Long Ploughs Poems
Long Ploughs Poems. Below are the most popular long Ploughs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ploughs poems by poem length and keyword.
The blowing wind is softer 'neath the boughs
Yet strong enough to take him from his home
It whips the fields and like the farmer ploughs
Against his mighty tree's yet verdant dome
His neighbors sway away with each new gust
And leave him hanging in her feral aims
His branch, and tree, and root he'll yet entrust
Yet with one final sweep; the leaf, she claims
And I, like taken leaf, have strayed from thee
And would I could to blame it on the breeze
Still more to me than that life-giving tree
A single tear from you, my heart would freeze
I vow this now that you shall never know
Though it may make me worst among the low
If there were no poetry...there would be people we would not know
People like William Shakespeare and Edger Allen Poe
If there were no poetry...What would Emily Dickinson be
Would she live in isolation or live a bit more free
If there were no poetry...there would be no Dr. Seuss
There would be no children's fairy-tales, poor Old Mother Goose
If there were no poetry...would Rumi be left alone
The "Glory of Faith's " poem "Masnavi" not be known
If there were no poetry...would Walt Whitman still be milking cows
Living on his farm-house, riding on his ploughs
If there were no poetry...would Edward Estlin Cummings still be a preacher
Or would the old balloon man be a whistling teacher
If there were no poetry...would Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning wed
Liz's life was full of sadness before they married, so it's said
If there were no poetry...what else might I do
I'd write a book called "Let it Rhyme" and pass it on to you
If there were no poetry...this world would be less fun
Missing poems of poetry from you, me, and of course...The Silent One
If there were no poetry...this world would have less smiles
So keep on writing poetry my friends, to share across the miles
If There Were No Poetry Contest
Sponsor Silent One
1/24/2019
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
Hastily stretched, crackled urgent ocean edge relents
Ashamed attempt to escape rejoins campaign of mass
Furtive dig below propels conspirator spasm, next next
Murders brash bouys, cranky spa champagne embrace
Swum undulations, bare back mermaid's dips resurface
Her furvour ploughs halobiont plenty scape, nourished
Snapped lobster lavishly celebrates bountiful turquoise
Sway gaze brazen by bobbing safe island encouraged
Crill swirl sweeps dripped lips, sun baked rock decreed
Beacon mound majesty painted daily in sea gull exhalt
Coconut snow flakes sparkle on cockle clamour bleed
Wave blown eroding scales slow exhales evaporate salt
Ripe globes ground reaped glug nectar so gluttonous
Fibres hibernate ivory rich liquors tipsy Secret Benefits
Land languish survivor devours sugar shards sumptuous
Wipes moreish mouth aft treasure trove haemorrhages
Fifth May
Finesse Saves
The Journey
From petrol station, conurbation,
Queuing traffic moving slowly,
Taxi rank and railway station.
Glimpsing horses, grazing cows
By winding rivers, straight canals.
Open farmland, working ploughs.
Motorways; long distance coaches,
Post card village, pond and green,
Packs and snacks, hurried lunches.
By scenic route and shady lane,
Thru’ darkening forest; silent trees,
Ancient site and sunny plain.
Over bridges, under bridges,
Hidden valley, windy moor.
By the oceans, passing hamlets,
From door to distant door.
Barry Stebbings
3/4/2016
We stood at a crossroads
With a choice that could define us
To rise and prosper together
Or to pursue wealth in isolation.
We were handed guns
But also tools— hoes and ploughs
Intelligence, skills, and sustenance
Rum, gum, and nicotine.
Yet, we abandoned the plough for idle lands
Traded intelligence for transient pleasures
Found profit in selling our strongest
And embraced the folly of shortsighted gains.
Now, our fertile soils weep for the plough
Our mines cry out for careful hands, not machines
Our brilliant minds hunger for true nourishment
Yet all we grasp is the meager bread of the day.
RICH AFRICA, POOR AFRICANS
Driving home, the sun beaming down
highlighting the Quantock foothills
a criss-cross quilt of very small fields
too steep for mechanical ploughs
worked still by man and shire horses
Bright gleaming yellow rape and mustard
interwoven with shades of brilliant green
a paradise for birds nesting in the hedges
tiny dots of white sheep scattered round
deep scarlet red of the fields laid to fallow
Ancient hills stun with captivating beauty
hardwood trees hundreds of years old
spread their sheltering branches wide
casting fat and long shadows ''neath their feet
grassy banks giving shelter to small animals
I gaze with delight filling up my soul
loving the fact these are my hills
that roll and soar around my village
with magical names for each hill
some very bare others full of heather
Reminding me of my native home
Will's Neck and Cothelstone
rearing up above the deep valleys
with nestling lakes and rivers
this place my place till I pass on
these hills were the first place in England to be given the title of outstanding beauty
1956 check them out in Wikipedia for these amazing views
Kind words don't hurt anybody
Nasty words hurt the most
Save that jar of coins for a rainy day
Because you never know when you will be short of money
I no longer talk about dying
Because there is more to life than I know
The snowstorm is coming
Dress warm if you are going out
Soon the streets will be covered with snow
And the snow ploughs will come
Cats watch from the living room window
As the flakes fall
A bowl of soup is good on a cold day like today
I have a spirit that is alive
I have a voice that soars;
A place here on earth
And I belong here
Mothers will give birth to babies
And every life will be a mystery
Silence can be broken with music
In my heart there is a blood stain that can't be washed
God calls out for me
And I hear it very well
With my own two ears
Angels watch out for me
My life unfolds everyday
I feel breathless
So let me have some of that air
Let me change the world around me
By bringing people closer to me
So that I won't be alone in this world
Give me some of your peace God
Give me some health God
So I am able to do your work
And enjoy life again
I see no evil God
I hear no evil God
Wherever I walk I feel your presence God
And I know that I am never alone
I also know that you have a place for me in heaven
And someday I will be able to call heaven home
So many battles lost and won by man
In the name of freedom
Freedom is
Having the time to smell the flowers
So today I will plant the seeds that will grow into a tree
And that alone is my gift to the world
But that sour note that I just wrote a little while ago
I will cherish
Always
Here dawn arrives
Bright morning sun
Light streams now run
Watch dazzling drive
Prompt light rays squeeze
Last darkness seeps
Now light ploughs deep
Moist windy breeze
The world awakes
To beauty bright
Gone is dark night
A brand new take
In simple lines
A prayer comes
In vivid sums
Soul fresh feels fine
Deep in my heart
I feel magic
Dawn signs mystic
Love fashions start
I come to feel
An inner glow
That spurs and shows
Grace sync and heals
Joy wears a face
In space and time
My heart feels rhymes
That come with grace
Leon Enriquez
13 July 2017
Singapore
The Breezes flowed through bright verdant meadows
the sky alight in blazing glory of azure and violet
the farmer on his tractor ploughs the field in farrows
pauses to watch the pretty maiden dressed all in scarlet
Golden ribbon in her hair, she brings him his lunch
they sit together in the sun chatting about this and that
as she collects the basket her father points out bunches
of multi coloured flowers down by the river near the muskrat
Her father back at work, she wanders down to the waters edge
picking a lovely posy of the wild flowers to give to her mother
trailing her fingers in the cool waters she lifts her skirt in a wedge
paddles in to cool her feet as it deepens she holds her skirt higher
What bliss to take some time to enjoy the scent of fresh turned earth
to drink in her surrounds and thinks how lucky she is living out here
keeping the age old traditions going, each season a time of rebirth
she heads off back to the farm liking that it is part of the final frontier