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.
My Dad was a very practical man, so adept at many things.
Why, he could fix my bike and replace a watch's springs!
Many times I stayed by his side as he worked late into the night.
I learned so many things from him as I simply held the light!
He could tear an engine down and put it together again!
He could hang a garage door or replace a broken window pane!
He showed me how to tie a fishing fly and how to make a kite!
I learned so many things from Dad by simply holding the light!
Growing up during The Great Depression things were really tough.
He even had to repair our shoes with heels and soles, sure enough!
He was a talented carpenter who made sure things fit snug and tight.
So many things I learned from Dad by simply holding the light!
If the old John Deere tractor wouldn't start he knew exactly what to do.
He knew how to doctor his horses, hogs, cows and little puppies too!
He could butcher a hog in a trice and cure its hams and bacons right.
I learned so many things from Dad as I stood and simply held the light!
He could repair an inner tube, repair a harrow and shoe a horse!
He mastered the use of a dowsing rod and could trace water to its source!
Dad was and is my hero and taught me always to do things right.
So many, many things I learned from Dad as I simply held the light!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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 chambermaid whose name is Marlia
Had the most terrible diarrhoea
Whilst scrubbing a loo
She needed to pooh
Poop flowed freely from her posterior
It splattered on the newly scrubbed door
Gloopy poop was all over the floor
There was a huge mess
It covered her dress
Her poor tummy was ever so sore
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
Marlia was filled with sorrow
A clean dress she had to borrow
flies were attracted
The mess compacted
clean up required a harrow!
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
If only she'd have taken a Tums
No mess would be left on her bums
she's still in despair
a stench in the air
To the scent of poop she succumbs
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
Marlia was dumb, thinking it was just gas
But it was much more that she had to pass
The day was torrid
Her stench was horrid
Now everyone knows Marlia has no class
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Marlia tried hard to sneak out
the trail of her poop left no doubt
Lysol was sprayed,
Her funk still stayed
cause her poop kept running out
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Poor, poor Marlia stunk up the room
Her hubby left and she has no groom
He ran for the hills
No more night thrills,
Now she's alone and her life is doom
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
21-07-17
As a lad, agrarian affairs held for me very little charm.
I could hardly wait to escape that toilsome Hoosier farm!
From early dawn when my Dad would have me rouse,
There were always things to tend be it garden, hogs or cows!
Milkin' a herd of cows began the daily farm routine.
This was done by hand since we had no milkin' machine.
There were hordes of horses, goats and chickens to be fed,
And the onerous task of curryin' the mules, Clyde and Fred!
Tater bugs must be picked from acres of pertaters,
And weeds to hoe from never endin' rows of termaters!
The old John Deere was cranked to plow and harrow the fields,
To prepare to plant the corn and wheat for our annual yields!
In summer came the shockin' of sheaths of golden wheat,
Fightin' nettlesome sweatbees in the swelterin' Hoosier heat!
October brought no respite since we shucked the corn by hand,
Pluckin' rows upon rows of the stuff that never seemed to end!
Nowadays, I'm told that farmin' is done with relative ease,
By a new breed of sodbusters with agricultural degrees,
Ownin' air-conditioned tractors and fancy milkin' machines,
Sportin' Stetson hats, alligator boots and smart designer jeans!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
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
Life is a Series of Unmade Choices
Written: by Tom Wright
2/12/2018
Our life path is populated with unmade choices,
And mode of travel accelerates us on our way.
Too often we’re influenced by clamoring voices,
Leaving un-defendable choices on judgment day;
We face each day with a propensity of choice,
Then, by others, discover our options predisposed.
In allowing another to resonate as our voice,
We’ll soon realize that we’ve just been hosed.
One path was made for the straight and narrow,
The opposite encumbered by gimmicks and turn;
To be left as the ground of a pulverizing harrow,
And along with hushed voices, as chaff they burn.
Blithe fools traipsing through bleary hollow
Airy sprites in hovering tents shadow
Brooding sylvan fringe shrouding light with her swaying willow
Jaded beams peep through the crenelated steeple's window
Sprouting thickets bristling with spiny tendrils each step harrow
Creepy vermin frenetically scurry under foot from burrow to
burrow
A musty dampness shivers intruders; beneath feet liken's slimy
residual doth grow
Whistling winds hauntingly whisper a doleful strain
Ominous portent overhead; hoot owls continuously bleet their eerie
refrain
Perilous pitfalls surround; ensnaring cracks, crevices unwitting lives
drain
Poisonous foliage ensconses the beaten path distilled with its
potion of pain
Jagged course nearly run; wayfarers enlightened by each
cumbersome travail
Weary itinerants seasoned on nature's, menacing plain
Pensively treading the last mile over the rough, foreboding terrain
Bloody moonlight, carcass and crow's.
Rigid creatures,created from night shadows.
Teeth that are shrewd, creeping like an harrow.
Dyed rosemary, widespread whispers.
Marching band,roaches on foreign land.
Sky cry, child cry, no one care to give a helping hand.
Fair filled the air, faith tells one time is near.
Be bait? Or show no remorse.
Sacrifice the weak, or the dead weight you may keep!
For the strong will strive ,and the meek will grovel at your feet.
Baby's will barely get to eat,grandma's will have eternal sleep.
Destroyed buildings, and carcass crows will eat.
Fights may breakout in the street's.
As dooms day will start to creep.
Bringing country rulers together to have a seat.
All in all history in itself repeat.
A Broken Heart
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow,
My love’s full of such anguish and fear;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.
My heart seeks such a palliative yarrow,
My thoughts are shattered, no longer clear;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.
My desire’s gone, a victim of a much harrow,
My emotions are awry and bring no cheer;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.
Your anger strikes my heart like a poison arrow,
Your evil intent revealed with no sugary veneer;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.
I live my life now with no surcease of sorrow,
Your former love declarations ring now so *****;
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.
My spirit’s in tatters from your hateful harrow,
And your face now haunts me with a nasty leer;
I have a broken heart so sad with sorrow.
My soul’s afire with pain for the morrow.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
November 14, 2014 (Villanelle)
I mowed the front lawn yesterday.
I mowed the back yard today.
My knees are still aching ,
Sunburn's in the making,
And my back is beginning to sway.
But sing no sad songs for me,
'Cause I'm happy as I can be.
My doctor says so,
And he ought to know,
'Cause he charges a handsome fee.
I'll tackle the garden tomorrow,
Weeding and edging the furrow.
Then Japanese beetles, some spiders and nettles,
Will all say bye bye to the harrow.
I'll weed, turn and till the soil.
To my joints apply goose grease and oil.
I'll take a hot bath then lie down in a draft,
Till my herb tea comes to a boil.
My doctor will say I did fine.
He'll give me the A-OK sign.
He'll say have some tea, don't come to see me,
For seems listening to me seems crime.