Long Harrow Poems
Long Harrow Poems. Below are the most popular long Harrow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Harrow poems by poem length and keyword.
Schooled in hard knock sufferance... -
soulful scribe matt er fact - seeks solemn sanctuary
Despite always pledging
allegiance to the flag
academic performance traced, narrated,
graphed... unfavorable zigzag
vertical lined spikes across
x-axis and y-axis displayed
dramatically sharper increased crag
when promoted one grade to the next
how comprehension did lag
attributed to allocating, dag
gone nabbit budgeting, crafting... productive
time usage, plus an affirmative nod,
whereby yours truly did lallygag
evincing object lesson procrastination
study habits shucked off cuz mum did nag
obfuscation regarding illegible note taking
I moost definitely haint gonna brag.
Deplorable curriculum vitae
not hearty and hale
equals pathetic academic performance
now displeases me,
yours truly did wanna fail
no matter parents told me, I got smarts
severe psychological dissonance
affected this male
in retrospect,... a tell tale
sign everyday existence
arduous, horrendous, perilous...
lifelong struggle analogous to quail
caught between cross hairs
tis pointless foregone opportunities... assail
self pointless, hence no surprise
metaphor locked within jail.
Report cards highlighted
plethora weaknesses bred
teachers exhausted markers
especially black red
spent small fortune replacing
regarding this jughead,
who practically proved deficiencies
prevailed within his head
arising and undoubtedly stead
dully contributing living
antisocially he approximated
being gratefully dead.
Search for acceptance during harrow
wing during formative years absolute zero
earning michelin equivalent laughing stock,
where mummified pharaoh
each arose out sarcophagus (cue Thriller -
Michael Jackson), a hero
cash equalling cow Jackson 5 era
before disgraced pedofile,
now keeps company with Nero
roman around within underworld
plus disembodied spirit Clarence Darrow,
who scopes, karaokes,
moonwalks... with monkeys.
Sundry dead souls heave pens, gogol,
and trumpet like Donald duck,
their afterlife I envy mingling sui generis
versus yours truly down on his luck
dismal flying colors
analogous to mire and muck
no man iz an island, yours truly isthmus
squeezing thru narrow passing lane,
this bummer doth aimlessly truck
this late bloomer summoning forth
long suppressed pluck.
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
O river of rivers,
The queen river,
Flow as you wish,
Gather silt forever
That on your shores
Men may harrow, then sow
The seeds of happiness
And sorrow to grow.
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
O river of rivers,
The starry river,
Your blinking waves drum
Of Behula's shiver.
I too am lost,
The tattered merchant fool,
My peacock barge rides
Fate's whirlpool.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend,
O river of rivers,
The wise river.
Who would speak for us?
If not you, may be never.
Yet the mountains rise
From the hearths' ash,
You are silent, while
The history is brash.
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
O river of rivers,
The hungry river,
The consort of Ruin.
An arrow in Falguni's quiver.
The infinite wasteland beckons
Hold onto heart's dream,
One more sun above
Anguish and scream.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Afloat I am,
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
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Form: Bhatiali
Date: 19 / 11 / 2016
Bhatiali is a form of folk music native to Bangladesh and Bengal. There is no place for Taal (a term used in Indian classical music for the rhythmic pattern) in pure bhatiali. Even rhyme is not that important. Generally, these songs are sung by the cattle herders on the fields or the fisherfolks living off a river. Among the several subjects of folk music in all of Bengal, that includes Deha-tatva (about the body) and Murshid-tatva (about the guru), Bhatiali deals with Prakriti-tatva (about nature). Probably the most renowned poet of this form is Jasimuddin. Some of Rabindranath Tagore's songs can also be categorised as typical bhatiali.
A canticle I think I'll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish'd.
This is what I think I might be.
I'd as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we've all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth "A canticle I think I be"
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though 'twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All's well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
Form:
I can bring you a holy war.
Of souls and sour things…
I feel your slings and arrows of poison sight!
I dealt with your Hypocrisy your lies, your bitter night.
I simmer in your black bile of self-loathings
and
small Petty aspersions
and
Other annihilations!
I can bring the rain, the rage the righteous holy war of faith and abandoned grace!
In your ignorance and hysteria, they’re abject hypocrisy, I boil in brazen apathy and sour thoughts…
I can bring your whole-e-war
to your Door steps
to your living room
to your sycophantic neurotic soul.
You fester with black bile of Lies, hypocrisy
At its finest a testament to your Atrocities
As you think you’re aristocracy.
See!
See the harrow narrowed duplicity or poison animosity,
I bring you holy war and holocaustic ash.
Bombastic.
Fantastic.
Annihilatistic, dead?
A jihad of the soul and flesh.
A holy war.
Feel the coming rage,
in an age, at the brake of day.
I will rule my inner dominions.
I can bring you your holy war
of wars
the war of souls and flesh…
The war of machines and man made of history
Of souls and sour things blackened to ash
Holocaustic aftermaths…
I feel your slings and arrows of poisonous second sight in profane fluids; blood n sack cloth and lashes as lies; damnation crimson crime,
Feel the ruination of lies and ash in night!
I dealt with your superiority, your fictions
your scalding eyes, and ragged lips, stained,
And heavy thighs under raven eyes…
I simmer in your black bile of loathing and small Petty aspersions burning away in nihilistic ash.
Harrow on the Hill
Nice, beautiful, and stunning place
Harrow on the Hill
I have been here many times, and a new life has taken over me here
Harrow on the Hill
I love this place, I meet my soul here
Harrow on the Hill
Something caught me here, but another thing also let me go
Now I can't find any, life has dug my curse
But when I go up the hill, I always meet new life
With life? With lives, because I always see new people there
It's strange, but I have the feeling that the meeting was already there
Yes, they are all kindred spirits, I know that their gaze radiates toward me
They come up the hill, they walk, they step uphill
I'm sitting in Byron's favorite place (Byron View) and I'm just watching, drinking wine, and thinking
People reach the lookout point and look at the landscape below, pondering
They are happy, liberated, and detached from the everyday world
I feel the same way when I come here and spend a little time from my life here, I can
The cause of everything is not life, nor time, but place, place
I feel that noble forces live here on the energy field of this hill
The reason for this is the past, but also because many deceased people live here; see the cemetery, how beautiful, the past lives here
Yes, that's right, I often get this and similar feelings here
Harrow on the Hill
Walking and meditation for me
Harrow on the Hill is a memory for me
Harrow on the Hill St Mary's church
St Anselm, Lord Byron and Allegra, and those who rest here
Guest innkeepers
Harrow on the Hill
My life is one of this world
Lying still on the class room floor,
brown paper for a bottom sheet.
All the children were gathered round
and my outline was complete.
A cookie cutter girl was I
in bright black paten leather shoes;
with a gathered skirt, puffy blouse
of blue polka dotty hues.
Drawn silhouette, a paper doll,
not ashen as deaths cold harrow,
and I regret, my parents get
left Hiroshima's shadows.
Eight years gone the Rising Sun
was challenged in an earthy sky;
for bombs Little Boy and Fat Man fell
and two-hundred thousand people died
The Man of Steel, old Stalin
passed away in Russia this year;
the hot cold war was in full bloom
and our children hid in fear.
Beneath our desk tops we scrambled
as the shrill sirens shrieked away
the Committee of Five ruled Russia
and Khrushchev was on his way.
Dwight Ike was in the White House
as a veteran, he'd fought hard
the GI bill was now in affect
and bomb shelters filled our yards.
And little girls with ringlet curls
still made dollies on paper sheets;
while the doll shadows left by WWII
bombs blackened in Japan's streets.
*On August 6, 1945, the United States used a massive, atomic weapon against Hiroshima, Japan. This atomic bomb, the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT, flattened the city, killing tens of thousands of civilians. While Japan was still trying to comprehend this devastation three days later, the United States struck again, this time, on Nagasaki. Nagasaki was bombed on August 9, 1945 only three days after the bombing of Hiroshima. And we worry that other countries may develope atomic bombs???
abominate, abhor, abuse, admonish, adumbrate, afflict, advance,
agitate, agonize, alcohol, announce, approach, awaken, bait, bark,
bawl, bedamn, bedevil, berate, betoken, bluster, bode, bother, break,
brew, browbeat, bully, caution, censure, chide, clutter, comminate,
complain, complicate, confuse, cow, crucify, DAD, damage, daughter,
deplore, detest, devil, disarray, disorder, disparage, distress, divine,
embroil, enforce, enmesh, ensnarl, entangle, entwine, exacerbate,
excruciate, execrate, expiate, family, feel, fist, flex, forebode,
forecast, forerun, foresee, foreshadow, foreshow, foretell, foretoken,
forewarn, frighten, fulminate, gnarl, gnash, grieve, growl, hammer,
hang, harass, harbinger, harmonize, harrow, heckle, herald, hound,
injure, intimidate, impend, imperil, imprecate, inflict, intuit, involve,
irk, jam, jeopardize, joy, knot, laughter, loom, love, maze, menace,
mistreat, molest, Mom, muck, muddle, mumble, murmur, mutter,
nag, normalize, omen, overhang, overshadow, perplex, persecute,
pester, plague, portend, preindicate, provoke, punish, push, presage,
pressurize, prognosticate, promise, prophesy, provoke, punish,
quarrel, quiz, rack, ravel, rebuke, reprimand, risk, scare, scold,
scourge, scowl, sense, shake, shame, signify, smite, snap, snarl, son,
soothsay, spook, strike, tangle, tease, terrorize, threaten, thunder,
torment, torture, trouble, upset, usurp, vaticinate, vex, vilify,
vociferate, walk, warn, worry, wound, wring, yell, yelp, zero, zip, zone.
He was the village blacksmith
To us children he was known
As our adopted Uncle Wilf
They’d no children of their own.
Six days a week he worked,
His hours long and physically hard.
Our cottage back door opened
Straight onto the smithy yard.
The yard was full of machinery
Each one a potential toy,
Schooner, stagecoach, tank
Imagined by a lonely little boy.
A binder, a reaper, a hay rake
A seed drill, a harrow, a plough
I never saw them arrive and go
They just came and went somehow.
Sometimes there were farmers
Serious, big weathered men.
Talking quietly in the Forge
Maybe laughing now and then.
I stood there among them,
Old Tom’s youngest lad,
They all knew and respected
My hard working labourer dad.
Uncle Wilf talked as he worked,
Never had much time to stop,
Always work to be done
In a busy blacksmith’s shop.
Sometime he’d let me help him,
Giving me a little job to do,
Like handing him the nails to be
Driven into a Shire’s new shoe.
Just a country childhood
Just after the Second War
And binders, harrows and reapers
Weren’t so much needed anymore.
The big Combined Harvester
Very quickly came along
And, not long after, the Shires
And village smithies were all gone.
Now, seventy years later,
Eyes closed, I recall with joy
My very special childhood as
A lonely Yorkshire village boy.
Life seemed to be a lot slower
And people didn’t have a lot
But we’d really appreciated
The little bits we’d all got.
April 30 Scripture Meditations Based on Psalms 13-16
Key Verse – Psalm 13:3 Consider and hear me, O LORD my God…
MY GOD, THANK YOU FOR CONSIDERING ME
Thank You for considering me midst my sorrow
Never forgetting my commitment for tomorrow
Always counselling me to overcome temptation’s arrow
For me to prevail against despair-harrow.
Thank You for considering me midst my enemy
Never leaving my soul during challenges that are stormy
Always defending me with Your holiness’ army
For me to trust You despite situation that’s gloomy.
Thank You for considering me midst my troubles
Never hurting my heart, but smiting my anxiety-mumbles
Always cheering me whenever my world crumbles
For me to abide in your will devoid of falsities and fables.
Thank You for considering me midst my shamefulness
Never insulting my well-being, fashioning it toward Your holiness
Always healing me from sin-illness
For me to seek first Your kingdom and Your righteousness.
Thank You for considering me midst my pressure
Never weakening my faith against worldly pleasure
Always fortifying me with divine strength’s measure
For me to stand by Your promises that assure.
Thank You for considering me midst my difficulty
Never discounting my ministry-contribution in my full faculty
Always satisfying me whenever I feel empty
For me to enjoy in Your work with Your contentment-bounty.
April 30, 2022
Darkness persists,
Then in moments appears the vitreous hue
On the horizon
as vision from nowhere filters through
the benighted heavens
the lonesome moon shivers
in apprehension
as her belamy flickers its last
and regresses into the past
Tranquility resounds everywhere
a peace so peaceful and joy so joyous
for everyone to share
yet who but the few stricken by Love
or the ever awake mother dove
have from their slumber this trice to spare
or perhaps the farmer awoken
by some dream that tickled his heart
or the wife goaded by some urgent task
to be done from her chores apart
or the breaved who keep vigil over their dear
ones or those forced by hunger or tiresome wear.
Apart from these, the wandering fog and the silent trees
the cold dead rock and the chilling breeze
testify the morning cheer
More light pours in and nature shows herself
the fog dissolves
the clouds are red and gray
the mynahs and parrots shatter the silence
the rooster announces the day;
the lingering mist over the pond kisses the cold water
as lovers parting at the break of day
after lovely long night hours.
The roscid chrysanthemum shies away
at such a doughty act and shudders
as the wind steals its fragrance and makes it sway;
Harrow! the witeless fogs are wiped by the dour rays
of the Sun, who infuses life in the world of men.