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.
The air was pure and bright. A sea-salt tingle
hovered in an easygoing offshore breeze.
In mesmerising rhythm, wavelets sloshed
and swished along the timeworn jetty wall.
The bay was sparkling in the morning light
as early gannets hungrily patrolled
their crystal-clear domain.Slight movement now
within the overnighting boats, safe moored,
serenely sheltered at the break of day.
A swan flotilla, now near fully grown
and all in a row, in silence glided by,
exploring weed and tidal offerings
under a careful matriarchal eye.
The year was moving on, the midges gone,
and still the little ferry ploughed its course
across the bay, its passengers intent
on finding peace and personal content.
The cafe at the pier, with clinking cups,
was heralding the day, with early starters,
few in number now. The summer throng
dispersed and homeward bound, to feed
on memories. For some, like me,
a fitting epitaph might be
“He lived his life in thoughts of Arran “.
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
* * * *
He lived in four little rooms
locked behind the door.
And the night shined through
where a light shined before.
A red flame burned ashen gray,
dying on the floor.
So you move yourself along.
And grind on down.
And scrape the path you drag around.
Stumblin’ on the way.
A new day with no grace to say,
starin’ down the ground.
They’re softer lies to swallow
when you’re drunk.
Or when you’re full of faith
and barely saved.
It’s only things that fade.
And leave impressions in the dark.
And demons in the haze.
Sunlight burns night away,
turns darkness into day.
So sing inside your walls.
And make the lamps low.
And watch the white screen glow,
black on grey.
The words that you say.
And drain yourself away.
Another night burned white by day.
Oh my Darkness, I beg you stay.
Are you fated?
Or are you led?
Well either way the moon will grow.
And spread out wide across the snow.
Piled high and ploughed.
Raised between the lines.
And layered across the years.
Sweating in the rustic dusts of Nazareth, you laboured.
As a farm labourer, ironsmith, weaver, and shepherd,
You ploughed with the peasants, who were curious yet loving.
They were teachers from whom wisdom, like clear streams, flowed, gushing.
You walked, pondering over the Sea of Galilee.
Where fishermen struggled like lilies amidst barberry,
The breeze, amalgamated with the Abba message, blew.
With you, the fraternity of the folks, day by day, grew.
You read about all philosophies and theologies.
Small or great, each one therein had unique ideologies.
The rich, though they seemed strong, bent in the winds of faith like reeds.
You held all of them in the same balance, mending their creeds.
Each herb, shrub, plant, tree, blossom, fruit, and weed imparted wisdom.
In the soul of each seed, the lord of lords founded the kingdom.
*Reserata Carcerem XLVII*
Whilom, sate taunted tortoise b' brook;
hoist'd hunger 'n haughty hoofs trod th' nooks
smothered stomach wrought foiled furrow -
sumptuous severity 'n grace glowed.
Thereupon eerie eyes espied;
bounty bowl ñ tide with salient sigh.
Apt acumen whispered t' him th' draw;
rustic rage rent b' pored passion's call.
Sewn strife b' haughty hurls was sore licked,
'n' wished h' th' tumbling tide would t' th' bowl spit,
but moist mirage choked worn wishes,
'til quethe sassy stream's lusty lips.
Anon, grew grousing nymph from waves,
wh' for bounty bowl (bruised brunch) had came.
'20:07:16:14:51
Note:
a) of ploughed plight.
b) Written apace with Middle English lexis:
i) Whilom - Long ago
ii) Sate - sat
iii) Wrought - made
iv) Thereupon - then
v) Espied - saw
vi) Quethe - say
vii) Anon - Immediately
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) b' - by
ii) 'n - in
iii) ñ - on
iv) t' - to
v) 'n' - and
vi) h' - he
vii) th' - the
viii) 'til - the
ix) wh' - who
d) Poet's vocabulary.
i) Draw - content.
Cleopatra's take-away
At the top of our street
Is quite obviously a failing be enterprise
Which it sadly pains me to say
Because there never ever seems to
be anybody inside apart from the
actual owner himself
And it looks like he has ploughed everything
in life he has into it including his heart and soul
And it's certainly not down to his lack of
enthusiasm , dedication want or willing
to do anything in his power to make it work
Rather than see his dream in ruined in
tatters and taken away
Through no fault of his own but fall victim
to one of life's cruel circumstance and irony
Sometimes you do not get out what
you put in or get your just desert's
And the roller shutter's permanently come
down with a sign in the middle simply saying
Closed
Open no longer for business
Bank , Hope & Dream foreclosure
Wrong Time - Wrong Place
**********************
Isn't life hard to get through enough
feling sorry for one's own woes
As well as then having to see and feel
sorry for other poor souls as well
I hear the captain’s shouted battle cries
on the bellow and stalked battlefield
But nether faith or death I'll yield
While for the dead I sympathize.
I hear faint echoes, their mournful sorrow
Swathed in honor my life’s dreadful dire
Death’s fix’d calm, amid the enemy’s fire
Passions rage, death dawns on the morrow
I hear the wild rushing winds of war ascending
Upward, consuming vapors; death's servile breath
The enemy’s bullets raged in irrepressible death!
And of this mortal tempest storm Marines are dying.
I hear the shattered voice of my father grieving
Which this war has wrecked and trampled on
Then went he, to look upon the brightness of his son
But the ruthless sting of death his grief un-denying.
I hear the pleas of mothers of valor.
Their sons and daughters looked upon the violence
As blasts of lightning strikes now they lay prone in silence
I hear their sighing moans ploughed deep in furrowed armor
I hear the anthem play, as widows stands with honor
While men bend to the tempest hollowed wind
And of the Star and Stripes that “stands” for all mankind
Spend not yourselves in prideful defiance and dishonor
I hear the wind “over the towering steep
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
On shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep.
Three trains
The first train was bereavement, in the cab the driver died
pulling a coach of grieving souls, unknowing yet, inside
The second train was unemployed and heading where it will
no scheduled destination and so many miles to kill
Third train was steaming in real fast, relationship express
out of control, the brakes applied but flat out, nonetheless.
Where the tracks all crossed was a signal box, manned by a crew of one
who bumbled by from day to day not knowing what was wrong.
But up there in the box he heard, and from all sides could see
the trains approach their final stop, and that last stop was me.
Bereavement got there first and there was nothing I could do
no lights nor signals made a difference, it just ploughed on through
as unemployed converged at speed and rolled on to it's side
the pair of them went in nose first as relationship arrived
the signal box was crushed beneath, it didn't stand a chance
buried in the twisted wreck of flaming circumstance.
Shock finally subsided and the smoke began to clear
just left with total darkness and no way from out of here
all the wreckage pressing down meant nowhere else to go
just curl up in a tiny ball, try not to move, get low.
So there I stayed as unbeknown their night turned into day
the sounds of all around me going on their merry way.
Many days entombed were spent, not praying for release
comfortable in misery, my loneliness my peace
until the silence broken by a piercing warning shout,
'No rescue's due, it's up to you to dig your passage out'.
From where the voice had come from I could neither hear nor see
until the realisation that the sound had come from me
skin tearing on the razor steel I slowly fought my way
and finally emerged, bathed gratefully in the light of a new day.
No fanfare, and no wild applause, no ticker tape parade
life went on, oblivious to the escape that I had made.
Since then I've built another box around me, much much stronger
and hope the time till the next train will be, Lord, much much longer.
For contest 'Get low', sponsored by Casarah Nance
In memory of that dreadful year 2002.
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.
The skies now dark with swollen grief,
Rain lashes roofs beyond belief.
The monsoon comes not soft, but roaring seas,
It spares no home and trees, nor man, nor child.
Before my eyes - truth too raw to bear,
A mother staggered through the despair,
Clutching her sack above the flood,
Her last few grains, her sweat, her blood.
The fields we tilled with calloused hands,
Now lie beneath these muddy bands.
The rice we prayed for, sowed with song,
Drowned in waters deep and strong.
Our homes of mud, our roofs of hay,
Were swept like leaves along the way.
At night, we huddle, cold and still,
The lamps are dead, the pots don't fill.
The roads are lost, just rivers now,
We wade knee-deep where carts once ploughed.
The school stands empty, lost in gloom,
The children's laughter swallowed soon.
The river eats away the banks each night,
The trees give way without a fight.
One more strip of land, one more dream gone,
The river hums in endless song.
Even the smallest life must flee -
I saw them climb a lonely tree:
Worms and insects, piled up high,
Clinging to life under a dark sky.
Their tiny bodies stacked in fear,
A sad sign of their life's struggle here
And still, we stand. We start again.
We wipe our tears, we plant through pain.
The rain will stop, the rivers will slow,
But our hopes and hearts will always grow.
- Phin Jiu.