Long Unplowed Poems
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He squandered time, left fields unplowed,
in search of highs, pursuing thrills,
neglecting that he'd been endowed
with gifts to cultivate and till.
He wandered where his heart did please,
but pleasure slipped by small degrees.
A random walk, no certain line:
the storms in life were kept at bay.
But with no star to point or shine,
he, ere awares, had lost his way.
Once jubilant, his raucous dance
had brought him to a wide expanse.
There in the field, he saw them toil;
relentlessly, they stored away
the harvest so as not to spoil,
to see them through a future day.
He should have marvelled at their craft;
instead, he skipped off with a laugh.
The weather turned, conditions grim;
he found no respite from the storm.
A fleeting thought occurred to him:
that colony was nice and warm,
but having not the strength to fight,
succumbed, unconscious, to the night.
The ants took pity: although he
was thirsting, cold, and oh so thin,
and time would pass before he'd be
industrious, they took him in.
"Why wasn't I just disavowed?"
he wondered, this time not so loud…
I love to watch a farm awaken in the early spring,
Especially as the birds in the forest happily sing,
The farm knows how to be itself, profound and true,
Like the faded red barn, quietly beholding the view.
In this moment, the farm finds its serenity,
Between sips of morning coffee, so heavenly,
Tempting songs of cardinals, a melodious cheer,
Chips and whistles carried by the breezy air.
Who wouldn't be captivated by this wondrous sight,
As darkness surrenders to the emerging light,
The old barn stands, with no complaints or pleas,
No need for a fresh coat of red, at ease it sees.
The morning fog, a gentle, subtle trace,
In the fields unplowed, it finds its place,
Soon, corn will grow in rows so neat,
And crows will gather for a sumptuous treat.
Gently I inhale the farm's awakening charm,
Especially in the early spring's tranquil arm,
Where the soul knows no bounds, it's free,
Across an undefined horizon, a painting, you see.
Quiet repose, a vastness, the soul's delight,
A pretty picture as the new day takes flight,
The farm awakens with beauty untold,
In the early spring, where dreams unfold.
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
with no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)
A mutt rebounds past my window
as I contemplate the morning weather
while sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour,
who’s clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and with a winter implement
grasped in her mitten-covered hands,
bravely confronting the heart-attack weather
while tossing snow over her shoulders
to clear the driveway from garage to curb
for the mechanical beast to enter
the unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt
(no doubt an excuse to catch her breath).
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master,
who brushes the snow from his fur
and, I venture to guess, says, “Atta-boy!”
as if the dog had overcome
some great endeavour.
But they both seem to derive pleasure
from the brief encounter.
The master resumes her shovelling
and the mutt his romping,
and I, continue thinking
while sipping my hot cup of coffee that I, too,
will have to face the inclement weather,
clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and commit to the task of snow shovelling.
Even the moon was cold
wrapped in clouds, like
an old shawl, dark, no
twinkling stars shown,
only the breath as they
walked, single file, to
where they did not know.
Past farms lit by only
what little of the moon
dared peek out, past
fields unplowed, blowing
in the harsh wind,
falling apart as they go.
To the sea, to the sea,
the waves crashing, the
storm brewing, to the ship,
to another land, tocking
and tumbling through the
sea, the moon shining on
the deck, where men dare not follow.
Single file they walk, past
houses of those gone long ago,
to the farms, to the men, to
the heat, unbearable heat,
the sun bore no clouds,
no relief as they bent,
hand picked and rough,
this land they did not
own, but had to plough.
Even the moon was hot,
sweating at night so
the air was thick with
almost rain, but not.
Sleeping outside under
the stars reminded them
of home, but not. They
toiled, they waited, they
planned, but none saw
the end of the pain, they
laid on their backs, exhausted
every night and wished for clouds.
One of their own had wandered far;
the others know it strayed away.
From the high cliff, they stare and wait
for the lone sheep that went astray.
Yet there below, alone, he roams
perhaps a longing to be free;
find newer roads for a better life
upon the path along the sea.
Sometimes it's best to leave the road
outlined as stable with the crowd;
to be the one that stands apart-
and travel avenues unplowed.
To travel avenues unplowed
and concentrate on finding one;
become that stubborn lone lost sheep
to pave new paths still left undone.
“The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams,” is a compass point for the soul, a star by which we chart a life not yet written.
The future is an unplowed field, a fallow, silent earth awaiting the brave hand that will break its surface. The dream is the seed—tiny, resilient, holding the blueprint of a forest within its shell. Most seeds remain dormant in the pocket of the comfortable or the hand of the cautious. They are beautiful in theory, but barren in potential. Yet, the believer is the Sower, the one who looks at the dark, indifferent soil and sees not resistance, but a cradle.
Belief is the water and the sunlight, the patient tending that transforms possibility into probability. A dream without belief is a ghost ship, drifting on a becalmed sea, its sails furled, its potential unrealized. The wind is the force of conviction; it fills those sails and propels the vessel toward a horizon others cannot yet perceive.
To believe is to be an architect of air, drawing blueprints of structures that defy gravity, constructing skylines with the raw material of hope. The future is the city we build from these sketches. It is not handed to us as a finished, polished marble structure. It is a quarry we must mine with persistence and vision. Those who lack belief see only the hard rock and the dust; they reside in the present’s well-worn, safe valleys. But the believers ascend the peaks, seeing the city of tomorrow sprawling below them, calling them to its gates.
The beauty of the dream is its inherent promise of a better dawn. It is a lighthouse cutting through the fog of cynicism and despair. The future, in this light, is not a predetermined destination but an active creation. It does not wait for the hesitant or the merely hopeful; it is claimed by the convinced, by those who polish their dreams into a mirror that reflects the world they wish to inherit. They are the cartographers of an undiscovered country, and their belief is the ink with which they draw the map of the coming age.
Their love simmered upon a gentle range
Fanned until it burst into fiery flame
Fueled with lively passion it sparked exchange
Year upon year it couldn't be quenched or tamed
Renewed each spring like the gardenia's bloom
Sending forth blossoms, sweet scented, pure white
A love so rich the roses blushed, assumed
within their hearts, love was all lily-white
The last blossom of their gardenia fell
'pon an unplowed garden; it swiftly died
Can flames be ignited from a dry cell
once again; as 'twas in youth's blushing bride
Love hotter than habanero pepper
dried; lively scent of gardenia and myrrh
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Contest: English Sonnet
I don't do meter very well..
My husband planted some of these in our garden last year..The hottest pepper I have ever seen..I pulled one while it was green and looked at it and thought there must be something wrong with the soil here for this to look all wrinkled up and I tasted just the very tip and it wasn't too bad but I could tell that the next bite would be a killer..I told my husband that they were not hot..He pulled a red one..Well~~you know the rest of the story..
September 17, 2016, Saturday, Contest Entry Date..
Poem written earlier..August 08, 2016