Long Tubers Poems
Long Tubers Poems. Below are the most popular long Tubers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tubers poems by poem length and keyword.
As I wake up in the Stone Age
My first feeling is relief
Gone are all the troubles that I had
I know that I won't last too long
When my medication stops
May not make the end of life too bad
First to find some berries
Other produce from the trees
Survey the situation, to catch fish
In the ground there may be tubers
Other roots to use for food
If I live or die may also be Gods wish
Animals I live beside
Would be my last resort
They would make a better friend than foe
Make my cover from the old ones
As they passed away
Surely as we're born, we have to go
Then I pause to wonder
Am I on my own
Or is an Eve beyond the rolling hill
You never know your fortune
And finding peace at last
You can make a life, if just you have the will
Hands hold tight to the loose ends of hope
As we toil and crack, night and day,
Hoeing up bits of earth and its fragile retributions.
Our crops and little beads of sweat drip to waste
On the ground’s boiling soils.
Eyeh is another name for a deceased generation.
The ones that sprout stubbornly through restive
Delays get re-greened, losing vibes of communal
Watering, ceremonial baptisms.
Birds build their nests in haste,
When bent cusp-blades sprout secretly at twilights,
Behind ethereal curtains of dawn falling
To the consternation of treacly, bitter syrups of time . . .
Is this continuous planting . . . and delirious season?
Has it come to that —when drunken war mongers
Form weapons from slats of pallid bamboo stationed
At the guard posts of violated yams and their flaccid
Tendrils?
I fear.
Such suzerainty over yellowing crops
Transcends the coats of black dust hiding from the disease
Of identity.
It is still planting season, brethren.
The deafening sounds of cannons shake the stalks yonder.
There's a smug dance of weevils on the graves of tubers.
An old kitchen dresser
stood against a wall
in the shed. Its drawers were full
of things that kept a small boy
occupied for hours.
Retired kitchen gadgets,
tools, balls of string
and a treasure trove
of discarded odds and ends
hoarded just in case
something there might
“come in handy one day”.
There was a drawer off limits
for little hands,
my grandmother's place for keeping
dahlia tubers safe and dry
for their winter sleep.
Brown paper bags held
the sacred cache.
Come spring they were taken
from their dark, musty crypt
for their yearly rebirth.
Planted in a square of garden
overlooked by the dining room
window, the tubers would
begin to stir in the warming sun.
By Christmas day, the first bright
blooms would blaze
extravagant color that could
be seen from the table
as we tucked into lunch
crowned in our paper hats.
To a child, it seemed like magic,
just pure magic.
Note.
Christmas in Australia
is, of course, in summer.
hands rapturously slashing satori, bang !
light droplets filter down, bats brushing skin
to fly knowingly low, then water gushed
through cracks, bring —
snakes, spiders, scorpions across our toes
stones spoke in singular sighs as
golden orb set in whirlwinds high
velvet night descends, opposites attract
poles swing — >
cave was nowhere, yet everywhere
Mozart symphonies were future
shadows written on our vacant palms
to sojourn with Harry the Strandloper
was unspoken song by GRACIOUS ALL
for beloved paleo pole points, Call !
Khoisan shores we tread profoundly
adorned with seashell bracelets
before on red concert seats to
sit enraptured, opposites horned
no thoughts tornadoed continents waiting
our ignited centres spaced dichotomy
unnamed species inhabited surrounds
we knew not of wisdom pounds
crystal shafts in dimness protected
our irises reflecting stalactite,
dolomite, Dynamite !
anchovy offering themselves
for hunger appeased
white-black apart yet fulcrum starts
we were Power of One in two
~ seasons our compass
naked emperor with empress embraced
celebration, protection or
fool interventions unknown
variables, not yet defined
contrary poles merging with heather
whispering as copper painted patterns
etheric on grotto’s sotto ~
voices faraway clamped our knees
it was future shackles of Bastille
through time tunnels terrible
vacant minds a pair to stare
simply sky, earth, two lode stars as one
wolves, bears, squirrel frequencies
to dare a similar stare !
womb then lustily grew —
berries, tubers fat ripe
nipples started leaking, crows cackled
she was born in running river, pinking water
cord to trout we fed, who offered us
their firm flesh in turn
clouds melted into navel smooth
moon our compass soon enabled
cavern walls slapping spring to bring
spirit expanded fontanelle
winds chiming bells
hammer forged to chop stone found
swallows still equalled fellow tribes
harmonious cynosures more inscribed
my eyes drew out his to flush awake
nostrils flared flaked, two at stake
slowly malachite dragons dissolved
paleo quintessences evolved
swinging space-time into now
once more polarity’s
sublime ~
___________________
3rd Placement: Premier Contest
Rob Carmack: July 26
Our God is bountiful because...
He is life–
The warming sun and nurturing moon in our fields
through the changing seasons fills our tables with harvested
fruits, tubers, fish, fowl and other plentiful foods.
We are blessed–
He is love–
Fertile fields and mothers’ milk sustain our bodies and souls
filling our hearts and eyes with comfort, compassion, generosity,
and mercy toward the poor and hungry.
We are graced–
He is divine–
His gifts abound and we give thanks to Him for His tireless
work in enlightening our paths and minds, guiding us toward
righteousness through virtue and morality.
We are saved–
Our God is bountiful because...
10/28/2020
Our Bountiful God Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Typecast pivot rips past apart
Scars inflicted by the furnace
Scatter derma with war stars
Astronomy faraway magnifies
Little shards of light filaments
Filtered shadow breaks brittle
Tucked amongst terra, tubers
Crowd needy until seeker turns
Space ahead academy shunned
Parallel gripped group tightens
Outrage stoops, begger’s plight
Entombed below fossilised earth
Dust skull sockets consumed
Grazing on ash grain garbage
Gamma ray gardener unfazed
Leans into lambent movement
Moonbeam harvest penetrates
Microscopic split creates twins
Mind unbound by tribulations
Scales ether, nova knowledge
Constellation inured in growth
Reaches for chaos, apex prime
Shivers bravely beyond Pluto
Fragility faces future undiluted
First of October
Flying Over
Should we have faith in a faithless quest
And put sheer foolishness to test
That the coconut holds some water
Makes not ignorance call it a river
The snail knows wise to travel with shell
Or lives not at all to someday tell
O darling! My darling basket
Useful are you as my pot of earth
Performing labour no other can
A loyal companion on my farm
You from by weaver's hand was made
And the other fine mud the potter shaped
Envy not the labour of your brother
For you two have served a gladdened master
Through different paths that you both take
And such rare habits your nature make
Be weary not for none has done better
Each in his way has been a helper
I see the pain in your restless eyes
As the pot I greet when first I rise
I oppose not for you are right
But to you do I salute goodnight
It is pure folly to make you hold water
And no lesser folly should the pot hold tubers
By: Adams Elizabeth Oyarese
Lizdiamond Poetry World
In my window there are two beautiful orchids
They do best in east facing window with morning sun
sheltered for the hottest sun of the day
There are many myths about the Orchid
One of those is the shape of the tubers
It is said that the name orchid comes from the Greek 'testicle'
Seed pods containing several millions microscopic seeds
How awesome .........
The first orchid farmers were Chinese
Already for a few thousand years ago, the Orchid used for decoration
Some would say that the Orchid is a plant parasitism - it's just a myth
The plant can live for example on the trees but not of the trees
One day if you go past my window - see how beautiful my Orchids are
07.03.2014
A-L Andresen :)
After our yacht was wrecked by the storm
I was washed up on a tropical island.
My two companions sadly had not made it
I found them both washed up and lifeless.
First priority was to bury the bodies
before they attracted unwanted attention.
With no tools I spotted a shallow cave perfect
putting them inside I covered the entrance with
loose rocks that had slide down the cliffs.
Near by another larger cave would serve as
shelter with a few palm leaves and dry grass.
There was even a hole in the roof that let out
the smoke from my fire made from sticks.
I found a stream near by so thirst no problem
collecting nuts and berries I noticed long frongs
that I wove into traps and placed them in both
the sea and stream. A parrot befriended me so
I had good company. The traps soon worked. Crabs
eels and lobsters caught inside a real feast.
With the flint I had earlier found I scaled
the cliffs and set a signal fire unlike down
on the beach the mosquititoes had a field day.
Yet I noticed they avoided a pungent plant
and rubbed it all over what a blessed relief
They soon left me alone. In time I fashioned
some rustic tools and built a hut near the fire.
Near by I spotted both wild pigs and horses
placing some feed I soon was able to touch
and eventually ride some of them making
both travel and hunting so much easier.
Apart from human company I had it all.
I tilled the ground and planted tubers I had
found, irrigation channels kept them moist.
Scoring a tree I kept vague track of time
as first one year passed then another with
no sightings. At long last I saw a sail and
lit my fire. The yatch headed my way I was
saved. With mixed feeling I left the island.
To return there with all I needed, which was
little, a yatch so I could come and go at
will. A few chickens, a calf, cat and a dog.
Some strong tools to till and sow the land.
Lastly a good fishing rod and a feather matress
here I would wile away my remaining days.
I have a skin, brown tan melolin
Inside of me is water, energy
I have nodes from which buds are formed
I am shapeN like a football, a peanut, a fat lumpy carrot
I may develop sprouting, buds, green spots
I may be spoilage, not cause my parents giving me everything I ask
Interspersed in a tubular, vallecular
If for I am green growing out my sprouts
I am better off tossed out
Thrown away
What, Who am I
The one with many eyes, but no hands
Whom, am eye with eyes and spots
Inside me is water, starch and energy
Inside me ivory tan inside me
I am russet Burbank Shepody, Umatilla
What nation to I come from
What nationally am I
You see I am not human
But I human-to-see
I have many so love
the growing points so are potato tubers,
each with a little stem bud
the Red, White, Russet Oh’ how we love
begin to sprout, the growths those roots,
eyes, and bumps have a high
concentration of compounds see
I’m not human
I am a potato