Long Ploughed Poems
Long Ploughed Poems. Below are the most popular long Ploughed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ploughed poems by poem length and keyword.
In the Australian vernacular
he was a ‘flea-bitten’ grey.
Not dappled like a dream horse
but speckled like a rock and not a
fine large horse like Tom Cable’s
roman-nosed, Major.
Dad had traded for him- with Tom -
two rolls of barbed wire and a fence strainer.
He came with a used saddle and bridle and
the high spirits of the seldom ridden.
Dad knew, that before he would let me mount him,
he had to take the 'curry' out of him -
rode him hard through a ploughed paddock.
Rode him until he stood in a foaming sweat
ears sideways, subdued.
I can’t forget being led, those first few rides
“Don’t let go of his head, Dad” I’m not ready yet,” Dad
and I knew the horse sensed the trembling in my being,
until one day, his bone- jarring trot, became a solved puzzle.
I felt a gathering- a sense of balance
between the pony’s mouth, the stirrups and the reins
and suddenly from a secret fulcrum
I was posting, “Let him go now, Dad,” I shouted,
A sweet transition to some rhythmic, magic floating
Around the homestead once and back I was cantering.
I pulled the reins, “Whoa boy!”
That first halt obeyed filled my head for days and days.
The War Poets
The First World War wasn`t a world war but
a war of dominance in Europe chiefly by the Franc, British and Germany.
World War 2 included most country it was a nasty war
millions of people died, but strangely this war is partly forgotten.
It changed the map and brought forward Israel, which became a torn
for lasting peace in the Middle East.
But the war brought us great American writers like Theodore Dreiser,
Ezra Pound (poet)Ernst Hemingway and many others great writers.
The savagery of that world didn`t include so many poets as
the dispute in Europe also called a world war did,
the reason we remember it so well is thanks to Wilfred Owens and
his intimate friend Frederic Sassoon who ploughed deep furrows
in our mind and did away with flowering poetry, gritty realism
was and still is what poets should strive for.
Help me please! I'm a kid, and I'm confused.
Something's wrong with me -
I like to run wild and free 'neath the sun,
And climb a willow tree.
I ask too many questions, that I know.
Tell me, you are grown up -
Why I can't focus on spelling or math
Instead of my dog's new pup?
I'd rather throw sticks to Rex in a field
Of tall and wavy grass,
Or stroke a new kitten's soft fuzzy fur
Than sit at my desk in class.
Like the willow that dwells wild in the field
My limbs are growing fast.
My brain is sprouting some new branches too,
Not to be surpassed.
I'd like to be a wild fox or a deer -
Not a bull or a cow,
But dad says animals are useful when
They give milk or pull a plough,
Plants are useful when they grow up in rows,
But I say this, I'm not proud -
I like the scattered way they are before
Those lovely fields get ploughed.
I want to be useful just like my dad,
So, in my desk I sit,
But my brain's still out in the sun and wind,
I just cannot control it.
After school, I have lots of activities,
without even a break,
Supervised by skillful adults who can
Keep me from making mistakes.
Is there a way for me to get better,
Or medicine for me,
So I can be like my hard-working dad
And join society?
Thank you, sir, I don't have any more questions.
I'm OK - I've had my pill.
Just let me know what I need to do,
And I'll do it sir, I will.
The ship of ages
It was a hot afternoon when the big bulk carrier left a harbour
at the coast of Bengal bound for Sidney (Australia)
with a cargo of scrap iron from ships that once had ploughed
the many seas, alas too slow in our modern time.
Somewhere in the Indian ocean, the sea separated and
the bulk carrier fell into a timeless zone where life repeated
itself endlessly; the cook is making soup, the captain is
reading a map of the oceans’ great currents.
150 years passed convulsion in the time zone. and the ship
was back on the sea’s surface.
The cook served his soup, and the captain called the harbour
authorities in Sidney, he needed a birth for a ship no one
had heard of, but the manifest stated Sidney.
They let the ship birth on a disused pier far from the city
to the disappointment of the crew.
When the pilot left, he was pale and shaken as he
had navigated the ship through a layer of time.
The customs officials found cigarettes and whisky,
products that had been banned for over sixty years
only marijuana was legal if smoked in moderation.
The crew, the captain and the cook were arrested and sent to
an open camp for interrogation, it was there a nurse noticed
the tribulation was getting old by the day, and the crew could
no longer walk, many were incontinently suffered from senility
and chronic heart failure.
One day they had gone, what was left dust blowing in the wind.
As I look beyond my garden, to the blanket on the hills,
Where moonlight shines it's magic and where the icy river runs
I fold my arms around me in the silver winter's chill,
And see a bright star shiver, now that leaden clouds are done
I let the night embrace me underneath the midnight sun
Each crystal flake, that drifts on down among the river stones
A jewel, unique, of other flakes, each gleams as little suns
Transforming all, in soft moonlight and glistening as sewn
Cotton, fragile, pillow soft, and silk that had been spun
Into webs of pearl, the essence curls, so draped and then so clung
The trees, and fence posts, dressed in white, so regal and with flair
Shimmer in the starlit night, pristine, sewn, stitch by stitch
White lace has bordered furrowed rows, of ploughed fields, everywhere
My loneliness, and humdrum world, transformed, and much bewitched
So debonair, my world so fair, I gasp a breath of air...
________________________________
By Carrie Richards
Submitted for the Sweetest Touches of Verse Contest
Sponsored by Gauitami Phookan
* * * *
The sun was hot, and not a cloud
was in the sky; it was not good,
for all the day, the boy had ploughed
the sod the way a big boy should
for his dad to be so proud.
So hot was he! Oh, if he could
get a sip of tea. Not allowed,
he did his job but understood
tea for him was at the finish.
To end the job was his big wish.
For now, he’d sit and eat his fish.
At the end of his job, he
sat and had a BIG cup of tea,
and it was so heavenly!
For the Funom's Sonnet Contest of Funom Makama
THIS IS not MY creation. I am quoting here the words of Funom Makama:
The Funom's Sonnet consists of 14 lines, each line made up of 7/8 syllabic word count. The rhyme pattern is in this form
a-b-a-b,a-b-a-b,c-c-c,d-d-d.
The major unique feature of this new kind of sonnet is its words. Apart from the rhyming words, all other words in this poem should consist of not more than three letters.
The excavators are all out, digging deeper into my soul
Scavenging to find the last remains of gems, oil or gold
My life is put aside, as they only search things of worth
With all my resources of any value taken from my earth
Every precious element, from within my body is sucked
Every morsel of emotion, as from my rich heart plucked
My eyes blackened, with my emotions turning to stone
As gone are all the things, that were only to me known
I stripped of all reason, my thoughts turning cold as ice
There the cutters into my memories, continue to splice
Death would seem more amicable if only it was allowed
No part of me was left, nothing sacred left un-ploughed
As precious elements sold, to the highest bidders found
And my life forces turning into ashes I fall to the ground
I but lost to the dust that you down tread with your feet
Lived in my own defiance but lost out to my own defeat
Thus all the angels lamented and the heavens did weep
Gone am I as in forgotten, but my soul never does sleep
War brings out your worst enemies other than your foe
As your aiders reap your wealth before they leave to go
You left my people in the sidewalks without any shame
My nation made of people more worthy than your gain
As I reminisced on my soul stolen, then so cheaply sold
Little did you know, you only stole what was, fool’s gold
It's early autumn no rain for several months
long grass in the paddocks becomes tinder dry
Fires are burning closely to produce a pall of heavy smoke
which is hanging thickly, low down in the sky
Today a raging eighty kilometre per hour dry wind
is blowing from the north
The fires are moving closer
makes one think what life is really worth
Temperature is close to forty celsius degrees
low humidity hovers at around almost six per cent
The smell of acrid smoke
alerts the olfactory scent
Nightfall has arrived now there's an eerie glow
encircling all of us will it come to hound ?
The wind adds to the drama
as it makes a roaring sound
Mother decides it's time to make a move, seek safety
abandon the old farm family home
We pile into the car. on a tractor track up a long steep hill to a paddock recently been ploughed
we move into the middle of this chosen safety zone
The fire burns in forest litter lying down below
and also high up in each and every leaf
We watch in awe these flames that spread so rapidly
at a speed almost way beyond belief
The glow from forest flames
almost reaches daytime bright
The embers in oily eucalypt foliage
with stored energy rapidly ignite
Wind alone is not the only spreading catalyst
Hawks gather burning sticks to drop ahead of the main fire
Stirs up hordes of insects
as the food which they desire
There is often blame put upon the greenies
for the ignition of these wildfires
Big fires in Victoria in nineteen thirty nine
well before the greenies as scapegoats did arise
Many of these fires deliberately lit, even firemen
charged with arson, being caught in this wilful act
Fires floods hurricanes tsunamis volcanoes
all a part of nature which has a huge impact
The field had stood barren these last few years
waiting for the farmer who scratched his head
visualising crops with which he could plant
corn tall yellow gently rustling in the breeze
he mulled it over, potatoes might be better
breaking the soil putting goodness in the
ground, clearing out weeds which lay dormant
just waiting for the land to be ploughed and turned.
Then putting on the harness he backed the drays
between the plough shafts buckling up as he went
soon the blades left straight lines in the ground
plough twice, farrow once, his father always said.
Looking down at the farrows straight and true
he called to his wife and sons they walked in line
sowing potatoes as they went two lines each
marris pipers and then king Edward they planted.
The farmer watched over the next few week watering
as needed until lines of green plants appeared then
farrowing again he left the plants to flower and mature
digging out the now swollen tubers he stocked piled them
And started to plan the next crop for the following year.
Maise, oats or corn then silage then a year of grazing
For as all good farmers know a five or seven plan
works the land to its best giving always excellent yield.
Memories go back to my vanished youth,
And I reminisce clearly my master’s beautiful farmhouse.
With its granaries full of corn and wheat.
He was once a zealous farmer working day and night,
With me- as his inseparable companion.
We worked together in the corn fields till the fall of dusk.
With cock crow, my master would wake up,
Do his morning ablutions, get ready and proceed
To his field in springing steps,
With me clinging heavily onto his shoulders.
The land was ploughed, the seeds were sown.
My sharp blade made furrows in the soil.
Though my master’s hands with toil were torn
And my blade got blunt many a time,
Never were we inclined to take rest,
But kept working on end till the harvest was done.
Even when the summer sun was blazing above us,
With the air pulsing with waves of heat,
We worked hard, both of us finding joy in relentless toil.
Those were days of sweet contentment.
It was long ago, those days have quickly gone.
Now I have grown old and with me my master too.
Rusted and abandoned, I am tucked away,
In the old farmhouse, the sad reminder of a glorious past.
There, on a cracked wall, I am hung limp in dreamless sleep!
Now the old farm door on its rusted hinges creaks
The wicker gate around the farm is falling to decay.
The gravel path, with brambles and weeds overgrown.
Rodents and snakes roam freely among the thickets.
My master is now like his abandoned farmhouse.
A rotting engine not overhauled and can’t be put to use.
He has withdrawn to a life of lethargy,
With trains of memories haunting his days!