Long Granary Poems
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Working against heavy odds,
a little hovel, he did build
in a verdant stretch of fertile land,
off the noisy frenzied crowd
With sheaves of hay, he thatched its roof
with reed and bamboo, its walls were made
with mud and charcoal, its floor was glazed
with wooden planks, its entrance laid.
At dusk, when birds to their nests depart
and beasts to their covert burrows and hole,
after the days toil, all weary and weak,
he, into the cozy comfort of his home would steal.
Through months and years, it gave him succor.
sheltered him from searing sun and raining cloud.
made him differ from the gypsy tribe
gave him footing in this populous world.
He wove around it many a dream.
with frugal care, his needs he met-
prudent like the squirrel stocking nuts and grains,
in its secret granary for rainy days wet.
But alas!
His haven is mercilessly pulled down.
its very foundation, raced to the ground.
the once beautiful stretch of land,
now lies like a derelict heaped mound.
The eviction squad usurped his land
robbing off its greenery and grace
and hurling him down to the streets
like a tenant, sans notice, driven out of his space.
Bewildered, failing to budge an inch
like a boat, midway stranded in sea, he stayed
but his resilient spirits, to him affirmed
‘never defeated, though destroyed’
Soon the mud hovel, to a palatial mansion turned
where he envisioned himself king of the land
his fields, yielding a bumper harvest of grains and fruits
and his children joyfully dancing, holding his hand
Why scoff it as the fancy of a fevered brain?
rosy dreams find room in every man’s domain.
“Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house,
can you hear the whispering? "
Quote by _Constance La France
Standing before this old, dilapidated house
Memories leap out from the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of fourteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this massive homestead
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeats
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many a ceremony of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold.
But as time slowly weakened his torso,
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
With a shock, one day we heard of his death.
He left the house orphaning it forever.
Now the house remains fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past,
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
To hear what it whispers, its one-time glory,
Or its sad deserted state?
I wonder if I can ever enjoy the love and life,
That once so luxuriously bloomed inside!
~ PLACED FIRST~
May.27.2023
Writing Challenge ‘C’ Quotes Poetry Challenge
Sponsor- Constance La France
Summer is over and the farmer now rests from his toil,
Having labored hard to wrest his crops from the fruitful soil.
Fall has arrived and all the crops have been gathered in.
The corn, wheat and soy beans lie dormant in the granary bin.
It was a good year - his farm was favored with abundant rain.
Thankfully, there was no wind or hail, an anxious farmers' bane!
Pecks of onions, pertaters and carrots are preserved in the cellar,
Along with bushels of resplendent apples - golden, red and yeller!
The hogs are ready for market but he'll keep a pair for meat,
And he'll butcher a steer or so to ensure there's enough to eat.
His wife jammed mason jars full of beets, termaters and peas,
And there are a few honeycombs filched from the gullible bees!
He and the boys used crosscut saws to hew cords of wood for heating,
To warm their Victorian home from the winter's snows and sleeting.
There are jugs of cider to sip and ears of popping corn to pop,
As the family enjoys a roaring fire to reminisce with lore to swap!
The humble farmer was so grateful that on his knees he knelt,
To offer his gratitude to the Lord, a simple prayer most heartfelt.
A benevolent harvest moon smiled on the pastoral scene below,
Seemingly to bless the peaceful panorama with its mellow glow!
A fly and ant, upon a sunny bank,
Discuss'd the question of their rank.
'O Jupiter!' the former said,
'Can love of self so turn the head,
That one so mean and crawling,
And of so low a calling,
To boast equality shall dare
With me, the daughter of the air?
In palaces I am a guest,
And even at thy glorious feast.
Whene'er the people that adore thee
May immolate for thee a bullock,
I'm sure to taste the meat before thee.
Meanwhile this starveling, in her hillock,
Is living on some bit of straw
Which she has labour'd home to draw.
But tell me now, my little thing,
Do you camp ever on a king,
An emperor, or lady?
I do, and have full many a play-day
On fairest bosom of the fair,
And sport myself upon her hair.
Come now, my hearty, rack your brain
To make a case about your grain.'
'Well, have you done?' replied the ant.
'You enter palaces, I grant,
And for it get right soundly cursed.
Of sacrifices, rich and fat,
Your taste, quite likely, is the first;--
Are they the better off for that?
You enter with the holy train;
So enters many a wretch profane.
On heads of kings and asses you may squat;
Deny your vaunting I will not;
But well such impudence, I know,
Provokes a sometimes fatal blow.
The name in which your vanity delights
Is own'd as well by parasites,
And spies that die by ropes--as you soon will
By famine or by ague-chill,
When Phoebus goes to cheer
The other hemisphere,--
The very time to me most dear.
Not forced abroad to go
Through wind, and rain, and snow,
My summer's work I then enjoy,
And happily my mind employ,
From care by care exempted.
By which this truth I leave to you,
That by two sorts of glory we are tempted,
The false one and the true.
Work waits, time flies; adieu:--
This gabble does not fill
My granary or till.'
Jean de La Fontaine. Translated From French By Elizur Wright 1882.
Form:
From far a cool wind gently blows,
There's a pleasantness in the air.
Harsh summer heat steadily slows.
The leaves of trees, new colours wear.
Autumn has come in time to cheer
From far a cool wind gently blows
The season brings everything dear
Stock in squirrel’s granary grows
Leaves fall ending their sprightly shows.
Some go fluttering in the air
From far a cool wind gently blows
Some trees are going starkly bare
Flowers begin to fade and die,
As the season’s about to close
Many birds in flock southward fly.
From far a cool wind gently blows
In her grand fantasy’s territory
Freely emerges beauteous Twinkle Fairy
Opening great provisions' granary ---
Gifts* for her wondrous birthday flurry
As a good girl, giving home no worry.
Twinkle Fairy grants her food-dowry:
Sweet delights flavored with strawberry
Midst pies whipped by apple and cheery
There’s also veggie meat, indeed savory
Likewise nutritious chips of zero calorie.
Basking under her dream’s victory
She’s awakened, hearing Mom’s “Hurry!”
In her room, vibrant and glittery
Are loved ones, singing; oh, how merry
With their presents wrapped by prayer’s glory.
Thanking God, she winks at Twinkle Fairy:
That's Mom along her virtuous story
Miracle-filled; sometimes, a mystery
Strengthening her faith, despite fatal injury
This blessed feast in the infirmary.
*Romans 11:29 For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.
November 1, 2019
Honorable Mention, "STRAND no 650 any theme any form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/19/2020.
Snow white has been weeping profusely
But hers are tears of joy
Warm air has tempered cold
Has simmered howling winds to sleep.
Meanwhile, heaven's skies sit silent in sheer white
Snow white has covered everywhere
With her wings, soft as light
There's slumbering I see, like still life of bare trees.
Forthwith, virgin teardrops potent as cleanser
Continues with their course
Some folks see hardened black ice
Lord, please end such harrowing sight?
Send us a whirlwind of pure joy delight?
For now, I'll simmer in coziness of pajama days
Hot oats, steaming vegetable alphabet soup
Our granary feeds curious weary souls.
*
Form:
War World II was raging over this
southern Italian town* spared by a miracle...
a deluge that suddenly occurred:
a night of blasting sounds, of rising flames
as American planes bombarded its buildings;
the Nazis fled to occupied Naples.
In the North, the Fascits were executed,
as the Dictator Mussolini himself was.
The farms could not be furrowed deep and neat,
fear hung over the farmers' shoulders;
and wheat couldn't grow abundantly to make bread,
and brazen women to a distant granary they went,
risking their lives to grind the wheat kernels;
they were no young men in town, or the older ones
who had gone to war for a concept so deceptive.
Many youngsters and soldiers were kidnapped by the Nazis,
to be taken to Germany as prisoners of war...who would have
challenged the Third Reich, or disobeyed?
Old women with handkerchiefs on their heads, weeping loudly
and mourning the tranquil town it once was...so lovely and happy,
and their cry was too bitter and inconsolable to be hushed;
now, even bread was taken away from them,
damning the cruel Duce, who had betrayed them for vanity...
why did he bring prosperity to Africa, not to Italy?
Why was his ego so manipulated by Hitler's cleverness...
that he could have conquered peoples and lands?
Ruins and dead kindred...a scenery of dread and abomination,
and the lively memory of begonias on their sunny balconies
brought a sweet nostalgia in an hour of horror and death;
and gathered among the crumbled walls, their rosaries
recited with graceful whispers, gave them
the strength and the courage to desperately grieve:
"Peace, o beloved peace, have you overlooked
the kindness of such humble and honorable spirits?
Darkness brought the silence they had sought under the glittering skies,
to hide the ugliness of the war in their gloomy shadows,
never to reveal the devastation of their town;
and with the new sun rising, hope would have been
renewed in the sunrise's lasting glow.
They would have seen those wheat golden kernels
bend under their heavy weight and bow....
and heard themselves saying," Mercy, o mercy
of our righteous God, let prosperity abound...
as the misty rain slowly comes down!"
Southern Italian Town: Baiano
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
As I stand before this old, dilapidated house,
A structure fast decaying and about to crumble,
With its walls painted grey and white,
And the plaster bearing cracks and marks,
Memories leap out,
From the moss-grown crevices of my mind,
Like snakes uncoiling, rather like bees swarming,
Fragmented, scented, and sour!
I remember my old maternal uncle,
Who had turned a widower at forty-one,
The presiding deity of a joint family of sixteen.
Most of the time he sprawled in the armchair,
In the enclosed patio of this big house.
In the living room was an old grandfather clock
Ticking away like the faint heartbeat
Of that decadent house with crumbling plaster
He had seen heydays with many ceremonies of great fanfare,
When the house used to board all kith and kin,
And the granary was full of paddy and tons of black gold
But as time slowly weakened his torso
The house too lost its onetime splendor.
His children got scattered far and wide.
They went to hoard fortunes abroad.
But grand uncle refused to move away.
One day he left the house orphaning it for ever.
Now the house is sadly left to total decay.
Its life gone, its soul frozen,
A fragment of an old memory.
Though once I thought I had escaped,
The compulsions of the past
Now I discern, I am still pinioned by it!
As I stand before this house, my ears perk up,
For the lovely sounds this house once produced
And pine for the love
That once so luxuriously bloomed around!
There sat in opulent xanadu, the
demagogue of empirical hedonism,
his granary once fuelled regal reign of epicureanism:
gregarious, restive, much-awaited successor of imperial dominion,
neurotic, obstinate, was the cynosure of cynicism.
The eldest child of Duke and Dutchess of York, erstwhile Prince of Wales,
the proclaimed young heir, stood far from the course of sceptical euphemism;
The heir apparent had a historical encounter with Wallis Warfield Simpson by fatalism,
by wooing Wallis, the royal blood encountered, clangorous cynical criticism.
The resultant mayhem broke, the blue- blood became the bottleneck of idealism;
sagacious, was brooding strategies to be the prototype of unprecedented heroism.
The proclaimed marriage faced vehement oppositions:
encompassing : religious, political, legal and moral objections.
The outright denial to accept Wallis as the king's consort, broke the anticipated rebellion,
Edward's refusal to give her up, led to his final abdication.
When was quite apparent, he could not marry his beloved Simpson,
finally settled to rebuke the throne from etched imperialism as emancipation.
The man of the hour was then entitled "the Duke of Windsor", a transformation stunned the world and wrote an unprecedented statement in chronicle after abdication.
Edward VIII, once epitome of monarchism, became an ideal icon of asceticism.
A sybarite, turned commoner by deserting the successive chair of the british kingdom to wed his ladylove;
a tale of unprecedented impeccable loyalism.
The abdicator's epitaph on Royal Burial Ground, Frogmore,
is still bearing in indelible transcription,
the testimony of an uncustomary love saga of renunciation.
An epoch making transformation, decades have ever witnessed from iconic monarchism to transcendental loyalism:
through unprecedented renouncement
of the bequeathed throne
to array chronicle's unrivalled iconoclasm.
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