Long Granaries Poems
Long Granaries Poems. Below are the most popular long Granaries by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Granaries poems by poem length and keyword.
After scary Halloween and its ghoulish pranks
November dawns with all-saint’s and all soul’s day
Carrying a pious note in the balmy wind
Along with the haunting memories of our dear departed
November parades herself in a riot of colors
The trees get dressed in robes of gold
The earth flames in scintillating autumnal glaze
Unique is the season with no other to rival
But brief is the tantalizing beauty of the land
On misty mornings, the aureate leaves burdened with settling dew,
Shiver in the wind n' cold and tumble down
As they fall one by one, I hear a silent melancholy note
The pain of parting connections from their mother trees
November is also the season of a plentiful harvest
The granaries are filled with stored corn and maize
People thus enjoy the fruits of their labor
The hard-earned dividend of their yearlong sweat
Children and adults go for apple picking
And come back home with baskets full
On trees hang the opulence of golden pears
Nesting sweetness beneath their crunchy rind
To far off places, fly the feathered folks
Beasts retire to their burrows and sheltered dens
Soon the sun will go on a long vacation
There will scarcely be a sunbeam brightening the land
And winter waits impatient for its icy cold embrace
Thus, November is a month of transition-
From the feast of colors to the monochrome of white
From the bright sunny days to the greying cloudy sky
From vibrant enterprise to the torpor of inactivity
From death and decay to the hopes of resurrection
November.6.2022
~ Placed Eight~
November Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Regina McIntosh
God-endowed resources present
grasses serving as pasture haven
with vegetable terraces for well-being nourishment
upon flower parks cheering with their beauty
cheerfully featured as gardens of blessings....
As the Lord blesses the grassy lands
trees invite heavenly freshness
orchards welcome photosynthesis
multiplying granaries of supply abundance
graciously in the gardens of blessings...
While the Creator garnishes landscapes with grasses
hearts delight with childhood glee
basking under the sun in barefoot mirth
along enjoyable running spree
enthusiastically around the gardens of blessings...
Thankful to the Almighty for grass-filled freshness:
body and soul are invigorated in exercise-zest
toward nurture-nourishment of stewardship toil
in worshipful reaching-out pursuits, sharing love of Christ
serenely prayed for in the gardens of blessings*!
*Genesis 49:25 Even by the God of thy father, who shall help thee; and by the Almighty, who shall bless thee with blessings of heaven above...
April 29, 2019
Edited on March 27, 2023
7th place, "In the Grass" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Biaanco; judged on 5/30/2023.
Seven cows, fat and plump,
Feeding in the reed grass,
Emerging from the Nile.
Seven cows, ugly, thin,
Stood beside for a while,
Swallowing the fat cows up!
Seven ears, plump and good,
All growing on one stalk.
Seven ears, blighted, thin,
Swallowing the good ears up!
Spirit troubled, king awoke,
Called his wise and magic men:
What does this dream mean, then?
Cupbearer then recalled,
“A young man in prison,
With the baker and with me,
Interpreted our dreams.”
Then the king fetched Joseph
And shared his dreams with him,
Asked him what they might mean.
Seven cows, fat and plump
Seven cows, ugly, thin
Fat cows get swallowed up!
Seven ears, plump and good
Seven ears, blighted, thin
Plump ears get swallowed up!
Then Joseph told the king,
“Your dreams are both the same,
They reveal what God will do.”
Seven good cows and ears,
Ample crop, bounty years.
Withered cows, blighted ears,
Bad drought and famine years.
Dreams like this come in twos,
Leaving little time to choose.
Famine soon, and severe.
Hurry now to prepare,
A man of God can help you.
The king was much impressed,
Also, was much distressed.
“We need a man of God.
All this, He revealed, yes?
Can you help save Egypt?”
Joseph was then set free;
He became the king’s right hand,
Set up the granaries,
The Lord then saved them all.
(from Genesis 41)
I am tire of being a Kenyan,
I didn't intend to say this,
But allow me to talk about it.
From the time I was young.
I have learnt how to be patriotic.
I am tired of being a Kenyan.
Not because I hate Kenya.
But the things I have seen.
There's no one to trust.
Not even the mothers who mothered us.
I am tired of being a Kenyan.
Just because of our leaders.
The leaders who promised to relieve our burdens.
Today they are the one burdening us.
I'm tired of being a Kenyan.
Families are going hungry,
Not because they have no food.
But the flour prices are at the peak
As the farmers lose their maize in granaries.
I am tired of being a Kenyan.
Citizens cannot traverse the country.
Not because they do not want.
But as a result of the high fuel prices.
The oil we mine.
Not of any important to the common man.
I am tired of being a Kenyan,
Because if the insatiable gang.
One that cannot obey the will of the people.
Filing petitions every five years.
I'm tired of being a Kenyan.
I'm tired of being a Kenyan.
Just because of the youth.
Learned youth languishing in poverty.
With their degrees kept in the drawers.
As the old folks cling to the offices.
I'm not an atheist,
But the number of churches be build,
On a daily basis I dislike.
Less industries, more spiritual we are.
I am tired of being a Kenyan.
@Tha Formidable Cheru.
#themonk.
They could plant the fields that lie like open palms
beside the razor wire, lay seed into the warm
Florida dirt that never truly sleeps, let men
who have been buried in concrete feel the soft
argument of soil against their hands again,
and grow food the way the state once did,
slow and honest, fed by sun and sweat.
They could raise cattle where scrub and wiregrass
already bend toward grazing, milk cows at dawn,
collect eggs still warm as breath, lift fish
from green ponds flashing like coins—
protein not poured from a sack of powder,
not pressed from soy and sodium,
but walking, swimming, clucking life.
They could feed their own—
collards and beans, rice and squash,
cornmeal thick as the voice of a grandmother,
milk in real cartons, fruit that stains the fingers,
meals that build blood instead of clogging it,
that lower the sugar in the veins,
that keep hearts from breaking early.
They could teach men how to keep something alive,
how to watch for illness, how to measure feed,
how to clean a blade, how to respect a body,
animal or human, how to make a living
out of tending instead of taking,
how to leave prison knowing
how to grow the next meal.
They could save millions and spend less on pills,
less on dialysis, less on broken men,
and turn prisons into granaries for hurricanes,
into barns of second chances,
into quiet classrooms where the land
speaks more clearly than any judge ever did.
But trucks keep coming, long and loud,
hauling contracts instead of carrots,
profits instead of potatoes,
because someone always gets paid
when a prison stays hungry,
and a hungry system votes the way it’s told.
So the fields stay empty, the barns stay locked,
and men eat punishment three times a day,
because rehabilitation doesn’t fit on a campaign sign,
and growing food doesn’t grow donors,
and corruption tastes better
to those who never have to swallow
what they feed the caged.
Autumn steps in as summer’s bright shine glimmers and flee,
After the heat begins to abate, autumn arrives as nature’s gift.
The soft melody of the leaves and breeze fills me with glee.
The season comes to sweeten with a beautifully painted face.
From green to golden sheen, the trees slowly drift.
The sky looks dank and blank with half shut azure eyes.
Autumn’s heady but steady steps cause rustling in dry leaves.
Squirrels explore and store nuts in their granaries for winter’s shift.
Fearing chilly fate, birds migrate and silence builds beneath the eaves.
Memories go back to my vanished youth,
And I reminisce clearly my master’s beautiful farmhouse.
With its granaries full of corn and wheat.
He was once a zealous farmer working day and night,
With me- as his inseparable companion.
We worked together in the corn fields till the fall of dusk.
With cock crow, my master would wake up,
Do his morning ablutions, get ready and proceed
To his field in springing steps,
With me clinging heavily onto his shoulders.
The land was ploughed, the seeds were sown.
My sharp blade made furrows in the soil.
Though my master’s hands with toil were torn
And my blade got blunt many a time,
Never were we inclined to take rest,
But kept working on end till the harvest was done.
Even when the summer sun was blazing above us,
With the air pulsing with waves of heat,
We worked hard, both of us finding joy in relentless toil.
Those were days of sweet contentment.
It was long ago, those days have quickly gone.
Now I have grown old and with me my master too.
Rusted and abandoned, I am tucked away,
In the old farmhouse, the sad reminder of a glorious past.
There, on a cracked wall, I am hung limp in dreamless sleep!
Now the old farm door on its rusted hinges creaks
The wicker gate around the farm is falling to decay.
The gravel path, with brambles and weeds overgrown.
Rodents and snakes roam freely among the thickets.
My master is now like his abandoned farmhouse.
A rotting engine not overhauled and can’t be put to use.
He has withdrawn to a life of lethargy,
With trains of memories haunting his days!
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
When my heart bled and spilling out
On madness, loathing minds awry
Lead to crime where love fading out.
On the streets where striplings beseech
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
For some nibbles, they beg and preach
While some granaries choked and sigh.
Sufferings around, made me cry
Of the pain, life and death pother
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry
When resumes I tried to smother.
Then saw the nature joined with me
And flooded the world with her cry
Love and empathy, back with plea
Sweet benign breeze swept my tears dry.
Won second place in STRAND SELECT O ,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest sponsored by Brian Strand
Won third place in Distant Refrains Poetry Contest sponsored by Joseph May
It's again the soothing pale sunlight, with bright morning mist,
The cooling dew on the green grass, touching the feet with ease.
Above, the azure sky and the soft cloud,
Like white, fluffy cotton scattered all around.
Ponds turn clear like scintillating crystals,
Hidden under the pink flowers’ petals,
As if new brides wearing lotus-veils.
The unchanged riverbanks bear tall Kash,
White plumes dance with the flute of air,
They shimmer with joy as sunlight's gentle clap draws near!
It's again the field of golden paddy.
The hands hold sickle, scythe and spade,
It's already time to harvest.
The granaries are smiling, preparing for grains' homecoming.
The field and the furrows left forlorn,
Bidding their friends farewell,
‘Goodbye, dear friends! When the year returns, we will meet you once again.’
The eyes glitter at the sight of long-awaited fruits,
Hunger cries, ‘I am losing my roots’.
It's again the same moon; silver and pale.
In the night sky like an oyster’s pearl,
It shimmers carrying thousands of untold memories.
In the sleeping night, it sings, consoling the harvested field,
In the silent air, it hears the furrows’ muffled murmur.
On the rooftop, it casts its silver threads,
Children chant ‘Chand Mama, Chand Mama,’ lifting their heads.
And to the draped window
It appears like a fleeting shadow.
It's again the day's tired sun setting,
Coloring the West with its crimson hue.
Night jasmine blooming, releasing its sweet perfume.
The flaking old house standing still and tall,
A beautiful patina of time.
In the corner of the large courtyard,
An old woman, quiet and wrinkled through the years,
sitting with her wooden cane and a blunt betel nut cutter.
The tired young souls return and gather,
With curious yet loving eyes,
Asking their old grandmother,
To tell them old stories.
Grandma lovingly scares them with her croaking voice,
All run scared; Grandma deeply sighs,
'It's always the season that leaves and returns.
We, its leaves, are left to fall and burn.'