Long Paddocks Poems
Long Paddocks Poems. Below are the most popular long Paddocks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paddocks poems by poem length and keyword.
July.
cold tightening
around fabric.
cotton clenched,
twisted like creekwater
seized by frost.
white cloth waits
for its undoing.
dye seeps
slowly—
like mist on the ranges,
like breath
through the fold.
indigo first,
deep as a billabong shadow.
then iron-rust,
red ochre,
the colour of dust
after the heat.
then wattle-yellow,
sudden sun
in the gathered valleys.
each knot holds a silence.
each seam marks a boundary.
colour works through it.
outside,
paddocks are stiff in the morning.
frost sketches brittle lines
across fencewire and spider web.
inside,
the cloth will not hold still.
it runs.
it fractures.
it remembers heat.
hands stain
like earth after rain,
like bark at dusk,
like something living
pressed briefly
into human shape.
unwind—
and the fabric is no longer fabric,
but aftermath:
rings like seasons misread,
threads like thaw beginning,
a map of stain and release,
winter stored in cloth.
July loosens.
not the land—
not yet—
but here,
in this small storm
of colour,
winter breaks
into circles of fire.
A flood of grackles,
black-leafing the tree
who seem to’ve forgot
that its not
Winter;
it’s Spring and everything
is about to flower.
Eva says they are starling
and they may be.
She says they crowd the uncrowded
barebranch trees and blot out
the sun and blot out the Spring’s sounds.
The nattering and chirp-chattering
is a great April chorus for us,
down here...in the frostbit grass.
The ear is rung like a town bell
as thoughts are misshapen and lost.
A woodpecker, somewhere
is into his or her daily
mind-numbing rat-a-tat-chattering;
Unburying dreams, dreams in the heartwood.
It’s the 16th day in a row.
Or seventh.
Or 38th.
(It was once that I could count.)
A neighbor’s rooster breaks the night,
breaks the dawn,
breaks the morning
wide open.
An earful all day (break)
The horses whinny in
their morning mare-compare-mare-ing
then find their way to their place
in their paddocks.
The air is abound with sound.
Three geese,
circle over.
From dawn’s waxen East
feathering past a flaxen South
gaggling to the black sun West
they klaxon forth to nourishing North.
and there is no hearing, now...
not even
a single starling
(If ever there were such a thing.)
Not now, not even -
a single peck of wood.
Not now, not -
a single cockle is doodled or done.
Not a single mare is heard from her herd.
and there is no hearing, now...
not even
a single grackle
(If ever there were such a thing.)
You see them everywhere,
sometimes countless in number,
winged, walking or wading,
running the gauntlet of waves,
filling the air.
Birds populate the planet,
make their home in trees,
buildings, on grassy paddocks,
icy continents and clinging
to the craggy heights of cliffs.
So many. But where do they go
to die. We see only a few
as roadkill or the odd one
decomposing under a bush.
Where are the others?. Surely
death should be more visible
in their ranks, parklands dotted
with those that have fallen dead
from the sky or a branch. More
washed up on a beach.
You would think their remains
would be everywhere
in plain sight. But no.
It's as if the dead slip through
a portal and into the unseen,
leaving no trace. Or maybe
the earth simply claims
and disposes of them
in haste out of respect.
Or do they find somewhere
inaccessible, hidden from view,
a place to pass away
and leave the human mind
to wonder why
the bodies of the avian dead
seem to number so few.
With indecision rode abreast
Intended path becomes digressed
Old age accompanies us soon
Protected from sway of heart's swoon
Independent flag flown above
Declares no use for fickle love
Closure wraps webs, unspent calyx
Composts in forgotten paddocks
Extension as petals erupt
Resilient haughty's harsh disrupt
Crumbles robot disposition
Gives passion due permission
Held out is your hand to delve in
Wafting musk man wax firm terpene
Growth emergence drifts adjacent
Inhaled fragrance fresh placement
Dangled now upon my doorstep
Taking the chance, you endorsed it
Stainless steel crumpled, heart on tap
Safety reigned, your care eclipsed that
Ready to bloom in love splendid
Softness of Libby now rendered
Able to lay guard down, submit
Spread open desire soul permits
27th September
8 Syllables
Oh please wake me up when September begins
Day one of September's the first day of Spring.
Here in this hemisphere on the south side
Our weather revives from a cold Winter bride.
Daffodils bloom, and new growth is seen
Lush paddocks spread out with grass oh so green.
The sun in the blue sky is a welcome sight
Our day is now warmer and so is our night.
Spring brings such renewal to brighten our moods
More time is spent outside as Winter concludes.
The earth on the north side brings September's fall
Where days become colder with Summers recall.
A change to the season with carpets of leaves
That fall to the ground when stripped from the trees.
Then Winter takes over with cold and the rain
While here in the south I'll have Summer again.
And so to you now, these words I do send
September for me brings a start not an end.
Meaning is over there,
beyond the burnt paddocks
and blackened hills,
the crumpled, flattened ruins
of houses. It is further out
than that nothingness glazed
upon the distances
of a vacant stare.
A powdery dust now coates
the walls of a terrible absence.
There is a gaping silence,
a hole emptied of screams,
of moans, cries given up
to heaven. What was living
has been burnt back
to where only
a dull numbness
chafes against passing time.
Melted pots poke through
a tangle of charcoaled waste.
Memories, lifetimes crumble
into flakes of ash and amongst
the rubble,
a fire blackened teddy bear
with outstretched arms
seems baked in a posture
of perpetual still,
holding onto something
beyond the reach of fire.
A white lily sunrise
brings the malaise,
humid dreams shimmer
off the blackening tar
Red dust girates an axis
dark matter is overcome,
lethargy drags the body
into a blazing bright sun
Work, a joke on labouring men
each day drains into the next,
without a dropping of heaven
without a wisp of air, no respite
The incessant heat hoards air,
the smell of rain on a breeze,
nothing but a cruel memory
as the earth bakes golden
These summer days long
for the circles to turn,
for cooler winds braced
with a stinging cold nose
For nights clothed in linen
their warmth, a comfort,
not these deadly months
this end of the world
Gaping fissures score
the face of the outback,
spinifex gathers along
a rabbit proof fence
Farmers no longer see
a blue horizon beckoning,
the life they bestowed, now,
lost in bankrupt despair
The year's turning decades
and the green paddocks,
never more will checker
our rolling countrysides
each day another species dies
each day another million lives
become nothing but a eulogy
on a yellowed classified page
Still we do nothing, much,
still the child cries unheard,
and the world will end, not,
with a bang or a shout
But on a whistling breeze
only heard by the gods
Dog Master
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
Fifty dogs all different in size and shape
Impossible to tell the type of breed, mate
All the dogs have a discriptive and unique name
Irene, knows them all, for none are the same
…
Only Irene can handle and work this team of dogs
They trust and respect her in the paddock, bush and bogs
Their home in the bush a stone throw from the house
Made of tin, steel and hollow logs free of louse
…
Heading, gathering or pushing in the paddocks
In the yard, on the sheep's back, the dogs are no hicks
Commands yelled out amid the noisy barking
The dog master Irene gets the job done, she is king
…
The hounds on the hill get excited and start baying
The rousers stretch their leads in the air they spring
The horse all saddled, the men go forth with guns
Time for a Kangaroo hunt down by the creek run
…
The dogs search for sheep on the plains and hills
They gather, they drive never fearing the terrain or spills
In weather of heat, snow, cold winds or driving rain
They push the mob towards their master, Irene
…
The sheep yard-ed the dogs job is done
Head for home, horse, rider and dogs as one
All the dogs patted when the chains done up
Given a feed of kangaroo and water to warm-up
…
Snug in their kennels, worn out and asleep
Oblivious to the howling wind, cold and sleet
The dogs resting for their work is never done
As their master, Irene heads home on the run
The dew will fail to pool...
Catching Light, becoming Air.
A daytime dream. Briefly held.
Wisped away.
Like every day.
The forest of grass
received a starshower of overnight starlight
which pooled in places in the fields.
Silken hammocks. Spider-stitched.
For the briefest low-light
momentaries, as a foggéd breath might,
they seem to give me cause to think
that
they may have caught the Moonlight.
Though, in time, the sod and sun
will drink the dew
and the day’s demands will leave trodden
the patches in the paddocks.
Of silver. Of sun. Of moon. Of stars.
Of magical
pools.
I remember fitfully,
Those verdant fields their
Yellow brushed cotton tips,
Gyrating, swirled to beauty,
sighing, undulating minute blades
infintesable allure wafted
on those white wattle nights,
even drained of sustenance
it still motioned to flower
as I am drawn to nigh.
Jaundiced paddocks replace
the suppleness of earth, where,
once green strands laid
like laurels on the dawn
Rich red particles of death
now pepper the ether,
unwonted limbs litter lanes
original ground now fallow
Trans morphed unholy Gaia
sits cackling next to Azimuth,
sons of the fathers, follow
the false prophets online
As their hands are filled
with knowledge of the world,
their heads are lackluster
gazing today after tomorrow
Good intentions are twisted
in a government mainframe,
planet earth screams succour
and only God is left to hear
but I'll ever remember,
viridescent pastures
millions of miles long,
breathlessly beautiful
before the tech triumph
life's last gasp of gorgeous