Long Plowed Poems
Long Plowed Poems. Below are the most popular long Plowed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plowed poems by poem length and keyword.
!!!CAVEAT LECTOR!!! This one's a bit naughty, dear readers...
You've heard of Snow White
And the story reported
Of the seven wee dudes
With whom she consorted.
Well, here's the actual skinny
On what really occurred,
Just another example
Of how stories get blurred.
The facts are quite shocking,
Some may be offended,
But read on, if you dare,
Discretion much recommended.
The dwarves toiled in a mine
And got dusty and sweaty,
Then they'd rush home to Snow,
Willing, able, and ready.
They played sex games with prizes,
Who was best, who the worst,
And poked good-natured fun
At who dropped or "popped" first.
Their sylvan life was idyllic,
The fringe benefits great,
One romp after another,
A real ménage à eight,
'til the vain evil queen
Asked her mirror, who said,
"Hon, your huntsman fibbed big time,
Fair Snow White isn't dead."
So she dressed herself up
As a hag and went callin'
With a web of deceit
She was sure Snow would fall in.
The crone gave her an apple
Her kind deeds to repay.
Snow took one juicy bite
And swooned dead away.
Now, here's one of the falsehoods
I'd like to correct.
You don't need to be Einstein
These dots to connect.
Snow didn't succumb
To poisoned pomme, as they say,
She was just plain exhausted
From "playing house" night and day.
The dwarves were sad but decided
A good thing was worth keeping,
It's not necrophilia
If the body's just sleeping.
Then Prince Charming found her,
Woke her up with a kiss,
And blah blah they lived
In storybook bliss.
What's never been told,
When Snow woke and was sitting,
She said, "No, not tonight, dears,
My headache is splitting!"
Then sotto voce, "Now, Prince,
Let me make you aware,
It's a significant fact
That dwarves are dwarves 'everywhere'.
Pay no heed to the rumors,
What they fail to instruct
Is that though the garden's been plowed,
This blossom's yet to be plucked."
Ice Box Incident
Something is not quite right today
Tall, silver, side by side food storage
Refrigerator fell to the floor of its own accord
No earthquake or human intervention found
The old brick house was simple in every way
Ordinary you could say
Every day the same and nothing happens
The refrigerator crawled along the kitchen floor
As they are so inclined to do to tell the truth
I see no crime in that
But when it plowed through the door
Such force employed and no decorum
Well that's another story all together
Cold food storage should not be malicious
Authorities would have to be called in
Perhaps a priest or two to exercise the thing
You can never be too safe when there is sin
Refrigerator rolled down the street
Into the lake until it sank
Some say its suicide or a mistake
A parrot in a cage now fills the empty space
Where ice box once resided
The kitchen will never be the same
I miss my food to tell the truth
And want an end to all these matters
And Polly only wants a cracker
Twins two headed, thy talents.
What on earth to say?
O kings majestic, paid rents?
Otherwise dismay!
Viralized infection?
Excuse means cut it out.
Downward thy direction?
Challenger lost his bout.
Ground, thy gold. First bought, then sold.
Polled and doubly old.
Warrior fierce, with hands a-cold?
Broken was the mold.
Things did not turn out right?
Well, smile on it awhile.
Counted stars in dim twilight!
Golem, please use thy guile.
Northward pointed all thy ways?
Dim like lingering days.
Stray not, travelers, from thy maze?
Carrion crows a-craze.
Flock of sun god, on thy left!
How to be bereft?
O dark chasm, stab to heft?
Open like a cleft!
Rock, thy rolling motion?
O portal, open wide.
What a quaintly notion!
Wormhole, thus woe betide!
Avalanches breaking free!
Devil seeking fee!
Dark fire blessings, may ye be!
Thunder o'er the sea!
Cold as harvest winters?
Autumn can have its chills.
Children can get splinters!
Grave robbers, paid thy bills?
Opopanax, thy delight?
Opium, pain is good?
Ore atop the hills of night!
Sirens sang of 'should'.
Doom, thy cloud. O burial shroud!
No use talking loud!
Widows, are thy heads a-bowed?
Fields of salt a-plowed...
The World That is Located in the Sky
David J Walker
Witnesses all
To the fall of Saigon
In 75
And after all
Was lost or won
What we Though
we saw
Was not at all
What we had Seen\or Said/or Done
The monsoon rains would
Again come
And nurture the ferns and palms
Of the poisoned jungle
The rice paddies plowed by
Tractorized buffalo
The noisy flow
of traffic
On Tu Do Street,
Paved by elite
shoppers
Of freedom
At a terrible cost
The souls lost
Across the battlefields
Sell their dog tags
For passage into
Troi - thuong gioi
The world that is located in the sky
Over Vietnam
~ Once upon a long ago...
Three kids were raised on my family's farm
I am the middle child who spent more time
working in the fields with Dad, my Galahad,
for I found household chores such a bore.
Outside, in the fresh air, me and mon pere
worked side by side, talking about the future.
We pruned row after row of tomato plants,
fed chickens that were later killed, one by one
but when their blood was spilled, I was sick
Not a bite of them could I take while my heart
ached for the baby chicks I had raised.
To this day, I don't eat a lot of eggs.
How many times did I fall from the hay loft...
Quite oft, and from the swing in the tree
Another treasured childhood memory.
Beneath it I cried and then dried my tears,
overcoming fears, and through the years,
Dad kept replacing the rope swing in the tree,
of the barnyard meadow, just for me.
The tree's still there on my family's land
I painted it last Autumn when I visited the farm.
The fields are no longer tended and plowed
Rows are fallow on what was once hallowed
ground to me. There are no kids playing there
no longer a rope swing. Everything is changed,
rearranged to suit the needs of the new owners
who kindly understood when I asked if I could
paint the old rusty-roofed barn of my childhood
where I once rode my horse, and of course
played hide and seek with my sister and brother,
once upon a long ago ~
Granny said that all things have a seed
and that every seed produces its own
thing to be reaped: good or bad:-
At the time, it was hers and the bible study
lesson to be taught and remembered; however,
at that time I didn’t get the full allegorical meaning
of what they were saying: good or bad:-
Now, at this time of grey hair and aged awareness,
I finally realize and know that we all scatter and sow
seeds—either to the flesh or to the spirit—and what
is reaped, is according to that which we freely sowed.
Now, as I look out over our urban fields, I
realize that many moons ago, syndrome-like
sowers of the flesh came like thieves in the night
and scattered their seeds of corruption everywhere.
Some fell onto the paved streets and were wheeled;
Some fell onto the sidewalks and were foot-crushed;
Some fell into the gutters and were washed away;
Some fell, however, into cracks and needled bushes:-
From these seeds we’ve reaped Black-on-Black crime
misery;
From these seeds we’ve reaped Black Families falling
apart;
From these seeds we’ve reaped Black apathy and its
depression;
From these seeds we’ve destroyed each other physically
and mentally;
From these seeds we’ve done the oppressors’ harvesting of
our demise.
Now is the time to re-plow our domestic fields with the
plow of the spirit;
Now is the time to rid our domestic fields of wind-blown
evil seeds;
Now is the time to take back the stolen they took from
our plowed rows;
Now is the time to rage defense against all forces that seek
to destroy us!
Come! Let us get ready Black people; the harvest season is
dawning;
Come! Let us get ready Black people; the harvest coming is
plentiful;
Come! Let us get ready Black people; time to take back the stolen
gift of freedom;
Come! Let us get ready Black people; freedom’s vision awaits its
due reality.
Come! Let us get ready Black people; reapers must be as equal as
is the harvest!
At twenty-three, Brett found his girl,
A green-eyed vision with strawberry curls,
A year of dating came and went,
And wedding bells the sky did rent.
Life was good, he worked as a welder,
And rushed at night, tales to tell her
Of buildings built and bridges spanned,
Far and wide across this great land.
But as he watched football on his day off,
While he watched the Giants, nursed a cough,
His fun interrupted by a sudden call,
And from his hands the phone would fall.
While out getting some groceries,
A trucked plowed his wife’s car into a tree.
And as if just to make the situation worse,
She was just four months from giving birth…
He fell quite hard, into depression,
Triggered merely by his wife’s mention.
For years he took refuge in hard drink,
Lost his job, and was pushed to the brink.
With nowhere to go, he moved back home,
His parents watched, they heard his groans,
And knew there was little they could do,
But be there and hope that he pulled through.
At thirty, after a long stint in rehab,
He stopped the drinking, and drove a cab,
Eventually moving up to a long-haul truck,
Made some good money, improved his luck.
One day at thirty eight he pulled in
To a truck stop diner, for late dining.
The waitress, May, proved a friendly soul,
Thirty-seven, dirty blond, eyes of coal.
After eating they talked like old pals,
Then went to his rig for something else,
He got her number, and she got his.
They agreed to be friends-with-benefits.
And every time he drove on through,
Each the other they hotly pursued,
It seemed to him to be all too fleeting,
And ever harder when it came to leaving.
A year went by and Brett came in,
And found a worried-looking benefits-friend
She said he’d given her something great,
Fruit of the passion of his many stays.
Brett felt a fool, they were quite a pair,
Like two overeager and foolish teenagers,
But as he thought of it more, it became clear,
Brett never wanted to again leave here.
So Brett married May, and their child came,
Then another a year down, more of the same!
He found himself juggling two screaming boys,
At age thirty-nine, the late nights and the toys!
But Brett didn’t care, better late than never
And with May he would remain forever.
And give thanks to God whenever he prayed,
For showing him that even tragedy fades…
In my deaf and time-closeted
pockets unpack pockets,
string bags hang under the closed eyes
of all-seeing watchers.
Eulogies for the living
are etched on wet lips and kitchen towels.
Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to flute their mournful why, what,
and who’s.
The edge of IF, is most hard to see;
‘if’ is a lobster pot full of moonlight
woven to waylay and trap the long drowned.
Gutters coughing in a midnight summer
these glad me not,
yet are kept like the sly smiles of devilish women.
In my book of lies
there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered
only to dance again on their own graves.
The drunken gallimaufry of head-games
left unfinished
pace back and forth,
yet here I am, the one person,
still blinking my way through a black-light sky,
while majestic wings hover over
to grab me up;
yes let them come,
for all glad gods have wings.
A pockmarked plane atop the wooden box
tilts as it dips in the Syrian void,
its hollow compartment lining the faults like
a silver ball which never rests but always
rolls, always weary those worrisome holes
that chisel the quarry to calcified clumps.
Six years spent fighting, flushing freedom
from his nepotistic keep, have rendered al-Assad
a face full of age, nights free of sleep,
and lucid dreams of an Arab Spring
flooding the fields his brother plowed.
There he stands, slaying the wakened womb
that would bury its own for stable graves, aware
there’s a million more marching outside his door.
5/25/17
Tossed about through the turbulence of life,
Confusion remains to search for a seed.
As if the eye of the hurricane seeks direction,
Only to find no compass for its need.
Does this curious resolve weaken & wobble,
Or grow stronger through the effort & quest ?
While every response creates another,
And chaos may contribute to severely test.
The desire that looks to an unknown horizon,
May often see emptiness to follow despair.
Yet choice must pierce through this fog & veil,
With enough light that can guide to remain fair.
This journey is seldom without consequence,
As obstacles become present and abound.
So whether hurdled, avoided, or plowed through . . .
Overcoming them must be found.
While the question remains fundamental,
There are billions of answers to be observed.
With each one's unique testament,
Tracing a morality rarely hidden or reserved.
Ultimately, this inquiry is survived upon,
By those to judge while reflecting their own view.
Just as current events & history tend to remind us . . .
Not everything seen or heard is always true.