Long Harvest home Poems
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In November I write of winter
for I am weary of the old year and tired bones
I visualize all hardships blanketed with fresh snowfall
geese in a "V" as they flee on trade winds to the south
season's celebrations, toasting in the new year
senior couples delighting in a luminous sunset
knowing it might be their last together
In February I write of spring
for I am weary of the bone-chilling cold
I envision the circle of life resurrecting dormant earth and tired souls
zephyr winds teasing nascent flower petals and young hummingbirds
mayday flower crowns adorning laughing children
young lovers sharing kisses, dreaming dreams of
infinite possibilities
In May I write of summer
for I am weary of the bone-soaking rain
I forecast cloudless skies and longer days
Santa Ana winds dismissing every chill
a lark's lilting lullaby lulling loons on the lake
vacationing families basking in the warm outdoors
brides and grooms viewing limitless horizons
In August I write of autumn
for I am weary of the bone-dry heat
I anticipate bewitching fall winds tantalizing neon maple leaves
turkeys gobbling, ducks wobbling, thrushes warbling
harvest home throbbing with the aroma of fresh pie
middle age couples cuddling by the fireplace
giving thanks for all that lies behind and ahead
Lord, help me to view the past with grace,
the future with hope,
the present with contentment,
and to write of November
in November.
written 25 October 2021
On a grassy bank beside a trickling stream
I view her ebony locks of which I've dreamed
Naked she is bathing in translucent crystal clear
As I long for her shapes to shadow me near
This short distance between us in natures surround
For soon we will be in clinch on her sacred ground
Whilst all around there are sounds of wildlife lush
It leaves you in marvel as it quietens to a hush
I turn my head in this most dreamy of place
As I capture her beauty that nature has graced
The cooling waters from the pure running stream
Cascades down her body this fluid supreme
Her ebony locks down her body caress
Naked to bare we have no need to undress
On a blanket of tartan we kneel down as I dry
My love, my lady as we look into our eyes
Shaped undulations awaken thoughts in my mind
As I lightly touch my dreams start to unwind
Our adventurous hands now in wandering roam
Amidst the greens and colours in this harvest home
Beneath the blue, two torsos in mix
Feelings of desire have us joined in transfix
Pleasurable movements like soft rolling waves
Cresting in the breeze as we internally crave
Our love heightens in joyous serenade
By the stream beside the meadow, our love displayed
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/love-13.php
Snow, snow, drifting down on little towns and farms,
Snow, snow glistens on the oaks’ and maples’ arms.
River, river from the north, with thaw of ice it flows,
Mighty Mississippi, past my little hometown goes.
Blooms, blooms, pretty blooms, and lilacs scent the air.
Blooms, blooms paint the land beneath a rainbow fair.
Hills, hills, soft and rolling, low and grassy mounds,
Hills, hills, some are ancient natives’ burial grounds.
Stars, stars, flitting stars that wink in twilight skies,
Stars, stars, tiny stars are summer’s fireflies!
Corn, corn, fields of corn, so wide and green and high.
Corn, corn, stalks of corn keep reaching to the sky.
Leaves, leaves dance on streets while children walk to school,
Leaves that tango, red and gold, as days and nights grow cool.
Home, home, harvest home, where crops are gathered in,
Home sweet home, as I recall, is hearth of kith and kin.
Song of the Harvest Home
Under contented twilight memories, my childhood harvest home abides in chrysanthemum hues
Two story home on a quiet street behind a fence decorated by my grandmother’s roses -
Dressed up in sleet, sometimes snow, maybe rain, even icy sunbeams
Midst the warmest benediction, blessings gathered from fields and orchards yield
Our wide door flung open like hovering wings to gather in extensions of abundant bounty -
Transforming the harvest round a table extended by oaken leaves Granddad at the head of table,
Generations take their seats to bow their heads in loud amens of celebration grace –
Scents of cinnamon and of sage, harmony and dysfunction, at their places
Setting ageless wisdom like silverware - dreams to sparkle like crystal glasses
An understanding unspoken – always a place for those alone on this holiday – now adopted -
New family welcomed by fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles - cousins
Loud debates swirling like cream in coffee over pie and Grammie’s applesauce cake,
Closely guarded stories of the cousins raiding relish trays, wearing olives on fingertips
A turkey taking flight across the kitchen floor – raspberry jelly retrieved from basement larder -
A box of chocolates anticipated - Jordan almonds in my pocket
Memories of the year when pot pies replaced the bird – not repeated – thank you Lord -
Giggles over washing dishes as playing cards appeared on blanket covered tables
Before a warming fire where my heavy eyes relished this genesis of jubilee, a “normal?” family
Our voices raised in the song of a harvest home around a slightly out of tune piano.
11/9/20
Contest: Thanksgiving
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
ON THE SHORE A FORGOTTEN MAN
On the shore a forgotten man.
He left footprints on the water.
From him, they say, all life began.
Longs to call thee, son and daughter.
The true love knot of Calvary.
On the shore a forgotten man.
His nectar shadow danced for thee
— this crimson clover genius plan!
As this earth is waning, you can
hear the trumpets, of harvest home.
On the shore a forgotten man —
His arms open wide, pleading, “Come!”
Since yesterday, “Adams” do wade
in misty gardens sinful span,
but for tempest of grace notes played.
On the shore a forgotten man.
4/8/2018
Ten Words/Sponsor: Joseph May
Words used:
Crimson
Forgotten
Grace
Harvest
Love
Misty
Shadow
Shore
Tempest
Yesterday
A blood-red private view of morning
A second chance to climb the attic stairs.
The ceiling, ticking time, cascades
A thousand pricking darts, stampeding
Purple chariots, blanketing the sky.
The zealot's blade, so swift to still
The heart that beats an alien rhythm,
No backward glance to desolation.
Within a vastness all-consuming,
The wolf retreats to primal isolation
And howls unheeded at a distant,
Cold and quite indifferent moon.
As thunder clouds converge
And drown all hope of harvest home,
We find that, like the wolf, we are alone.
Inertia quickens, takes a hand,
At last to move the day.
The cabbage, wilting on the edge of sanity,
Bleakly views the blackened pot.
The steady chop chop chop is heralding
The grand ensemble of the daily stew.
Regardless, now the day's awake,
The perils lost in sleep are there anew.
The blood-red now transforms to palest grey.
The resurrected monotone of every day.
Snow, snow, drifting down on little towns and farms,
Snow, snow glistens on the oaks’ and maples’ arms.
River, river from the north, with thaw of ice it flows,
Mighty Mississippi, past my little hometown goes.
Blooms, blooms, pretty blooms, and lilacs scent the air.
Blooms, blooms paint the land beneath a rainbow fair.
Hills, hills, soft and rolling, low and grassy mounds,
Hills, hills, some are ancient natives’ burial grounds.
Stars, stars, flitting stars that wink in twilight skies,
Stars, stars, tiny stars are summer’s fireflies!
Corn, corn, fields of corn, so wide and green and high.
Corn, corn, stalks of corn keep reaching to the sky.
Leaves, leaves dance on streets while children walk to school,
Leaves that tango, red and gold, as days and nights grow cool.
Home, home, harvest home, where crops are gathered in,
Home sweet home, as I recall, is hearth of kith and kin.
(Can you guess my home state? It's Iowa)
By Andrea Dietrich
For Skat's MY LAND IS MY HOME Poetry Contest
Written: September 24, 2023
Apple Picking Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
___________________________________________________________
In a farm adorned with autumn's grace,
Where saffron sunbeams slightly trace,
A bountiful orchard, a wondrous sight,
Where apples hang, kissed by sunlight.
Apple-picking crate handy, we venture near,
To savor apple sweetness we hold dear.
Picking apples, a cherished tradition,
Every fruit is a regalia of nature's provision.
The branches sway, whispering secrets untold,
As we gather the harvest, worth beyond gold.
Their vibrant shades are a feast of delight.
As we pluck them, a symphony bears flight.
Crisp and succulent, every morsel is a treat.
We burst with delight as aromas never deceit.
The harvest of the fruit, nature's abundance.
Reviving our bodies and souls via indulgence.
From Granny Smiths to succor Honey Crisps.
Every apple utters a tale, every tidbit is bliss.
The orchard's opulence is a perennial treasure.
Connecting eras is a string that we can measure.
My extended bifurcated ladder pokes the tree still
I'm also picking the finest fruits I can foresee.
As sunset draws near, the barrel will fill.
I may have left two or three apples on a tree.
As the sun goes down the shades fade.
We cherish the orchard for the time jade.
We've known the thrill of plucking apples.
All these trees savor akin to snapples.
An admiring bird sings while sitting under a tree.
They favor the fresh, white crisp alongside the bees.
The jars were then filled, hitherto in the gloam.
The halcyon family cartwheeled their harvest home.
HAIBUN QUATERNION
WINTER in anger whips up the waves,pounds the shingle shore,whispt later SPRING in action,brings to life and feathers its nest.SUMMER ,so lazy rests the soul and flowers the land as AUTUMN ,so mellow scents & sounds the harvest home.
a summer moving flowers of spring
at the crematorium- blossom and dew,
tears dry in the wind. beauty of youth
lost in a sigh.
around the corner Fall
days of grey- stands
drab winter gloom. still and
hestitates-
then becomes winter
you msy hear me recite this quaternion on youtube under my pen name
ichthyschiro
catchmy short forms @strandpoet on twitter
The lilacs have come and gone, so brief was their time,
fragile flowers like some, who seldom linger long,
their purple prominence a pantomime of our springtime.
Full heart-shaped clusters pump perfume so sublime
a gift from heaven, mother nature can't prolong,
the lilac has come and gone, so brief was their time.
Harvest home to birthing butterflies in sunny climes
brought low by the battering rain of May’s swan song,
their purple prominence a pantomime of our springtime.
Unmated, virginal, a merry gift, most sacred in its prime
a rust red blight upon the cloth, a crown of thorns once gone,
the lilacs have come and gone so brief was their time.
Let shoots reform and hollowed make a flute to pass time
to cheer our mother merry and sooth the wearied throng,
their purple prominence a pantomime of our springtime
Like they, we spring forth, summer, fall and wintertime
may our seed justly arise in the beauty of heart song,
The lilacs have come and gone so brief was their time,
their purple prominence a pantomime of our springtime