Long Sown Poems
Long Sown Poems. Below are the most popular long Sown by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sown poems by poem length and keyword.
Where Did My Life Go
Kevin Davis 2025
Where did my life go—how was I to know,
That I would grow old, and still, I’d grow—
To learn the things I never knew before,
Just in time, like autumn leaves upon the floor.
When I was younger, I thought I knew it all,
People would ask me questions—so small, so dull.
And somewhere deep within my busy mind,
The answer to their query I would find.
I was not so smart—just filled to the brim
With trivial facts that others let dim.
Yet somehow I convinced professors, claimed my prize,
Earning degrees and licenses I held with pride.
In modest frames I hung them on the wall,
For all to see what a “smart man” I was, after all.
People would come, and I hoped not to fail,
To find them hope and purpose within each tale.
We’d speak of pain, make plans of care,
Address their needs with compassion fair.
With individuals, couples, families, and groups,
We found the paths that healed—life’s gentle loops.
Now my career has ended, but still, I find
Joy in helping others, peace of mind.
Content to use what I have learned and known,
I find release in the seeds I’ve sown.
Retirement once was a far-off dream,
But now it’s life’s familiar theme.
Yet we retired still have much to give—
Wisdom to share, and reasons to live.
We must live our lives, be valued still,
Loving, needed, with strength of will.
For in this grand symphony, we see—
We have become all we were meant to be.
While walking trough the woods the other day…kissed by a morning breeze
we came upon an overgrown path leading through the trees..
And I was reminded of a path like this one…we happened on while walking slow
on a day similar to that day…many years ago.
We decided to take that overgrown path…we had some extra time to kill.
when up ahead we saw an older lady stopped upon a hill.
She was smiling…and turned away from us…didn’t notice us at all.
She seemed totally engrossed in the trees and the emerging colors of the Fall.
When she finally noticed us she put her hands upon her hips…
as we approached she waved…and a smile pursed her lips
“My husband and I used to walk this path.” She said.
Some of these trees were seeds the two of us have sown.
and now to keep his memory alive…I walk this path alone.”
“Sometimes I walk in the sunshine…and listen to the birds…
Sometimes I walk in silence…with only my memories…without words.”
“Sometimes I need to sit by these trees…and look up at the sky.
because it’s then I feel he’s with me as he was in days gone by.”
We stood with her in silence for a while…glad to share her laughter and her tears
then we left her as we found her…awash in yesteryears.
Not wanting to disturb her any more…in silence we walked on ahead
feeling blessed we took the path that day…amazed at where it led.
Reminding us sometimes it good to walk a path we’ve never taken…
where we have to brush away low branches and shuffle through the weeds…
because every now and then in life we need to take a path
not knowing where it leads.
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
Jokes banned, thoughts criminalized
Politicians try to sell
Safety reasons, no surprise
Their lies aren’t selling well
Safety reasons grow like weeds
In rose gardens of the mind
Coming out from the seeds
Sown by winds of time
Artificial brains destroy
Our fields and woods
Our private lives employed
For collective goods
Safety reasons, can I borrow
A tad of past to live today
Tell your tales of bright tomorrow
With the past I’ll stay
Stupid laws I’m forced to take
For my safety reasons
Politicians, watch me make
More of happy treasons
You are all the same to me
As I am for all of you
Taxed and vaxed, I pay my fee
For some sacred truth
Safety reasons, more of those
Old excuses take my time
Politicians set their flaws
But I have enough of mine.
You sockdologizing old man-trap long decayed
where claws curl tight in dust and brittle bone
your lies are hyenas dancing in the flame
their jaws a rattle tearing flesh to stone
their laughter cracks the silence and the name
of truth that bleeds until the world has grown
as hollow as the bones they gnaw upon
each tooth a dagger that breaks the heart to dawn
beneath your skin a hunger spills and swells
its teeth are rust its eyes a fevered glow
it gnashes bone until the broken tells
of sins that fester deep where no one knows
your hollow self a wind that pulls and wells
the hunger of a lion’s endless throes
and in your voice a low and raspy cry
that cracks the earth and cracks the brittle sky
beneath the skin your hunger splits the bone
its grasp a vice that crushes what it seeks
the stars fall silent cold and overthrown
their light consumed in frantic, bloodstreaked streaks
the air is thick with death and poisoned stone
where hunger howls beneath the shadowed peaks
yet still in your trap the pulse of truth will grind
a seed that's sown then left to twist and rise
your walls of lies are dust beneath the weight
of hunger’s edge and all that once was wise
though still you chase the fading spark of fate
your fingers crushed beneath the weight of mind
from soil once cursed where hate was built to last
the truth will rise unbroken and unmasked
for lies may hunt but truth though torn and scarred
is cut deep and rips your sockdologizing heart trap apart
Thanksgiving Reflections
Kevin Davis 2025
Each fourth Thursday in November’s light,
We mark a day of thanks outright.
We pause to honor all we’re given—
The harvest blessings life has written.
As the year draws gently to its end,
We look to family, love, and friends.
For joy and health, for safety too,
We offer thanks in all we do.
We lift our hearts in quiet cheer
For moments gathered through the year.
For simple joys and hopes that shine,
We give our thanks for gifts divine.
For laughter shared and burdens eased,
For sorrow softened, spirits pleased,
For every lesson life imparts,
We hold these blessings in our hearts.
For morning light and evening rest,
For doing right, for doing our best,
For work that shapes the lives we live,
We bow in gratitude and give.
For mended bonds and friendships grown,
For seeds we planted, harvests sown,
For dreams that rose where doubts once lay,
We give our thanks this holiday.
For peace that finds us when we pray,
For strength that meets us day by day,
For courage when the road feels long,
We lift our voices in this song.
We are thankful on this day—
Grateful, joyful, come what may.
We are thankful, we are blessed;
Together strong, in love we rest.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING
It's an amazing thing that I have
the word of the eternal God in my hand
this is indeed divine revelation
my faith in God on this I stand
God through this word keeps me true
having learned the holy scriptures so sound
firmly believing all it has revealed
continuing to believe doctrine to ground
My life's been changed by God's word
having now a righteousness not my own
one by faith dwelling in Jesus Christ
the word itself truly has been sown
The grace of God is my anchor
no matter the struggles life brings
I know HIs grace is always sufficient
flying down to lift me on spirit wings
Faith in God brings real transformation
changing one's heart to love what God loves
the word of God brings faith to one's soul
fitting so well into our spiritual gloves
("You, however, have followed my teaching, my conduct, my aim in life, my faith, my patience, my love, my steadfastness, my persecutions and sufferings that happened to me at Antioch, at Iconium, and at Lystra—which persecutions I endured; yet from them all the Lord rescued me. Indeed, all who desire to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted, while evil people and impostors will go on from bad to worse, deceiving and being deceived. But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it and how from childhood you have been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, that the man of God may be complete, equipped for every good work.")
2 Timothy 3: 10-17(ESV)
"Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink ~
Let's reform now hermit, for we're on the very brink"
~ quote by poet
On earth we dwell in the midst of many forms
but each soul is in truth living all alone,
carrying heavy burdens through turbid storms,
unable to share fears and desires homegrown,
whilst secretly seeking radical reforms
in happiness index despite toxins sown;
such is the strange paradox of our thinking,
resulting in swamps of apathy sinking.
The cause of our despondency is quite clear,
being simply a case of head over heart,
where self-centredness blocks God from drawing near
and although we may employ free will to start
shifting our consciousness and let His will steer
our life, adding thus joyfully love to cart,
we will continue to dwell in dark despair,
simply because our head and heart do not pair.
Upon choosing to give rather than receive,
our Father in heaven becomes pleased with us
and then our destiny He Himself does weave,
whereupon adversities do not nonplus
since cravings of lower mind cannot deceive
our vibrant, blissful soul aboard God's bliss bus;
with this understanding, let us now dissolve
deluded concepts to here and now evolve.
25-January-2023
Acquaintance and Neighborhood Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
One of the fringe benefits of working in a rare book bookstore is I get to hold and see…books that were published in the 1890’s…books twice as old as me!
More often than not in these rare old books I’ve come to understand
when I open the cover I’m going to find a dedication…written by someone’s hand.
Some dedications are short…some long…most likely written with a pen…ink dipped…
and most are signed…’with love’ in a beautifully flowing script.
Today we communicate with each other so much faster…but not necessarily better…
for often lost in fast lane of life is the artistry of the love letter.
A letter where we take the time to think about a person…where in our hearts we look…and find the words then write a note…like those found in rare old books.
Taking the time and writing a letter is an art form all its own…
and when read by the intended person…where the seeds of love are sown.
Any word or phrase sounds better in French…at least I find that to be true…
and the French have a beautiful word for love letter…they call it the billet-doux.
Why, in today’s world, you may ask, should we take so long to write a letter that moves with the speed of a snail? Because nothing compares to the feeling one gets when they receive a love letter in the mail.
And don’t be afraid of the word love…because when it’s another person you’re thinking of…any note or letter or dedication in a book you send…is an act of love.
There is a euphoria one feels when they receive a personal note…
knowing you took the time to write it…and you thought about what you wrote.
Knowing it was written for our eyes only…not for the entire world to see..
gives the billet-doux a feeling of warmth…of friendship…of closeness…of intimacy.
Yes, as the world seems to move faster and faster…there is one way to fight it…because the greatest gift of any love letter…is the time we take to write it.
So here’s to writing more love letters…just imagine all the people out there who….
would love to receive a letter from you…their very own billet-doux.
Cuckoo, cuckoo, the false songbird sings
a maiden has committed the original sin.
The seed in her belly she cannot hide
before it swells, she must become a bride.
Who was the father? Was it Bill?
(a name I recall she mentioned still).
He rejects her and the child inside
before it shows, she must become a bride.
She seeks a cuckhold to raise the child as his own,
and from there the lies are sown.
No church wedding for this bride
which wounds her ego and hurts her pride.
A pact with the devil is hastily made
a secret she believes she’ll take to her grave.
In exchange he takes her soul
an earthly creature that he can now control.
A blackness fills the empty space
filled with anger, laced with hate.
It consumes her but she hides her shame
seeking others on whom to lay the blame
She wreaks anger and vengeance on all those who know
even the family who welcomed her, before her belly began to grow.
She manipulates and dominates those who are kind,
but memories sow clues, like breadcrumbs, in a child’s mind.
The truth will come out, the stars reveal,
then those left behind can begin to heal.
The church bells will toll, although she won’t be missed
and her secret will be told, when she is laid to rest.