Long Hoeing Poems
Long Hoeing Poems. Below are the most popular long Hoeing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hoeing poems by poem length and keyword.
vegetable hag came by her name and occupation naturally
She grows vegetables in gardens, I think she has twenty-three
her carrots are enormous, her radishes amazingly red
She will be hoeing and growing every year until she is dead
We tried to help her in the garden, but she chased us away
You just want to steal my produce, she screamed at my cousin Gray
I will never offer to help her again, he said. She is a mean old hag.
I was glad we got chased off, taking care of a garden can be a drag.
My mother buys vegetable hag’s produce on corner across the street.
She took her a cupcake, and vegetable hag said “oh, my, what a treat!”
her turnips are round and ripe. and her lettuce is crispy and green.
She is not only a vegetable hag, she is the vegetable queen.
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
Once, a little Spanish girl
was given a "regalo" -
a dainty little potted plant,
a purple-petaled mallow.
She set it in a sunny spot,
beneath a southern window,
re-housed it in an iron pot
and named it, "Don Galindo".
She gave it water every day,
and gave its loam a hoeing.
She talked to it and petted it,
and marveled at its growing.
Her plant rose tall and strong and fine,
rewarding all her labors:
"¡Te quiero!" sighed the little girl:
"¡Que raro!" cried the neighbors.
Joy never lasts, grief always comes,
said someone (maybe Byron?)
Galindo's roaming, ravenous roots
were hemmed-in by the iron.
The fine plant sickened and declined,
all hopes of salvage scuppered:
its lower parts, by steel confined,
could not sustain the upper.
And so, the moral of our tale -
resisting is not giving.
Do not preclude, prevent, prevail -
rigidity's all very well,
but soon turns heaven into hell!
Give in to me -
set us both free -
don't cramp or crowd -
things disallowed
can hardly go on living.
I grew up in a small rural Iowa town
my parents were spawn of farmers
we had “farms” out in the country
we did not live on them but we planted them
our summers were spent hoeing, weeding, raking.
a child I teach stopped me. “There is a hoe in this story?”
Loud laughter. They know about hoes apparently.
I have to explain about the other kind of hoes.
we planted our crops in straight rows made by a tractor
then put a neat wooden cross at the end of each row
telling what we had planted there – radishes, carrots, lettuce,
there is nothing like a homegrown tomato or a homegrown radish
store bought produce cannot hope to compete.
Standing hoeing garden stones
Eyes awash with tears
As memories flood back from
More than sixty years,
To the little village churchyard
For which my dad cared
And which duty I, as a child,
So very unwillingly shared.
He dug the graves, cut the grass
Scything carefully around
Each sheared and flower strewn
Humped burial mound.
All the paths were of loose stone
Which, after ever spring self seed,
Just attracted and harboured
Endless stretches of weed,
Each year it was my job
To shim and hoe them clean
So that those spick and span paths
Matched his carefully mown green.
I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child
Complaining every single year
But dad was quietly firm in spite
Of my every tantrum and tear.
Now he comes gently back to mind
As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care.
Just for a while it’s the old churchyard
And we are both back there.
Good job done he says
As we stand side by side
And we both inspect that path
And my chest swells with pride.
And now I stand here
Leaning on my garden hoe
Thinking of things I wish I’d said
All those many years ago.
But the past is the past
And we both know it’s for the best
That I wish his memory goodbye
And let him slip gently back to rest.
Calmness signals heart's strength
Watching closely what words lock,
To blind reasoning behind acceptance
Of mind's choice cum conviction's stand:
"Follow what you feel, time will heal,
Life's treat that seems a difficult conceit,
Understanding couldn't beat or mistreat
Before it reveals its effective ideal seal"
Covered up by deceit's travelling length,
Like truth won't be able to meet and unlock...
Its acquired position as of due accordance-
When challenged, it ends up been banned:
"Choose what you need; sow a kind seed,
Life is about growing, no one is perfect knowing
Right-wrong deeds, unless learnt while trials mislead
Many a time hoeing yet never give up sowing"
bonasa umbellus--- "cloak of secrecy"
A warp drive is a theoretical concept that
moves a spacecraft by compressing space
in front of it and expanding space behind
it, creating a "warp bubble"A cloche
french for bell.
The limbs of the hickory wii be fashioned
and forged into a bassoon.
" Hezzah Hoeing"
--- -- --------------------------------
Manila Clam Hand Hoe
Clam Hoe/Fork
Solen brevis
sandy-muddy tidal areas.
Other species, such as
Amiantis umbonella
Barbatia decussata
tivela damaoides,
being prominent in
clam feastated areas
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-------------------Quahogs----------------------
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Qawad Large Snout............------------------------
Marta decided to garden herself happy
It was the thing she used to love to do
with her grandparents, Big Pappy
and her grandmother, Nora Sue.
They had spent many hours planting their seeds
Hoeing, tilling, raking, and getting rid of weeds
their bounty came in July, and sometimes in June
They were still working, singing a communal tune.
Big pappy would whistle, Nora Sue would hum.
Marta planted her garden, chewing her gum
Putting seed packages on stakes so she would remember
what she had planted; what she would can in September
As she made these new memories, she remembered her roots.
Her apple trees were generous, they provided her fruits.
Carrots, cabbages, corn and pumpkins came along this July.
She smiled at the heavens, feeling her grandparents in the sky.
Hands hold tight to the loose ends of hope
As we toil and crack, night and day,
Hoeing up bits of earth and its fragile retributions.
Our crops and little beads of sweat drip to waste
On the ground’s boiling soils.
Eyeh is another name for a deceased generation.
The ones that sprout stubbornly through restive
Delays get re-greened, losing vibes of communal
Watering, ceremonial baptisms.
Birds build their nests in haste,
When bent cusp-blades sprout secretly at twilights,
Behind ethereal curtains of dawn falling
To the consternation of treacly, bitter syrups of time . . .
Is this continuous planting . . . and delirious season?
Has it come to that —when drunken war mongers
Form weapons from slats of pallid bamboo stationed
At the guard posts of violated yams and their flaccid
Tendrils?
I fear.
Such suzerainty over yellowing crops
Transcends the coats of black dust hiding from the disease
Of identity.
It is still planting season, brethren.
The deafening sounds of cannons shake the stalks yonder.
There's a smug dance of weevils on the graves of tubers.
My alarm clock was set to go off at eight
When I lurched out of bed oh heck I was late
Forgot to move on the clock for an hour
I was late for work – no time for a shower
I dashed to get dressed at the speed of light
My son was laughing - he could see my plight
I ran to the bathroom to clean my teeth and face
My car keys were hiding, not in their usual place
Ran to the car in my receptionist attire
To my horror I found I had a flat tyre
Got out the jack and changed the spare wheel
Jumped in the car how the tyres did squeal
Drove to the office into the parking lot
But why it was empty – oh no I forgot….
Bank holiday the first week of May
BOTHERATION was all I could say
Drove home slowly, just like a snail
Just in time to open the mail
Then I did:
The washing and ironing,
cleaning and cooking,
(had a few chocolates when no one was looking)
the weeding and hoeing,
planted some seeds that needed sowing,
washed the car and mowed the lawn
then to the hairdresser to have my hair shorn,
sat down with a book and had a cup of tea -
need a bit of time relaxation for me,
Then I
washed and dried the dishes,
cleaned out and fed the kid’s goldfishes
bathed the kids and made them a snack
got in the shower and rubbed my aching back
adjusted the alarm for the right time in the morning
crawled into bed and then started snoring
Tomorrow when I go back into work
I won’t tell them my error or I’ll look a jerk!
05~11~15
Fictional write for Contest: Today I Accomplished
Sponsor Sara Kendrick