Long Tillers Poems
Long Tillers Poems. Below are the most popular long Tillers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tillers poems by poem length and keyword.
Not muscles forged in fire's wrath,
But gentle hands that cradle life's path.
Not thunder's roar that shakes the earth,
But whispers soft, of wisdom's worth.
Weavers of dreams, on futures bright,
Hope's threads we weave in morning's light.
Architects of hearts that mend and mend,
A silent strength that knows no end.
The sky, a canvas vast,
Reflects the power we hold inside.
Not mirrored in the sun's harsh gleam,
But in the moon's ethereal beam.
Tillers of fertile, waiting ground,
Where seeds of progress can be found.
Bridges we build across the gap,
Where understanding finds its map.
The boundless blue, a boundless dream,
Echoes the goals for which we scheme.
Not storms that rage with fury's might,
But gentle breezes, guiding light.
Teachers, healers, guiding stars,
With knowledge burning, banishing scars.
Artists weaving beauty's guise,
Warriors are fighting for justice to rise.
The sky, a tapestry grand and bold,
Woven by women, stories told.
Not fleeting stars, but constellations bright,
Our legacy is etched in celestial light.
We hold half the sky, a truth unbound,
A rising force on sacred ground.
With hearts ablaze and spirits free,
We paint the world for all to see.
"We hold half the sky, not by mirroring the sun's might, but by the moon's gentle glow, weaving dreams, tilling hope, and guiding the world with unwavering strength.”
Happy International Women’s Day! March 8, 2024
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
In green fields, where daisies bloom,
Beneath the vast and arching sky,
There dwells a folk, with laughter's plume,
Whose lives in simple toil imply.
Calloused hands, sun-kissed, tanned, and worn,
They tend the earth from early morn.
Their clothes are plain, their boots unshined,
et in their hearts, a warmth divine.
They draw from soil, from seed, from rain,
A bounty that the city folk
Might never understand or know,
The wealth that grows beneath the plow.
By honest toil and simple joys,
They live, they love, they laugh, they thrive.
The soft hum of the land's own voice,
In their daily rounds, they find their prize.
The endless sky, a canvas blue,
Witnesses their dawn to dusk parade.
In rhythm with the turning earth,
They celebrate each season's birth.
Sunflowers stretch to kiss the sun,
While wildflowers twine where streams do run.
They know each tree, each leaf, each bough,
As if deciphering life's own vow.
The robin's song, the thrush's trill,
Compose the symphony they cherish.
No note is lost, no melody still,
In their world, where nature's voice does flourish.
From dawn to dusk, their stories weave,
Of seasons past and memories retrieved.
Though hard their work, their spirits free,
In every moment, joy's their decree.
Some scorn their ways, their lives so plain,
"Bumkins," they jeer, in mocking strain.
Yet in their hearts, a strength does burn,
A love for life, in every turn.
They dance with breeze, they sway with tree,
In harmony with all they see.
Under harvest moons, in golden light,
They reap their treasures, pure and bright.
So let us toast to these fine souls,
These tillers of the earth, these keepers of the whole.
In their contentment, we find a clue,
To live with nature, and ourselves be true.
In green fields, where daisies charm,
Their laughter's music, their presence balm.
In simple pleasures, their legacy,
A tapestry woven, in life's gentle spree.
For in their ways, a lesson's scribed,
To cherish nature, in open skies.
In every bloom, in every bud,
A testament to the life they've loved.
A POET AS METAPHOR**********
I am a poet from the common ground,
From thIs blue planet’s distinctive character— of
Continental shifts and rockslides, from valleys to Mountain crowns — always toiling to reclaim itself.
I am a poet from the land and moil tread
Over by hooves; feet; farmers’ tillers; uncounted
Legions of warriors; and, too, raindrops blessing
My thirst: before a scorching sun depletes my plenty.
My roots scatter forth in every direction —
Of a lightless substrata and above over the surface
— Unalarmed by obstacles, they will simply
Course under, around, through or over
To the next stanza of life in modes questioning
God’s necessary work on his majestic tapestries
Comprised of inspirations and threads, instincts
Or the free-willed interactions of all his created.
My voice among all humanity, has seeded slowly,
While fertilized in aloneness; self-taught In youth
By the Romantics; and lately by wielding an adz
To stones til thunder struck forcefully out...
To now, drowning the body, unleashing all
The buried emphasis to sprout through: thus,
The young blades grow bending to this way
Then that in more harmonious breezes, gracefully
Brought on into verse, urging response. So rest,
My poet’s soul, for the solitude’s been peeled open,
Your pages teem with sister metaphors spiriting up
Their wings in turns around the great lakesides.
*****.....*****.....******.....*****.....******......******
The Christian life is not robotic
The Kingdom of God is very organic.
It is not "do this and you will get that"
But a Seed of life on His welcome mat.
It's not "do good and you'll get good"
But feeding from Jesus the heavenly food.
It's not "do bad and you'll get bad"
But hearing the warnings from his red flags.
It's not by principles or law based keeping
but letting seed grow, while you are sleeping.
We're not asking God to create the external
For we already have what we need internal.
I's not a structure you build so well
but a tree that grows; cell by cell.
It's not that you know each chapter and verse
But an agreeing heart to His voice you've heard
It's not a formula that you can do
But agreement to the Life inside of you.
The Kingdom of God is not for mechanics
But tillers of soil who love organics.
The Kingdom of God is not cause and effect
But seed and harvest for God's elect.
The noddy land
Reality is more than we see in an everyday happening
It stretches further into another dimension we call dreams
but are vital in living life.
What my ghostwriter tries to say is: dreams come true.
I was back in the valley where I used to live and was
greeted by old friends who only appear in dreams
asked me where I had been; if I told they would think
I was dreaming and looked alarmed; has he gone ga, ga.
Footwear is a must in the valley, which is free of cars
I had been the shoemaker making shoes for the ball
and clogs for everyday use when walking on streets
of cobblestone in the valley’s little town.
In this valley, only those who do practical work are
leaders, who get to vote, say, the tillers of the soil
and the men and women who make the food edible
distribute sustenance and feed the people soundly.
The people in my valley are peaceful and friendly
go to bed early, follow the pattern of the climate
this also makes them dull; when I’m well rested
return to the turbulence of earthly days and love.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
Sweltering and dripping sweat,
tillers of land prayed as they gazed
with frenzied hope and furrowed brows
up at a sun that glared relentlessly down
from a stubbornly cloudless sky.
Through August, the days limply crawled
into September.
The heat kept beating
and beating them down
until a few weeks later when
wind began to wail; trees trembled.
No lovelier shrouds were ever seen
than those gray shrouds of clouds
that delivered splattering droplets
which turned quickly
into sheets and sheets of rain.
It pounded ground
and soaked the thirsting fields,
and with the heavens,
the joyous farmers wept.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers listen
through touch,
they become deeper, more blunted,
a vibration of mallets.
Frown the brow,
push the plow
make music drive a steamroller.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders, and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
comes a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing a blunt pathway
into cramped 19th century streets,
where in the absence of safety barriers,
all but one turns a deaf ear.
I do not know
Whose excitement was the greater
My dad’s or mine
As we boarded the bus
To a long-lost dream
Of verdant fields
Rich with the fruit of native soil
Of crystal clear streams
Where laughing youth
Was spent in carefree
Abandonment.
My dad’s eyes gleamed
As they spoke of glowing hearths
Clustered around with pots and pans
With music of bubbling broth
And the sweet smell
Of meat
As the fat simmered and sizzled
Stirring the rumbles
Of those gathered around
Listening to great grandma tales.
Sweet were his words
As scenes of pastoral joy
Rolled off his tongue
With vividness imbued
With longing
For years gone past
These two score and ten.
Come, lad, he said
With wistful smile
And a soft ache in his heart
You’ll meet ole Gran
And Uncles and Aunts
And Cousins in droves.
The bus droned through the night
And at crack of dawn
We alighted
At a ramshackle stand
With nary a soul
But a lone
Wizened man
Who had seen better times.
With a quaver of despair
My dad fearfully asked
Of such-and-such
Great clans once there
Of streets and of temples
Of markets and yards
Of fields and their tillers
Only to be met with
Stony silent stare.
There was a rise in the wind
As dust-devils danced
The torpor was mounting
Till the man finally spake
The families you seek
Have moved on
To the beyond
Ten years or so
There was a quake and a storm
Now there only be ghosts.
Now we awaited
The bus
To take us back home
Saddened son
And a ghost of a dad.
~19 Jul 2016~
Semi-fictional
Contest: Long lost family