Long Tilled Poems
Long Tilled Poems. Below are the most popular long Tilled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tilled poems by poem length and keyword.
The old red barn seems to grow up through the dust and brown
Along the vague dirt road that mars the sage.....
The rhythm played by rain for wait of seeds, still echoes here
Erect and proud, it stands somber as the purple shadows that surround the hills
A faint whistling song is heard within these derelict arms
A song of faith....a song of sweat...a song of contentment and tears
Someone fitted the beams, and squared window panes, ....and built a life
Hope and pride filled to the rafters, as it overlooked rolling fields plowed, tilled and furrowed
Now weathered gray, it creaks and groans under dark prairie skies
It leans inches more with each Chinook wind that sweeps and sways the grain
Where now only wind whistles through the eves, and stiff grasses grow
And bats and mice find a place to live, and white stars shine down on loneliness
Abandoned and forsaken, while gaunt hills stand silently by
Day after day, under the prairie sky, this monument that is left alone to die
give me the rhythm, a steady heartbeat
birth pangs are closer, the pain on repeat
music comes forth from creatures small and great
fat raindrops drumming,a new age awaits
wind whistles and moans through tall trembling trees
the mountains bow down with weak shaky knees
the heavens look on as stars light the way
one foot in the sea, another in clay
the rhythm picks up, crescendo,climax
water breaks forth as again Earth contracts
we time the pains with excitement and zeal
our lamps full of oil and garden is tilled
Watchmen wake up! we wait for trump seven
new age, new Earth, the Kingdom of Heaven
Happiness is heaven, ecstasy gratifying
Sensual and satisfaction zest and delight.
I am quite confident; it comes all the year round.
It comes in the springtime when new buds appear
And nature's perfume fecundates the parks.
The season is warmer and children can play,
Listen to them, it’s laughter all the way.
It comes in summer, with hot and humid days,
We lie near each other savoring our ways.
The sea is calm and bathers can enjoy
Both a refreshing swim or some cold lollipops.
It comes in autumn with air that's so crisp
As the first snowflakes bring down the red dry leaves.
Thanksgiving is organized, a sumptuous feast.
Tilled harvested fields prepared as the chill is a beast.
But wet windy winter comes cold and hoary days
Snowfalls cover the roads and all stay snug in homes,
Everywhere fireplaces radiate warmth and shelter,
For many people think that happiness is not far away.
And so, as the year draws to a miserable end,
Let’s open a bubbly, and happy greetings send.
A minor typo found this fanatic spell binding hound to resend a poem posse sub bully dashed off in a huff (past the hour) if nothing else than fur his spurt full of peace, bot tee, and mind.
Thus this Norwegian bachelor wannabe (most closely aligned with said status closely attained unmarried state by pledging my Unitarian troth) tilled, sown, and furrowed spirit nsync with the missus sleeping in close proximity.
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dog tired this day - march 29th, 2018
no matter this dawg gone pup
took numerous one after another cat nap
his utterly fatigued
body electric still ragged
as if he went without sleep for a lifetime,
ensnared within a time warp,
espied that aggravating "aw SNAP"
(error code instead of a webpage
indicating Chrome happens to be
experiencing problems loading)
or, simultaneously
caught in a narcoleptic parent trap
thus, while a burst of energy
temporarily doth prevail
(a priori which extreme fatigue
of body, mind and spirit -
more troublesome, and worse than -
getting crucified
with a rusty nine inch nail
alleviated with deep sleep finds
much more tiredness
than usual quotidian sleepiness
bruiting this male)
being imprisoned (for high
gram matt tick crimes
and misdemeanors) such as: comma, splices,
dangling a modifier, splitting an infinitive,
unnecessary parenthesis (), et cetera
which landed me punctually,
proverbially, and squarely
in the slaammed shut jail
fed thin gruel with grubs that didst flail
nauseating pluperfect revulsion
each time hide exhale
which, many hours long rests did restore
for a bit of time only for totally tubular
exhaustion to come roar
ring back leaving me tour
charred as if...i fought in every major war.
“How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood”
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
How dearly past evokes my red-tiled home
Which sits on the hill near a mango tree
Where cows merrily graze and cattle roam!
Back in my childhood now memories plea
For wildlife, rice fields, and days full of fun
For haystacks on bull-carts rolling carefree;
For mauve-tinged horizons ruby skies spun
For grasslands, rivers and monsoon rain fall
For prairies serene, thrilled in gleaming sun;
When rosy dawns awoke to roosters’ call
And farmers tilled their land in sunrise gold
As cultural myths invoked in crows’ squall.
Oh, land of my dreams how snugly I hold!
While treasures dear to me fondly unfold.
November 24, 2020
Placed 1st: Writing challenge -Terza Rima - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Ten syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
Placed 2nd: Podium placing contest 4 by Brian Strand
(alter knit lee tie tilled -
Field Day For A Nihilist).
Hunger for knowledge vis avis car ear ring
(and car rue ming) cerebrum formulated,
integrated, promulgated personal perception
to the point of no return, and inadvertently
brought to fruition basic, dogmatic, enigmatic,
fatalistic heuristic life lessons. The fabulist,
dualistic capacity averred viz Zoroastrianism
figuratively pitched this contemplative,
furtive, intuitive literate organic, realistic,
universalistic, wanderer yearning instinctive
modalities metamorphosing this quizzically
opportunistic, philosophically naturalistic,
officially matt tea real list tic, and sometime
prophesying prognosticating probing outlier.
As a nonestablishmentarian libertarian, joy
riding heretic, feasting dishabille bum, I
contemplated the capacity qua Duality
of human being to co-exist inside the
labyrinth of mental learning. Quite often
reconciliation between the angel of come
passion stood opposite intent (with
minimal effort to foment) malicious
intent toward evil. This constant tug
of war (within depths of psyche) perched
psychological state upon precarious pivot.
Balance between righteousness verses
barb bar rick ken of villainy engendered
warp and woof of noble might undermined
via ignoble, infamous injudicious threnody
thru the countless millennia, when many
an outstanding wizard served as a prime
mover and shaker to boost betterment
of so called civilized state with the bane
of anarchy, disintegration, gallimaufry
always in the vanguard. Manifold milieus,
which witnessed civilization rise and
fall became bereft of equilibrium be
tween forces of growth and decay.
The feature of intransigence (as a
free roaming derelict agent) and
dominant characteristic
of contemporary society.
Black man, do you remember who you are?
Before temples were carved from stone,
before books whispered borrowed truths,
you were already divine.
You walked with spirit, not religion.
You read the stars and the rivers,
you spoke to the wind and it answered,
you heard God in the thunder and
saw His face in the lion’s gaze.
But now—
You kneel before foreign names.
You pray to faces that do not reflect your own.
They gave you their gods and took your land,
gave you a white savior and stole your soul.
How can your liberation come from
those who bound you?
Abraham is not your ancestor.
Jacob never tilled your soil.
David never danced to your drums.
Why then do you chant their names
and forget the names of your grandfathers?
Why do you reject your lineage
and embrace the chains that erased it?
They told you to forget your ancestors—
called your roots evil, your spirits demons.
Yet they revere theirs in books and statues.
What hypocrisy blinds you?
Spiritual suicide—
that is what you commit, daily,
when you abandon the sacred drum,
the sacred tree, the sacred fire.
When you see your oppressor’s god as your own,
you will always kneel beneath him.
How can you rise
while worshiping your captivity?
Wake up, Black man.
You are not lost.
The ancestors are waiting in the wind,
in the waters, in your bones.
They whisper still.
Remember your gods.
Remember the rhythm of your bloodline.
The power is not in Rome or Jerusalem—
it is in the dust of your homeland,
in the echo of your grandmother’s voice,
in the prayers said with bare feet
and a pure heart beneath the baobab tree.
Reclaim your spirit.
Reclaim your throne.
The world rejects you
because you have forgotten
how to speak your original name.
Speak it again.
And rise.
Alfred Joyce Kilmer Tribute ''Trees'' via rehash VIDEO presentation:
Alfred Joyce Kilmer, penned name, 'Joyce Kilmer,'
was killed by a sniper's bullet in WWI at 31 years old,
20 July 30, 1918. Joyce held a beautiful view of life
whereto, he wrote his poem 'Trees,' and as I, a wretched
soul with worn eyes, respectfully write this subtle homage,
by humble means of this renown poet via my take of his poem
Trees II
Methinks thus I
shalt naught e'er see
a poem lovely
as this here tree,
Doth sun does shine
its countenance,
gift tree its loft,
spreads its expanse,
Its girth above,
neath midst remained,
flicks of light burst,
like windows stained,
The trunk weighs down,
the cradled youth,
internal weave
exploits the roots,
Limbed tree who hath,
purged forth hugged vein,
thereon, ventures
long with its frame,
Styled tree stabled
in wonderment,
our learned life begs
our testament,
The tree tilled naught,
nor didst toil we toil,
providence hath,
sprung from the soil,
God giveth life,
sips and savors,
graced from seed thus,
tree He favors,
Seasons race on,
timely fashion,
the Divine hath
shewn compassion,
A poet writes
in praise of trees,
songs made of these
sweet melodies,
'Tis well-rehearsed
endowed in verse,
fool cools elbows
and stubbled toes,
A quill at ease
a chapter seize,
Joyce 'Trees' as goes
only God Knows.
Originally written: 2020 December 23
Resurrect Tribute: 2024 July 28
Alfred Joyce Kilmer 12/06/1886-07/30/1918, 31 years old died in WWI
From sea to sea our voices rise,
Beneath the wide and open skies.
On Canada, this first of July,
We lift our hearts and spirits high.
The Rockies wear their crowns of snow,
Where crystal streams and rivers flow.
The prairies wave in fields of gold,
A timeless beauty to behold.
The forests whisper, deep and green,
The grandest sights we've ever seen.
The maple's leaves in scarlet blaze,
Bring warmth to cool autumnal days.
The northern lights in silence dance,
As moonlit waters gently glance.
From Arctic shores to ocean blue,
Each mile reveals a wondrous view.
Before our nation's course was drawn,
Indigenous peoples greeted dawn.
With wisdom earned through countless years,
They faced the seasons without fears.
The First Nations cared for every tree,
Each mountain, river, lake, and sea.
The Inuit stood both proud and strong,
Where northern nights are dark and long.
The Métis helped to shape this land,
With faithful heart and willing hand.
Their stories live in every place,
A treasured part of Canada's grace.
The dreamers came from far away,
To build a brighter, better day.
They crossed the seas with hope anew,
And built this nation, strong and true.
The railway stretched from shore to shore,
Connecting neighbours evermore.
With every spike and iron rail,
They proved that courage would prevail.
Our farmers tilled the fertile ground,
Where rich abundance still is found.
Our fishers braved the restless tide,
With strength and faith their constant guide.
Our builders raised each town with care,
Creating homes for all to share.
Our teachers, healers, artists too,
Helped paint the future into view.
Our soldiers answered duty's call,
With steadfast hearts they gave their all.
Their sacrifice we still revere,
Remembered every passing year.
Though history has both joy and pain,
We strive to learn and grow again.
With open hearts and hopeful eyes,
A stronger nation we shall rise.
So let the maple proudly fly,
Beneath this bright July first sky.
With grateful hearts we proudly say,
"Happy Canada Day!"
May peace endure from shore to shore,
May kindness lead forevermore.
With every sunrise yet to be,
May hope define our destiny.
Here's to the mountains standing tall,
The rivers, forests, one and all.
To every voice both old and new—
Happy Birthday, Canada, to you!
"Going to build me a home where I'm never alone"
said the boy with the wild hair and the Mexican heart
Yes I will finish this table with the sweat of my brow
for I know that I'm able, ready and willing to apply;
All those years as a foster not even a hug nor a smile
every wound hidden deep, not much there to keep;
Saddled up with some courage he tilled up the land
bought six cozy beds and some cows and some bulls
for what is a home, without nothing inside ....
At the orphanage door he rapped thrice once more
then asked for the sulkies playing on the floor
Ravaged and hungry they ate up a storm
drinking and eating with wolves at the door;
They danced and the played out in the Country rain
then they worked and they worked like never before;
He had a dream a mission to fill so with his own free will
he did it, he build a home so they would never be alone
with a big sign at the door that read, "Home Sweet Home"