Long Paddies Poems
Long Paddies Poems. Below are the most popular long Paddies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paddies poems by poem length and keyword.
Matsuo Basho: English translations of haiku about summer, trees, firefly, fireflies, cuckoos, rice fields, rice paddies, bush-clover, Iris, Irises, temple, temples, Japanese culture, light, daylight, lit, boat, boats.
Fireflies
turn our trees
into well-lit lodges.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A noontime firefly,
dim by daylight,
hides behind a pillar.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Firefly watching,
the tipsy boatman
rocks the boat.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rising above fields of rice and barley,
the cry of the summer cuckoo.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tedious life!
Plowing the rice field
back and forth...
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lying in the summer grass,
discarded like a king’s robe,
the snakeskin.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The shrubby bush-clover?
How impudent
her appearance!
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Glistening dew
sways without spilling
from the bush-clover.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I bow low
to the venerable
rabbit-eared Iris.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
pausing to chit-chat,
one joy of my journey.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The rabbit-eared iris
inspires
another hokku.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rabbit-eared Iris,
admiring your reflection?
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Inside Uchiyama,
unknown to outsiders,
blossoms full-bloom.
—Matsuo Basho, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Uchiyama was a temple little-known to the outside world. In fact, uchi means “inside.”
Seventeenth of March is St Patrick’s Day
Great day for the Irish I can honestly say
Paddies' the world over will want to be seen
Wearing Leprechaun hats and a sprig of green.
Loud colourful parades up and down the lands
Drums, tin whistles and the skirl of pipe bands
Sample some Guinness or a glass of potcheen
Be the best street party you've ever seen.
But if you're not Irish still join in the fun
St Patrick’s day parades are for everyone
But make sure you go, you'll enjoy the craic
And I guarantee that next year you'll be back
It happens once a year so come and have a ball
A very happy St Patrick's day to one and all.
Written 16/02/2019.
Poitin anglicized as Potcheen
( Irish moonshine )
~
Sprig of green is the shamrock associated
With St Patrick who used it to explain the blessed trinity, God the father, son and holy spirit.
~
The craic is news, gossip, enjoyable conversation and having fun.
An ancient story
from the emerald isle
the jewel of every
Irish heart treasured
unwrapping it's beauty
waves of green
descent a
world over
spilling onto
the streets
like a tidal wave
Core of our ancestors
plucking them straight
from the ground
a little scarce
this year
gathering myself
a right
glorious bunch
Taking them home
a feeling
of great pride
as I wash them clean
plucking dead
ones out
putting the cleaned shamrocks
in a glass
as taught down
from my guardian parents
Come our saints day
I will have a massive
great bunch
knowing i could
sell a big chunk
to a few friend smiling
with spare ones
left at home
depending on
the demand
laughing out loud
With reverence
to our great
Saint Patrick
on our day
of green
who banished
the serpents
from our soil
His story
is truly magical
amongst the Irish
sparkling shamrocks
the blessed trinity
a tale of lore
he appeared
in Tir Na Og
meaning in English
land of forever young
Our true Irish flag
is the harp and shamrock
dating back to the fianna
warriors of a king
he is Paddy
and i am one
very proud patron
On this wave
of green rises
for our great Saint
raising my glass
three cheers
drowning Paddies shamrock
in good style
hail glorious
Saint Patrick
Along the blood road there are thousands of ponds.
Carved out by American bombs.
A futile attempt to blast communism
into the next millennium.
It'll take a hundred years to remove
unexploded ordinances.
Children mistake them for shiny toys.
Every day is black Christmas for children
who play along the blood road.
The metal from war doesn't go to waste.
The skin of bombs is made into skiffs.
That putter around the delta mist.
Some taking in round-eyed tourists...
Who're eager to see how a poor communist lives.
More often than not they'll be invited into a hut
provided a humble, heartfelt meal.
Sometimes by a widowed one-armed matriarch.
Today, the blood road is being devoured by jungle.
Natives still slave over rice paddies.
Just like they have for a thousand years.
And will for a thousand years more.
Some of the bomb ponds hold trapped fish
where villagers toss hopeful nets...
and who said war is good for nothing?
You are a masterpiece; true work of art
And your whole being, and its every part
Is masterwork of nature and mankind
Which in you is accomplished and refined.
Your hair, like hanging gardens of the queen
Of Babylon, swing down, and in them seen
Are ivy, cherry blossom, orchid, rose
Blooming together in resplendor. Those
Blue eyes, in which we see Monet, Renoir -
The beauty fathomed specially from afar,
That are more haunting, beautiful and true
The greater distance between me and you;
A nose that like a yacht upon the seas
Engulfs the essence of the ocean breeze -
That stays aloft in turmoil and in flood
And sends the chastened air through the blood -
The lips that like the opening to a cave
Conceal a warm and delicate enclave
In which the sparkling teeth and gentle tongue
Lead food inside and air into the lung;
A neck that like a Doric column stands
Majestic, long and white; the lily hands
That craft calligraphy and highest art
Sustained by rushing turbines of your heart;
A chest with pair of Taj Mahals adorned
That puts all human craftsmanship to scorn;
The voice, like a piano or a flute
Resounds through many octaves or stops mute,
The strands of spirit that are entertwined
In the refining furnace of your mind
That fills itself with majesty and love
And forges them into a treasure trove:
The legs like those of cheetah or gazelle
Are elegant and long and run like hell;
The stomach that like delta river's sand
Is smooth and soft and tender to the hand;
And terraced hills and paddies of your ears,
And morning dewdrops of your gentle tears,
And the Saharah Desert of your back,
And the Forbidden Palace in its track:
In you the world is manifest, in you
Is sun and sky and every worldly hue,
The flowers, stars and sculptures and the word
Of masters and the dreamers and the Lord.
I love you all; and, feeling with my heart
Your whole entity and every part,
I rise in passion and, inspired, fall
Into the Sistine Chapel of your soul.
Uncooked grains of rice caked our apartment.
Dug themselves into my pliable plantar aspect
I welcomed you from the bottom of my being,
Into my soul,
A friend that made me feel whole.
You dreamt of delicious dishes dancing
In the taste buds of those you loved,
An acid trip of flavors meant for those
Whose love you longed to savor,
But never did.
You died just a kid.
Twenty-one years full of
Unrealized dreams and the
Omnipresent discomfort you felt within.
All the while you smoked away your
Smile that I still picture,
No matter the number of miles
I drive deep between my ankles and
The skyline of Philadelphia.
At your funeral I wondered
Of all those years we could have plundered.
Would you have been the best man at my wedding?
Would we have had a falling out?
Would you have found the woman you loved?
There are many things we could have talked about…
As those loose grains of rice
Free themselves into my footsteps.
I pound the ground into paddies,
And flood the fertile ground
With a deluge of despondent tears.
A future with you was uncertain,
But one without you is full of fears.
I am leaving trail of scattered rice fields
So you can find me again, my dearest friend.
Gawd! I awoke this morning wondering what I'm doing in this miserable place!
I thought the oath I took was to defend America's shores, not a foreign race!
The French made a mess and ran, now, America has to straighten things out.
It's a civil war and personally I don't give a damn what the politicians tout!
The president and his minions are making millions off my miserable back,
While I wade through these gawd-forsaken paddies dodging shells and flak!
Maybe I should've gone to Canada but I would have let my father down,
Who fought in another war and returned with honor to his hometown.
Colonels and generals sit on their butts in Saigon adding medals to their collection,
Enjoying air conditioning, steak, ice cream and the finest whiskey selection.
I dine on C-rations, get a shower once a month and a warm beer now and then.
I hear the screams of wounded buddies and weep at the agony of dying men.
I hear back home that peaceniks call us baby killers and spit on returning heroes!
If I ever get back home and that happens to me, I'll punch the SOBs in the nose!
Nams don't appreciate what we're doing and its a shame our people have to die,
While a lot of their young guys avoid the gore of war hoping it'll pass them by.
As I sit here in this filthy foxhole with water up to my knees, I fervently pray,
I can make it through my tour without a scratch and get home to a better day.
Will America ever learn from history and stay out of other people's wars,
And learn from the futility of war while the loss of our blood and treasure soars?
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Miranda Lambert's "World of War: Vietnam" Contest
Apr 2011
By many aliases they're known:
Crawfish, crawdads, mudbugs, yabbies.
They abound in brooks, and streams, and swamps,
As well as roadside ditches and rice paddies.
Their astacology has shown
They prey like scavengers and mobsters,
While some, more taxonomically aloof,
Try hard to pass as mountain lobsters.
Throughout the world as food they're meant,
Both from the wild and from the grocer,
But not as a substitute for meat at Lent
Because they're not considered kosher.
And so the cunning, craven crayfish,
The ones that didn't get away,
End up in boils, or bisques, or soups,
If not served up as étouffés
In swanky overpriced cafés.
Haiku Translations II
Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water...
Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Unaware it protects
the hilltop paddies,
the scarecrow seems useless to itself.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ebb-tide:
everything we stoop to collect
slips through our fingers ...
—Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fading memories
of summer holidays:
the closet’s last floral skirt...
—Michael R. Burch
Scandalous tides,
removing bikinis!
—Michael R. Burch
Haughty moon,
when did I ever trouble you,
insomnia’s co-conspirator!
—Michael R. Burch
Ascendance Transcendence
by Michael R. Burch
Breaching the summit
I reach
the horizon’s last rays.
Moore or Less
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Moore
Less is more —
in a dress, I suppose,
and in intimate clothes
like crotchless hose.
But now Moore is less
due to death’s subtraction
and I must confess:
I hate such redaction!
no foothold
by michael r. burch
there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.
so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,
as far as the i can see ...
The Red State Reaction
by Michael R. Burch
Where the hell are they hidin’
Sleepy Joe Biden?
And how the hell can the bleep
Do so much, in his SLEEP?
Red State Reject
by Michael R. Burch
I once was a pessimist
but now I’m more optimistic
ever since I discovered my fears
were unsupported by any statistic.
Keywords/Tags: haiku, nature, moon, water, sea, night, rain, dark, memories, tides, insomnia
Hear them rattle, a joyful song they sing,
Rejoicing in the rain's refreshing grace,
Amidst rice fields, thirst-quenching drops bring,
Four-legged dwellers welcome rain's embrace.
In the coolness of the rainy season's call,
They captivate a wanderer's delight,
Talking amidst paddies, where they stand tall,
Karr karr karr kokakok, their voices unite.
Mingling with the breeze, rural nights they fill,
Their chorus resonates, joyous and free,
Gratitude to heaven's love, they instill,
For a life that humans oft overlook and flee.
Happily hopping, leaping through time,
Seasons change, but hope remains,
Ever ready for the next rain's rhyme,
Embracing the life we often disdain.