Long Market day Poems
Long Market day Poems. Below are the most popular long Market day by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Market day poems by poem length and keyword.
Everyday is market day
But I rarely come your way
I have a glimpse of what you have at bay
They glow and glitter from your better ray
And so I will never want to delay
But hurry in ways come what may
And reach your trademark everyday
Let’s trade
When I look round, round and around…
Before we trade I hear this sound
That you will turn my life around
And so I walk right in your compound
Hoping to find all and be found
I’d like to trade on a sober ground
To give you my all that’s less profound
I’ll give them to you in pounds after a pound
So, let’s trade
For sure, I’ve been so afraid
Afraid to face my fears and trade
With you I’ll get more than a fair trade
Coz what I see on your side are a quality grade
All that you alone have wonderfully made
Give me that sufficient grace in wider spade
And a whole shelf of love that doesn’t fade
Yes, yes, yes I will have them paid
Carry them along, alone without a maid
Because that’s all that Your Word has said
Let’s trade
I stand right in front of you with this- garbage
It is my burden that you engaged in gauge
You see how heavy it is for my age
And that’s why I open this brand new page
To capture and record this trade’s advantage
You hawk and shout out loud God’s real image
How nice does that now fit my innocent age
I am just to stop this kind of camouflage
To evade this cage that is coiled within an orphanage
My all life on my own I can’t and wouldn’t manage
So come and help me offload this long, long luggage
And promise me that you will uphold your old adage
Let’s trade
I take Your joy take my pain, let’s trade
Give me Your eyes take mine, let’s trade
Handle my hunger with Your word, let’s trade
Just lift me up when I’m down, let’s trade
Dry my tears when I’m crying, let’s trade
I give You my darkness for your light, let’s trade
In my weakness my Jesus show me strength, let’s trade
I cast my burdens and cares, let’s trade
I give You my all for Your joy, let’s trade
I lay my all at your feet, let’s trade
Let’s trade, let’s trade, let’s trade…
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Adire” for our dear mother?
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan”
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware?
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila”
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala”
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds
– Aro:- A local dye
– Adere:- A fabric made with “Aro” it is popular among Yoruba people of western Nigeria,
– Iyan :- A paste for food made from Yam
– Egusi :-A soup made from the melon seed
– Ila :-A gelatinous soup made from Okra
– Amala :-A paste for food made from Yam flower
Sojourner to far-flung climes;
When you return,
Will you remember the evening songs
Chorused by chirping under the baobab tree?
Will you still remember the fame of the great hunter
Whose courage put the forest sprite to flight?
Earning him the most beautiful virgin in the land
When you return,
Will you remember the fable of the wraith
That forced our forefathers away from the farm at dusk?
Will you still dip your hands in “Aro” to make “Àdìre?” for our dear mother?(1)
Will you?
The market still a beehive of activities
Every market day is as rustic as you left it,
Our women the same, untainted by the new ways
Our men have not also faired any better,
Still suspicious of the innovations of the town people
Our children are not ashamed of showing off their beauty for the world to see,
The harrowing cries of our virgins still pierce the night,
As they fall under the mutilators knives
Will you still remember how to savor “Iyan” (2)
Pounded with the sweats of the maidens and
Molded with “Egusi” from earthenware? (3)
When you return,
Will you not now be repulsed with “Ila” (4)
That soup which you handled with such mastery with “Amala” (5)
The leaves from the forest still keep us strong and virile,
Their medicines have not offered any hope to all our ailments,
When you return,
Teach us not new things about our Land
O sojourner,
When you return from the distant land of subjugation
That dungeon that robbed us of our cultures and creeds.
Aro is the source of the indigo-dye which is used to create Àdìre? cloth.
Iyan: A paste for food made from Yam.
Egusi: A soup made from the melon seed.
Ila: A gelatinous soup made from Okra.
Amala: A paste for food made from Yam flower.
THE MARKET
[ From days of old the gathering of country folk to sell their wares has
taken place at the local market. Today, the tradition still carries on. ]
The paddock at the end of town
lay mostly bare all year,
except when market day came 'round
folks travelled far and near.
With stalls all shapes and colours there
and wares of ev'ry kind.
The country folk would amble 'round
to see what they might find.
One chap was selling leather goods
another works of art,
while one plump lady offered me
a home-made apple tart.
I met a couple selling gems
which they had mined themselves.
Two sweet old dears sold pottery
arrayed on many shelves.
Hand crafted toys were on display
the envy of a child.
One mum she dressed down her young son
for he'd been running wild.
My eye then caught a bearded man
who busked and played guitar,
though stopped at times to quote some verse
he was so popular.
A little girl came running by
face painted like a cat,
her smile expressed her great delight,
there was no doubt of that.
With two hot dogs gripped in both hands
a rather plump young lad,
seemed quite content in growing up
to look like his old Dad.
Three boys on ponies rode around
bushranging on their minds,
old Ned I think would counsel them
to leave it far behind.
Soon folk began to pack and leave,
but they'd return for sure.
The paddock would lay bare a while
'til market day once more.
Jody was nine, her namesake calf
but newly-born, soon shorn
of his vitality, to be a steer
and hers alone, for just a year;
it was for both of them to grow,
and know of love. Thus
with her brush and comb
and her aplomb above the skin;
she rushed the hours on
until the day the Four-H show
crowned Jody Too in blue.
It was the day
that Jody learned to weep,
for champions are made
not just of love alone,
but masterly caress of shank and bone,
organic marbling, and charts
and sleeplessness;
there were dark forshadowings,
insistent silent taunts forced back
upon the trip home from the fair...
yet there were weeks beyond, to dare.
She knew she could not dwell
upon the end that she must not ignore.
There was no store of stoicism
in her heart, no lust for sacrifice,
no practiced separation might be there
to strengthen her, prepare her
for the market day when she could see
her father readying the truck for those
magnificent black steers,
(nine hundred pounds enhanced
each frame) and watch them
on the ramp.
From her bedroom window all of them
were seen on board, then Jody Too,
when eyes still dry, she turned her face away,
her own tear-drenched goodbye an hour before.
Her father had not known, came in,
and in bucolic wisdom, thus
invited her to watch them go.
She shook her head, there was
no consolation for her dread.
"Dad, Jody knew!"
~
Godiva a Saint or a Goddess her tale unfolds thru legend and folklore
Origin England a town named Coventry ‘tis where Godiva did dwell
Devoted to Leofric he set her a riddle/a love chase her ardour to prove
Devoid of clothing to come to him her feet ne’er touching the ground
Effusive Godiva riddle now solved her red auburn hair hanging down
Side saddle rode streets of Coventry, whilst townsfolk stayed inside
Stark naked but her long auburn tresses Godiva’s modesty did hide
Written 14th July 2020
Contest A Contest About a Goddess or God - Not THE God
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
A striking statue of Godiva naked upon her horse stands in the city's central square, Broadgate. Sculpted by William Reid-Dick, it was unveiled in 1949 and is one of the few statues of horses outside London to be listed (Grade II).
Another version of a legend why Lady Godiva rode naked thru Coventry is…
In the eleventh century, Lady Godiva reportedly rode a horse completely naked through the streets of Coventry on Market Day. According to legend, her husband, Leofric, demanded an oppressive tax from Coventry citizens. Lady Godiva, aiming to help the citizens, pleaded for him to stop. Leofric supposedly said, “You will have to ride naked through Coventry before I change my ways.”
But somehow the first legend makes her more of a Goddess – don’t you agree…
On the subject of road works in the Market Place, Devizes, England
Stuff’s happening in the Market Place
To really make folk cuss
Why isn’t there a parking space
And where’s the chuffin’ bus?
The traffic lights are stuck on red
It shouldn’t be like this
Park down Station Road instead?
Here’s something you can kiss
The long drive in from Long Street
Is a journey one may rue
Traffic jam, and save the feet
Or walk, and dodge the poo?
There are barriers by the chip shop
And the road looks really odd
Where can the hungry driver stop
To score a battered cod?
And, catch a bus outside the Bear?
That’s seriously confusing
A pop up pick up bus stop, where?
Change is not amusing
Damn those blokes in hi vis coats
For getting in the way
Some fat cat who got our votes
Has dug up Market Day
Why can’t it happen overnight
Can someone wave a wand
And some strange flowing spell recite
Whilst mooning by the pond?
Disrupted traffic, vain appeals
Bring back Devizes station!
Angry faces mouth at wheels
Expressions of frustration
Call them ruddy roadworks
When the ruddy road ain’t working?
More bollards than a Corn Bin night
(less twerking)
by Gail
Scatter me there where the winds are sweet
To the blue of the sky and the sun’s bright heat
On Oliver’s Camp where the dragon lines meet
Scatter me there on the hill
Scatter me there where the waters flow
Where the weeping mourners come and go
Down by The Wharf where the ducklings grow
Scatter me there on the bridge
Scatter me there where the earth sees all
When the pond is lit by a moonbeam’s fall
Where the children play and the drunkards brawl
Scatter me there on the green
Scatter me there where the griffons play
Where the waters pour the hours away
In the pool of the fountain on Market Day
Scatter me there in the stream
Scatter me there with the silent dead
Where ages of souls have been buried and wed
And the angels cavort among coffins of lead
Scatter me there by the church
Scatter me there where the townsfolk cried
And strew flowers on the steps when Diana died
On the stair where 'tis said that Ruth Pierce lied
Scatter me there on the cross
Scatter me here and leave me be
On every street, under every tree
Until I am dust and memory
Scatter me here where I’m free
by Gail
A clatter of human hooves
drums on through an after- dawn marketplace…
the wide tunnel of mouths
reel from the splintered chorus
of jangled tunes bargaining and rattling
papaya, arabica and sushi roll orders: a fiesta
of succulent aroma whisks mid-air,
talkative faces sampling potent crops
on weaved baskets , hanging neatly
before slurpy hands condemn
them to boiling pots: the errant
noise loose like gander and hogs.
How much is this and that?
The slithering, crumpled bills drop
their tongues on purses scraped from
one week’s abominable toil.. oh, darting
fishes jerk their bellies while the array
of chicken hunks glaze under lights, frozen
and lumped from farmers’ harvest
rites... morning so luscious with grapes
colored velvet skin, lettuce tips
pulped by shiny green: and the procession
of lapping mouths reach head tone pitch,
dishes, dishes for salivating tongues,
taste buds for citrusy fruits, on one delirious
mecca to a market, market day!
......................
A Poem You Enjoyed Contest of Lewis Raynes
Entered 9/13/2016 (Old Poem)
Tropical moonlight illuminates divination waters.
Seeking clarity in the cloudy mist
Traversing the corridors of my Mothers
Nightly birds , flying the afternoon skies.
Chaos yearns for a visit.
Whose doors will it knock on?
mine, no, another’s
Lightning stuck more than twice.
Who will console the mourning mother?
Whose child died after yesterday's cry
Mourners await a call.
To weep blood on a sunny market day
Cradle tired of harbors
Mat shredded and Back aches
nightly drum beats gone stale
If there must be a stay,
A sacrifice it is ;
Seven graves, seven heavens, seven carved Iroko
He who will dance with the winds must be well rooted.
Four points, four initiates, four-four faced kola
Only the sages have seen the last
Three times, three ages, three junctions, three white roosters
Another day is another morning.
To take from the spirit,
the earth must conceive from a splintered kola
To commune with the ancestral realm
Roosters must go on a journey of no return.
When morning comes, the Iroko sleeps.