Long Wheat Poems
Long Wheat Poems. Below are the most popular long Wheat by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wheat poems by poem length and keyword.
I behold the rose in bloom, and I cry,
I weep and I wail, then I sigh.
As the night draws in, my painful thoughts begin to wake,
I retreat into my mind and with fear I do shake.
Your clammy hand on my neck, your touch just like lead,
I close my eyes so you will go, you bury further in my bed.
I know I’m worthless, but please do not hurt,
And I try not to scream as you begin to insert.
The deed almost done, your sneer of disgust,
Your toes curl as we prepare for the final thrust.
You roar with delight, I exhale with relief,
My virginity now taken by a wretched old thief.
The memory still haunts, and the damage goes on,
I unravel the silk cloth that my knife lays upon.
Slowly but surely destruction is on its way,
I fear for my soul, but my body must pay.
Anticipation takes hold, and the blade does its work,
I press firmly down, blood appears with a jerk.
Is this the pleasure I've longed to have?
And a voice deep within screams "YES! ONE MORE JAB".
I am so frail, my young flesh so weak,
I can not go on, for my virginity he did seek.
The cold steel blade tattoos my white maiden flesh,
And the untouched skin becomes like wheat for the thresh.
I must abate, I must restrain,
This is the only way I mask the pain.
My eyes glaze over, my body feels weightless,
Each stroke is a prayer, and every cut a caress.
The guests have arrived, my relief has been fleeting,
He stands there staring, my heart is beating.
He looks at me inquisitively, mouth gaping,
And my mother knows not that her brother likes raping.
His gaze upon me, I'm his gift to unwrap,
He would rip me open and toss me like scrap.
I wish he would vanish and leave me in peace,
But his lust won’t be sated, and on me he would feast.
My legs are so withered, and my wheelchair’s a cage,
I wish that man in the Skoda didn’t have road rage.
I guess I should be grateful I can’t feel a thing,
But my mind is alive and every inch of him stings.
He gives me a present and pretends to be nice,
But don’t be fooled, it comes at a price.
He wheels me outside for a fresh of breath air,
When no one is watching he sniffs at my hair.
I wish I could lash out with my thin spastic legs,
But they are as useful as ice-cube clothes pegs.
I hope my diary doesn’t land in the wrong hands,
And if you’re reading this now then I’ve suck-cummed to his plans.
- Anonce
Karen Windle roughly on par...
with being a miniature poodle size dogsend
Apartment B44 one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor low income facility
housing older folks convenient starting point,
to launch poem and invite reader(s)
reason(s) without rhyme
why yours truly (me)
chose to express heartfelt gratitude
toward resident Karen Windle,
which named individual most likely unknown
across world wide web
(hmm... maybe methinks perchance
possibly ye did sound her out courtesy radar,
especially if thee dutiful patrol officer
generously handing out -
not necessarily) winning lottery tickets
within vicinity encompassing
University of Delaware.
We (myself and zee missus) inhabit
aforementioned single bedroom abode,
allows, enables and provides
convenient reference point
upon exiting our dime a dozen quarters
(housing near penniless occupants)
verily orient toward left of hallway,
no need to access global positioning satellite
leisurely amble short distance
just count three doors down on the left,
thee will espy name tag printed
small letters Karen Windle
her acquaintanceship we did kindle,
now greater value when measured with corn,
wheat, or other commodities
approximately equal to three bushels,
but varying in different regions.
Explanation whereby appreciation
toward Karen (spry firecracker, energetic,
diminutive, albeit frail looking gal)
materialized when series of unfortunate events
rendered me and mine spouse
without ready immediate access to automobile
near necessity within quaint enclave
identified as Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
affords absolute zero public transit,
hence necessity for chauffeur de jure arose,
whereby availability to shuttle us
found monetary compensation declined,
thus stymied intent regarding how I could
communicate sincere thankfulness
relieved when she would accept
poetic endeavor incorporating
best college try (mine) to alleviate
imposition if/when opportunity exists
to scrape meager money
and expect to sink a fortune
maintaining, insuring, fueling vehicle,
significant portion of social security (disability)
allocated to sustain reliability of car
dollar figure greater than buzzfeeding
caretaking, duties linkedin to
mental, physical, and spiritual health
concerning this aging baby boomer,
plus his counterpart approximately
previous couple dozen years.
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
For a long time, I dreamed
Of a place where fairies doth sing
Heaven perhaps or a never before seen sight
Filled with love and celestial lights
Where I can see the Aurora in the twilight
or witness an angel living in disguise
Oh, the beauty and passion of a fresh dream
Pure, like the heart of an innocent child
No longer do I find joy in things I have seen a thousand times
For let it night or day, what hath come and what may
There is sadness in me that cannot be expressed through poetical lines
Thousand years ago, I saw the tree of life
But to me, it spoke of nothing but lies
There were many roads I looked upon
All promised fake happiness that is long gone
Speaking through prophecies that were sweet
Doth every time the same tale of sorrow was a repeat
An endless journey of suffering,
Man oblivious to the reality, considering him to be everything
Indeed a beautiful thought that spring
I have seen the ravens singing in apposed
Each now and then spring comes and goes
The smell of a field filled with wheat or the beauty of a rose
A boy blushing at a girl, the birth of an innocent love story
Seeing angels doing God's work or reading the devil's diary
I have witnessed life’s enchantment in all its glory
I have seen mothers singing Lullabies
Of a peaceful world where children never cry
"Sleep dear child, for in dream angels will come and hurt all bad guys
And after you wake, God will turn this hell into a paradise"
Yet I know, everywhere I go, a dreadful melancholy thought
That the promises will soon prove to be lies
The soldiers in war will all die
That their children and wives will not be able to survive
Curse of immortality, I have seen kingdoms rise and fall
In the heart of a demon, I have seen the belief in God
From the mountains to the sea
There is nothing more left for me to see
And lies loneliness no pleasure of life can fulfill
For I also once loved, but now lies only memories
When will this suffering end, this constant guilt?
The monster I am, all the innocent people I have killed
Curse to the immortality by which I live
The meanest gift gods had offered me to give
All the sadness, broken heart, and fears
A song of songs, too deep for tears
28 April 2022
For the Contest " If I were Immortal"
Sponsor " Anoucheka Gangabissoon"
winds chill the bones and rattle the teeth of the those who dare stand in the cold,
when there's a shield blocking the chills, the cold seeps in; drowning me in a unbearable
quilt of
frigid cold. i can't escape. i try and i can't, i look for the one i see in my dreams when
i sleep,and the one who appears in front of my eyes when i'm awake.
his touch is warm and thrilling, his voice is like satin against the bare skin of a
child. his hair is twisted silk, blond; shades of wheat that glimmer the sun's rays when
the sun itself rains down upon him. it's him that appears to me when i sleep and again
when i wake, the feeling of being watched is haunting; i feel as i'm trapped most days,
with only my dreamer to talk to. only sometimes, i say.
some say that one who talks to themselves is mildly crazy or just insane; that they should be locked
up someplace where dreams are choking nightmares and warmth is sucked dry into chilling
winds. turning bones into icicles and teeth into rattlers. that's what i see in the eyes
and many faces of the people that pass me by, and see that i'm speaking to no one that
they see, but, maybe, some one that i see.
and someone i see is tall, strong, and exotic. hair; different shades of wheat, eyes;
shocking and sad, and his voice, satin --soothing, soft like silk against skin. caressing
it. this is who i see, it's who i speak to when i'm alone, and to whom i sing to. he is
light and nothing bad can happen in his presence. he makes anyone feel special and
intoxicates them with his luscious and enthralling scent.
Mm .....pine and lilac; rose and freesia, lovely. it's a scent that should be bottled and
sold, but also, not. it's his scent, and his alone.
he seems like a dream, but at the same time, he seems real. maybe, he's an apparition of
a person in the past and came to me seeking help, seems to be. whatever he is; i can't
wait to see him again, tonight i will sleep. and i will see him reach out to me and hold
me in his arms. singing softly in my ear. then i will wake, and he will be in front of my
lids again. smiling a white toothed grin; both infectious and intoxicating; and reach for me.
to most, he's a day dream. a figure that shows me what i want, but, it's hard to think
logically about him. he's mine....my mate in a way. yes, my mate.
Children of Guernica
Children of Guernica .
In deserts of no mans land
children play among the dead
killer themes from killer kings
what is the song they sing
comes raining down in
shrews of blood
Bombs burst though silent
air beyond the red glare
where mothers and children lie bare
In scripted carcasses of crumbling bricks
amidst the city streets
broken bodies limbs screaming
wombs of agonizing cries of despair
dropping down death from above
in the safety of the night
rivers of blood and angels of death
circle from high above
Sleep of sleepless dreams lie amidst the decaying corpses
children dressed in delicate dressings
starch white linen in ghostly silence
the lambs laid out to rest
Once so shocking citizen casualties
now so common collateral damage
distill the horrors of war
deadly games on computer screens
without touch or smell
Rage distorting the outline of shadow
horse’s teeth open wide to the sun
and necrophilia battle cries of death
stand still like ghosts amongst the dying flames
Wounded Pegasus gaping
requiems for generations yet to come
hypnotized to drum beats of war
where monsters of the id come alive
in the cradles of scorched earth lit destruction
Children born to such things
wander through the deserted streets
where there is no home to rest
sleep the dream of children
Lower at dawn their veils
through broken clocks time stands still
And tides rise over setting moons
amidst the lambs spheres of love vanishes
in landscapes of pain
Minotauromachy rises amidst the dead
monatours of death die slow
when swords turn to plowshares
iron bombs to gates that open
the hearts of wounded men
hush a by don’t you cry
go to sleep my little babies
In the meadows lie the little lambs
friends of the western winds
leave tortures on the bleeding grass
in lust for blood and shadows of fears
Moons of serpents awake before the dawn
crucible of blood cast bare amidst
the trembling wheat
street symphonies of stripped flesh
hanging from the poplar trees
Instruct us of our internal natures
inner conflicts and battlegrounds of distress
death instincts and dark knights of the soul
of tragedies and waste doorways through hell
and roots of indignant screams
The generous character-carried-by them good-old-girls-and boys down-home country-copper-
roof-all filled-up-silos-wheat-turbines waiting ready outside the barn deer-skins pegged down
low the greater-story askant-of curiosity carrying the pureness of a child as to why... .
Smoked-up hickory-honey-bubbling bacon saged-up getta-gingerly-popping in the grease in
the skillets over the steadily-flaming-logs and-built-up-kindling ... .
Humbly growing up little farm-houses-rock streams-made by-the freedom-of-the-patient
hand-Bibles-on the-table in every-dwelling-place blessings of praise-that really gooey gooey
fudge-brewing slow... so-slow.
Cooked-up-apple and peach a plethora of assortments of berry pies cooling their lively smells
lifting up-and-drifting-about the grassy timber woods and hills in every available-window-sill
home made-ice-cream sweet-taffy-candy-moonlit-walks-with a real good friend-crawdad
hunting with my-Pa and Uncles cousins and Brother Sisters-Grand-Pa... . Stars parading along
on by with the sky's Moon-hovering-above casting the morning-stars-gentle, and-somewhat-
kinder reflection on-the-slumbering-land of crawler's... .
Our flashlights lights perusing cast-all-about searching-for-them... junker autos rumbling and
rolling off one distant-street-corner-easy childhood-days-rising up to greet-you laying-down
weighing in the balance-as the tender moments... ease-on-by.
Time my only vestige welcomed salvation, greater my safety-grace happily promenades-
about-the fringe-of the-day... . They ride-their-way-along-enchanted carried along churning
away-by the glimmering-crystal-streams motivated by-the-chipper woodland-winds... . My
faith, in-its relevance, emancipates.
Fragile, honest... willing... no time for resentment-innocence runs free now merrily skipping
with me across the meadow.
Gracious time the noble gesture freedom the-patient-journey-sown-of-humble yes the
truest divinity as patient-just yes-the devotion for all-through grace-made-open-my hope
remains willing-white cotton clouds captured in their lea way dancing two and fro remind
me even-more so... .
"Kill them with the virtues' of kindness" as my Father always said.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6rYPHmSzcE&feature=related
November first two thousand nineteen...
abuzz with Autumnal thrum
Divine myriad biota amidst
heavenly Lily of the valley
(Convallaria majalis),
he didst imaginatively greet
Edenic heavenly terra
incognita immeasurably sweet
nature's ensemble proffering
Gaia's quintessential orchestration
resplendent sensational treat
natural splendour regaling,
this fellow wayfarer
happenstance gifted autochthonous peoples
espied proud specimens unobtrusive
planted armada, viz sleek bodies fleet,
of foot while me accidentally
risking, schlepping, traipsing... offbeat
winessed unschooled tribe,
yet verily synchronized,
primed, muscled... athlete
their soundless rhythmic swiftly tailored
flit to and fro upon poetic
unshod calloused feet
carefully, gingerly, lightly...
I shod dully tread nsync
toward drumlins upbeat
mouthing, kneading, imbibing... glorious
ebullient choral unadulterated feat
extemporaneously kickstarting crisp and neat
pow hour full rhythm across
analogous macroscopic excellent spreadsheet
inducing their sonorous symphonic
roundelay unfamiliar tweet,
whereby flora and fauna future meal to eat
oblivious regarding mine seat
dated existence, which quiescent aesthete,
yours truly basked,
froliced, luxuriated... complete
as once innocent hymnals kindled atrocity
this observer, spectator aghast white as sheet,
how civilization's machinations didst deplete
terrestrial firmament within one fell stroke
eradicated once pristine unbroken
promises chiseled to cheat
rightful owners expansive swath
over yonder til ocean and land did meet
Europeans scoured seas one after another
lumbering bulwarked fleet
exhausting resources while simultaneous
mowing down aborigines
grotesquely analogous harvesting wheat
indiscriminate deliberate genocide
decimating indigenous tribes beat
defenseless against microbial
weapons of mass destruction,
thus only within third blind eye
courtesy invisible paleface with tenderfeet
strictly envisioned Perkiomen Valley
once abundantly populated
with ample game during cold and/or heat
paradise unbroken stretched hinterland,
where place names mock to pay hollow tribute,
where native peoples no longer replete
vinyl city amidst amidst graveyard
lovely bones turned to dust
paved over by mainstreet.
Kansas Poem #4
Hey Hoss, slow down there!
No need to go so fast. Besides,
I don’t want to go
to where you’re going, and
I don’t want to be seen
to where you’re heading.
Hey Hoss, please turn this
furious black thing around!
Kindly get me the hell out of here
before it’s too late!
No, I don’t wish to see
this row of blighted Chinese elms and dead leaves.
Nor hear the badly-sung songs
of lost love and wild regret.
And, I refuse to see
the bloody scratches of truth and beauty,
so scrumptiously etched
with long blades on those splattered bricks;
Embedded there for the duration,
like the gum under your table;
Enmeshed there as the garnished gemstones
of the myriad fountains in Kansas City,
Polished with grit, staid tenacity, and
the time-shorn murders in the wheat lands,
underground in the broad basements
of purple smoke and black blood,
of silent stealth movements
under bending eaves, and a watching moon.
No Hoss!, I don’t want to go
to where you’re going.
Sorry, but we seem
ineffably lost and sadly wandering,
like a couple of dusty dudes
groveling for the keys that match nothing.
No, I don’t want to go
down that long Chinese lane. No!
Turn this furious thing around!
Here the people sit on long verandas and
watch the strangers come and go.
They might notice two dudes like us and
wonder what we’re doing there.
Sometimes I can hear
a loud shrieking funeral going by on Highway 50.
And those same people are staring
at the two caskets, and recognizing us inside!
Hey Hoss, slow down there!
No need to go so fast! Besides,
Time is not naïve, and Its retching Uncle
has left many a lover in the shuttered room,
up there on the 2nd floor,
has poured many a shimmering glass,
and licked many a teeming spoon.
Hey Hoss, ever take a morning break
at Hartman’s Café back in the day?
When the Clutters would drive by waving,
from inside their blue chevy impala, heading
to silent Garden City, and
the cold wind blowing unheard there.
If you drive this black furious thing
down that lane there,
you will see it.
It sits like an old cat in the sun,
going nowhere fast from its sealed post,
high upon these expansive wheat plains,
under this dark, brooding, blood-thirsty sun, and
an unforgiving watching moon.
He comes to shake the foundations of the earth
the work of every hand of man to prove
to punish the unjust and expose sin
and those who hate righteousness he will remove
He has sent the call into all existing lands
that men should seek peace and it pursue
to separate the wheat and tare
and expose the hidden things men do
To close every mouth that speaks a lie
uncover every thought of hatred done
he has freely offered you a life of truth
but will not spare to scourge when they come
For the stories told in time are now fixed
and what is written in its scroll now firmly set
he will open them for his kings to judge
and those who have found mercy their sins forget
Those appointed to be Kings will take their station
they will rule with Christ for a thousand years
subject to the rule of God is every nation
no war will there exist or the inclement of fears
For though the promise seems long in coming
all the signs are made visable by light
raise your eyes oh Israel your God comes judging
and will reward those who have walked in right
Be reconciled in heart to seek the truth
that who you are you come to understand
You are called to love truth and your brother
until the peace of God lives in the land
The trumpets blast call the armies to their war
the winged ones ride the winds of wrath to charge
and poured out is the fury of his chalice
the cup of violence is deep and large
For all governments of man are chains to slavery
their aim to lift themselves and you to rule
but Christ's intent is to lift you from this knavery
that you might not become the fires fuel
So make your peace and seek his mercy now
for when this time arrives will be too late
though undeserved the offer of forgiveness
the price will be too high if delay you wait
sources: all the prophets of Israel great and small
COPYRIGHT © 2012 C. Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC