Long Tillage Poems
Long Tillage Poems. Below are the most popular long Tillage by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tillage poems by poem length and keyword.
Each petal, leaf, each vein, each thorn, not any one the same,
Stand tall in there duty protecting Their tillage from the dark winged shadows circling the sky's mains
The wind slightly changes and they sway so waiting on the rain.
Each is there own colour with shades all with different names.
Same race, different names, different colours , different shapes and different mothers.
Many layers and characteristic ways and some blooming, others blossoming and some like to sleep away there days.
Sometimes the wind peels off a layer, and at times the rain lay heavy weighing them down until they drop to the ground, leaving no armour.
The sun singes there edges making them burnt and different to the eye.
Sometimes they are open,sometimes closed, but there's one thing that everyone knows about the beautiful, elegant and regal garden guard's ,
that in all there differences, one thing they all were created with in traits,
That they all smell the same, Subtle but intense, delicate and strong.
It's that distinct fragrance, it's the smell of the ROSE.
.
The apple fell already bitten upon,
a mossy soil coated where the tooth-cleaved.
Soon grubs worked their way out
of the pith
creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep again,
in his gut overripe grapes fermented
turning now to drunken snores.
The apple was changing, morphing,
the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration,
the copulation of dirt with air.
It was the flood of the moon;
Eve squatted. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood,
travail begot a tillage of arousal.
Her belly swelled,
instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, a tad snappish.
she sensed deep in her belly
that this coming birth
would be both sour and dewy,
an innominate delivery for sure
riddled with good and bad seeds,
and she knew not what to call it.
He was airlifted to another place.
The heath, the dales,
the ridges, the high moors,
they all began to slip away
under throbbing wings.
Occasionally a woman would approach,
a silk moth in the semi-gloom
of a night flight;
he was tucked semi-consciously
into a droning life-support system.
When you are unearthed,
green roots tug,
mud and twigs come with you.
Pools and sediment
make their way as seeds and marsh
traveling with your incubating soul.
Places you have slept on,
waded across,
had breezy sex over,
they tether you to tillage and turf,
to your life,
even as you fly far from it.
He began to plant bits of himself
into the soil of his new home.
He hid mossy stones amid plastic rocks’
left lichen trails
on the marble floors of shopping malls.
He recreated his own clay
from the sand-shifting soil he found
in an alien loam.
Slowly the land began to own him.
He dug himself into the past
of this remodeled wilderness.
Became a native of rooted and uprooted things.
When he was asked:
To which country he belonged?
He would show the dirt
under his fingernails.
I passed spreads of field
the places where farmers
made livings from soil.
The view enticed
but I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t stop
but I couldn’t forget
times spent on uncle farms
before I went to college.
The morning sun shone
but memories in college
in Ames shone brighter.
There I learned
the language of love
the concepts of life
that I held in my hand.
Each book of psychology
opened worlds that lived
inside me.
I learned to see
they were always a part of me
as were aspirations and dreams.
A Grant Wood mural on a staircase
in the university library
said life began with tillage,
and from that stemmed
our crafts and arts we embraced.
Years later
when on break from work
I walked the steps
to see how the mural
survived the hands of time.
It survived as I
but I never outlived memory.
One less-travelled highway
had lost its name
but I recalled the roads
taken with college friends
as we learned to live our lives.
Tillage
by Michael R. Burch
(a coronavirus poem about stasis and potential for recovery by reconnecting)
What stirs within me
is no great welling
straining to flood forth,
but an emptiness
waiting to be filled.
I am not an orchard
ready to be harvested,
but a field
rough and barren
waiting to be tilled.
Keywords/Tags: stasis, potential, hopelessness, hope, recovery, recovery from disaster, reconciliation, tillage, raw, barren, field, tabula rasa, blank slate, blank verse, isolation, seclusion, distress, distance, distancing, palimpsest, plow, plowing, sow, sowing, seed, planting, farm, farming, social behavior, society, America, planet
Cuz while ya steel got
moxie, don't nix chance if only a dot
before death finds
flesh rotting alot.
A self-actualized fringe benefit
as I racked up
orbitz round sun -
with increased measured,
(albeit neglected) ragged, and
shot thru tattered (turn shroud) -
regarding chronological yardage
brought to my dimming wattage -
sputtering third eye blind, sans
hindsight surveying extensive
emotionally frenzied groveling with
a lifetime penitential wreckage,
whence urgent critical (update)
foisted upon formerly entrenched
hermetically sealed voyage -
sequestered self wrought fallout,
viz long stretches of
time irretrievably gone with the wind
found me averse toward
commingling with village -
peopled within sin king
precincts of Lake Woebegone
joyus kneaded livingsocial
natives, now visa
vis (nee this past
and present atheist)
discovered the healing power
of powder milk biscuits,
when accommodated within Norwegian
bachelor farmer vicarage),
qua pained obligation now
imposed kickstarted mandate
to pay dying wage
clearly written along,
the sub weighted psyche walls
(over time) easily read
across my wrinkled visage,
where former cumulative
years of existence
pitched yours truly
figuratively teetering upon
precipice of abyss gave vantage
written in telltale creases
countenance spelling umbrage,
against me - asper tonnage
schlepping psychological Matthew
Scott Harris "baggage,"
wrought from decades
worth of uncultivated tillage
cuz n'er did I gather rosebuds...
during prime mortal teenage
stretch, thus present
day agonizing suffrage
yawning chasm miserably houses
bleak (Dickensian) testimony,
sans recovered anorexic
(NO...NOT... NEVER
bulimic), but feebly
endured desultory stage
punctuated quasi (moat)
towed riddled rattle trap ship
of state into deadly scrimmage
defies propped up
moxie succombing unrelenting
weathering, unforgiving savage
nasty, brutal and short sabotage,
wherein futile - short
changed growh opportunities
forfeited developmental stage
opportunities introverted
vehemence doth rage.
The apple fell to earth. It was bitten through
it rolled; mossy soil coated the tooth-cleaved part.
Already grubs were working their way out
of the pith creating a teeming mulch.
Adam had fallen asleep yet again.
the overripe grapes fermenting in his guts
turning to drunken snores.
It was the flood of the moon.
Eve squatted behind a mulberry bush
wishing she were more fair and slim
like the angels in her dreams. Her body was changing,
tidal rains washed her blood
and that travail begot spawning buds,
the tillage of arousal.
The apple was changing, dissolution morphing
into beauty; the earth had gone into labor.
This had not happened in paradise before,
this was self-regeneration, death, and life,
the copulation of dirt with air.
Eve’s belly swelled, growing as round and burnished
as an autumn apple. Instinctively Adam built a nest
of straw, green shoots and saliva.
She grew large, gravid, and snappish,
stamping her feet impatiently;
this birth would be a paradigm of progeny to come,
a dewy innominate offering
quilted from angelic and demon seeds
and she knew not what to call it.
I’ve been walking for a mile
The woman stalking me has been sniffing for a while
She has become my second shadow
I hope I am not the source of her sorrow.
I quicken my steps on the quagmire of illusion
She hastens with her shadow on the plinths of delusion
One thing is sure: I’d out-walk her.
She makes her resolution as well not to remain in the rear.
Summer’s boiling breath is upon us, her and me
I thirst for solidarity with the sun and the sea
I wondered what she hungered for —bread or wine
The hays are all scorched on this tillage not far from the Rhine
I know her not from anywhere
Does she know me from any square —
Trafalgar or Madison or Time?
London and New York, in summer, raise hell and chime
I study the space between us
Not too wide as from navel to guts
The fields and their ogling lights begin to dim
I walk faster, I breathe harder, I skim
She follows up with the same verve
Through serpentine paths, I lost my nerve
But at the last corner of the woods,
Summer filtered out, summoning protocols of the hoods
I never saw her again, nor her shadow, so restless
Someone told me that was her last summer, so contentless
For me, that was indeed my first;
The first in which I skimmed over a hirst.
These, I understand, are end times
Both for festivals and serotinal matters in terms of dimes
But I mustn’t hasten through them,
Even though they cause me to run the phlegm.
These vast plains of steadfast savannahs
Haunt me joyfully with the silent hissing tune
Of the setting sun, smiling at the
Sashaying clouds of low skies, and ogling select woods.
The earth is brown here (snuff-brown, I insist),
And with the courage of humble humus soil
Into whose fecund wombs the fattest disciples of yam —
Each tuber a testimony to nutritious creation —are nursed.
Need I guess correctly the mating time of sorghum — in the rains
Or in droughts?
Millets keep decent trysts with their kind,
Aping the pullulation of scattered corn, tomatoes and cactus,
And peripatetic weeds, and all other refractory modules of tillage.
Anointing breeze is wafted by the league of seasons,
The illustration of grazing cattle, and singed
Hirsute peaks of knolls near totems hoisted by
Ancestral masters —on foot and on teething caravans.
The pasture, gold-trimmed, reaches the edge of the world,
And glitters with the power of mirage.
Within you, you belabour the point of nostalgia for mind’s
Aging peace fluttering in the distance, a faint, glistening ray greasing
The elbows of noontime.
Large, mourning boulders jilted by jealous streams serve as tour guides,
Deflecting pirouetting spectrums that harass the eyes as you ascend northwards . . . .
Welcome, Rover!
This is Northern Nigeria,
The foothill of God.
He was airlifted to another place.
The heath, the dales,
the ridges, the high moors,
they all began to slip away
under throbbing wings.
Occasionally a woman would approach,
a silk moth in the semi-gloom
of a night flight;
he was tucked semi-consciously
into a droning life-support system.
When you are unearthed,
green roots tug,
mud and twigs come with you.
Pools and sediment
make their way as seeds and marsh
traveling as your incubated life.
Places you have slept on,
waded across,
had breezy sex over,
they tether you to a tillage and turf,
of lived experience
even as you fly far from it.
He began to plant bits of himself
into the soil of his new home.
He hid mossy stones amid plastic rocks’
left lichen trails
on the marble floors of shopping malls.
He recreated his own clay
from the sand-shifting soil he found
in an alien loam.
Slowly the land began to own him.
He dug himself into the past
of this remodeled wilderness.
Became a native of rooted and uprooted things.
When he was asked:
'to which country he belonged?'
He would show the dirt
under his fingernails.