any living creature,
And found an inner wisdom I could never explain.
But, truth be known,
I wish I had Norma now.
Here in this dark cold grave.
I miss the tender touch of her cold trigger.
The gentle pull of her icy hammer.
And mostly, I miss the intoxicating power,
Of her fiery, exploding steel.
For together we traversed the canyons of Turnbull,
And the rolling vernal pastures of Workman Mill,
Tasting many a delicious quarry.
It’s true, my friends,
Norma knew.
Only she knew the feel of my beading thumb.
Does the lowered eye mark one, prey?
Do mild manners detain the heirs of courage,
And supplant servile, simpering cowards
Who cater to the whims of the bullish,
And ill-manner’d?
The furrowing of the brow, upon meeting
The eyes, a smouldering hate inferred?
Prithee, tell the need of an otherwise
Noble man
To seek to humble one he knows not;
But in all hubristic error,
Deem a lesser man—
Tho' the gods smite—
Could sooner be his ending
Than any beginning of cruelty
He would defer.
I beg thee, pass softly—
For oft' times
The gods walk among us,
Unknown
And clothed in beggar's
Rags.
But here we would tend
The perception of
The common man,
Of which we all are.
Were our titles stripped from us,
Gold and coin, that seat us
Well with advantage, prestige,
And resource scarce divided
Among those without,
Relieved us—
How far would we fall
Before our imagined realms
And self set crowns
Shatter and break
Upon the humble ground
That wrought us up
Through fortunes fated,
Or generations generous
With years honest toils and labors?
In sooth these ephemeral devices
Aside—
Prick'd, our blood
Bares but one shade
That of red.
All else are machinations
Of the brain,
Where the ego
Would stroke us with
Affirmations of
Such lofty natures
That we would see
One another as
High and low,
Vengeance' victim
Or as one justified
To take beyond the need,
Lest the low squander
The fruitful seed.
And utopia become too common a place,
Thus polluted with the common blood.
Nay.
The true utopia, if thou seekest,
Is humble fellowship,
Compassion, and sacrifice;
For all idylls may not be attained
All at once.
Let them be of such
Continually strived toward
And lived, and roads walked.
See not my eyes lowered—
See thy brother,
See thy sister,
See thy humble family
Through trial and fortune's favor,
Together.
Impromptu night journey into snowy
wood
Face laced with scarf; head covered
by hood
Sturdy mare blanketed; each foot
shod with stud
A swift nod, gentle tap instinctively
understood
Gallant mare plows forward
furrowing ice and mud
Chilled air quickens my pulse;
thickens my blood
The howling wind around the
swiveling sleigh doth whirl
Into onrushing faces stinging, icy
pellets hurl
Along path's edges glistening trees
their mast's twirl
O'er head stalking raven's
patronizing wings unfurl
The chortling wind, raven screeches;
my head hairs curl
Around the bend, loomed the
cottage of stately earl
I gathered the reins the careening
sleigh to abruptly turn
Acclimatized mare already my
studied thoughts did discern
Onto the swept, manicured lane
hopeful feet did churn
Beckoning lamp on distant doorstep
did intently burn
Already alerted, spry earl awaited
our intentions to learn
On arrival, our tired petition, lowly
station did not spurn
Inspired by Robert Frost's:
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy
Evening