Long Womenfolk Poems
Long Womenfolk Poems. Below are the most popular long Womenfolk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Womenfolk poems by poem length and keyword.
Seven thousand islands grace the shore
as narra trees arise , sun -dressed
with ripples humming a native folksong--
gracious the womenfolk, caressed
by Philippine beaches ever idyllic--
and exotic garlands spill from their baskets
crowning fiestas with decorative wares.
And boatmen wave to relish town’s gaiety
the canoes sailing in May's fluvial parade;
when wavelets of joy twirls, animated
along dewy coastlines… such heritage bears
the name reflecting its grandeur, 'Pearl of the Orient.'
My dawn and night broth, this homeland
where birthmark prints…a natural wonder of the world!
(your) Country 'tis of thee' Contest
Sponsor: Brahn Bailey Edited 9/3/2018
Women, how can I make you a fair definition?
You have nurtured 6 billion live children
So, you are the mother of the human
On every piece of land on this planet
They, with fine wisdom and skillful hands
Arranged, the order of time and
The dimensions of tolerance
Giving the air the direction of love
Making the clouds Elegance and
The moonlight flow like a stream
So, you created miracles
I remembered how you grew up
Like flowering trees, jasmine, peaches
Apricot, or plums...
In the wind of spring and
In rays of the beautiful sun,
You are stretching the branches joyfully
And releasing the growth happily,
I can also hear your voice too,
As you are flying in the air, like the thrushes,
The swallows, or the Orioles...
Or like the sparrows jumping from branch to branch
So, you are broadcasting graceful music
When I'm near you, I can also smell your breath
The fragrance is somewhat with sweet,
Like the jasmines, the cloves, or the camellias...
And when I'm away for a long time from you,
Many times, my heart will become noisy
And my thoughts will diffuse
And hard to maintain a mindset of a scientist
And whenever this moment comes,
I know it will be more hard to define...
So, I must go outside
Facing the flowering trees and
Dazing
* To International Women's Day
White Lilacs
Memories rise
like the scent of lilacs in the air
simple yet fragrant filled with now forgotten cares,
once so important
nothing could contain them
as life hurried forward not seeing round the bend.
Lessons learned too late
but part of living every day
with joy, love and sorrow that slowly passed away.
Looking back now
wish I could grow young again
relive the steps foolishly made on shifting sands.
If I could slip into the paths not taken
as life flowed to the oceans unplanned
while on the shores I watch and silent stand.
Those years are gone
lost to the fleetness of time
and love passes quickly beyond our prime.
The lilacs bloom tall and graceful
blowing freely in the air
if I could go back, would I dare?
Live Life over again
without mistakes
but sadly that is not my fate.
Let the lilacs bloom
and my past be written as it was
while I cling to my memories of more youthful love.
A Folksong sung by The Womenfolk called White Lilacs - give a listen,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv85Rr3Plgk&index=14&list=PLO-UbICkLW9OEB5mwKrfL7gpsyxJq0jZA
Eleven years ago,
while rambling in my car
along the bank of Iril river
at Kongpal Moirangpurel,
a serene countryside
I spied Ureirom plants growing there,
their flowers blooming.
Long ago in our agrarian society
their fruits dyed women’s clothes pink -
done indigenously in every household
by the womenfolk.
Now the old art has faded
year by year with time
and the plants, once grown
in abundance are no longer seen.
Next day, in scattering showers,
with a camera I went there
and captured photographs
of the plants long unseen,
wondering how they grew there
while absent elsewhere.
Today, after eleven years,
when I strolled there again
the ureirom plants were gone
among the riverbank’s weeds -
Once women’s favorite,
now out of fashion,
neglected, nowhere to be seen.
While men worked hard until the barn was built,
the womenfolk were gathered for a bee.
They pieced together patches for a quilt
and chatted with the new bride happily.
Upon this handmade quilt were babies laid,
and eldest daughters passed the heirloom down.
That barn became the place where children played
as houses multiplied. There grew a town.
The quilt, once shown with pride, became forgot,
and decades in an attic it was stored.
One day a fire blazed; the things not sought
stayed in the loft, while saved were things adored.
And so a bride’s first gift in ashes lay;
its glory long ago had passed away.
by Andrea Dietrich
For Nette Onclaude's Contest:
"Anything Handmade"
If you wonder why to men many
Womenfolk seldom seem born funny,
The reason’s straight forward
Based on what I’ve observed:
They need no humour to please any,
To them spade’s not just spade—
And menfolk included,
Let men give this truth not a penny.
___________________________________
Pandemic raging, many women work from home. And with domestic help either not available or not advisable, they have to look after the house, children and the kitchen.
Obviously they are hard pressed for the luxury of a lighter mood, and may give an impression that they lack a funny bone
.
Tongue-in-cheek |05.05.2021|
Time spent in Indian village, is - wisdom won plenty,
Wealth in the urn of common sense, here, never go empty...
Day here, though with chirps of birds, never dawns with no prayer,
Whether from Temple, mosque, church, Gurudwar - none does bother...
Sweeping, cleansing the courtyard; doing the daily pooja,
Day goes almost dead devoid of milk-tea from mud-chula...
Rites of milking, sheds-cleansing, washing cows, buffaloes,
Dung-cake making by womenfolk go with social chat-shows...
Small boys, trousers-stripped, respond to nature-call in open,
Small girls, fetching water, peep, eyes wide, mockingly make fun...
Men, elder, in small gangs, enjoy conventional hookah,
Talks on humans and beasts become part of the agenda...
Smiles, laughs, scolds and cries are like sun-rise and sets, in joint homes,
None has anything to hide; frankness is in flesh and bones...
Gandhi our Mahatma, told our villagers, to be true,
This we keep up; though for this, we, happen to stand in Que...
Amid friendly embraces and wrestles, women, young and old,
Pick lice from hairs of each other, with fondness hundred-fold...
These are but train-berths; heart of India is broad and deep;
Folks, here, are uncomplicated; they've no vengeance to keep...
They might not have plenty, yet, they do not forget the poor,
Portion to ants, birds, cats and dogs, out of their meals, is sure...
Guests, rich or poor, known or unknown, gets godly treatment here,
None ever to them ask - whence they come, why, how or go where?
Honesty and hard-work, for them, are like wheels of their carts,
Compassion, courage and temperance are highest of arts...
Living just a day here, is like retreat of weeks elsewhere,
Great haven, like an Indian village, I've found nowhere...!
18 December 2021
Rose is beautiful
protected by thorns
She is beautiful too
like the rose , but alas
her beauty and chastity
laid bare unprotected,
prone to attacks of
of predators awaiting,
like hungry jackals
behind the bush to
to pounce on hapless
prey grazing grass;
Oh God the creator
how and when will you
protect the womenfolk
from those treacherous men
who remain ever so brutal
despite showered by waters
of civilization for years and years
IV.
Myron’s jaw clenched as he eyed the old brave,
who stood quiet and took in the whole scene
glared intensely at Myron where he stood,
said,”Well then white man, what do you mean?”
Myron just stared iron back at the man,
said”Leave my home and do not ever come back.
I’ll set him free when you’re all out of site,
and on foot he will have to make tracks.”
The brave was still, and then asked of Myron,
“How can we know that your word will be good?
Your kind once promised us our sacred hills,
now they scar the slopes, and chop all the wood.”
Myron angrily shook his head and declared,
“It’s with the soldiers that you need to fight!
I can make no rules, I give no decrees,
have scant power for the wrong or the right!
“I only fight here for the things I have built;
for my family, my land, and my home.
I do not much care for government words
like you I am just protecting my own.”
This brought a glint to the man’s tired eye,
it was an impulse that every man knows,
he motioned the braves to follow him out,
one-by-one the proud warriors rode.
And Myron was just as good as his word,
he let Diving Bird walk away on two feet,
he thought he detected a look of respect,
but maybe he saw what he wanted to see.
Myron was left nearly broken by this,
they had taken every horse that they found,
worse still were the tears from the womenfolk
when he put poor Harold into the ground.
And though the war would rage for one more year,
and on both sides cruelty got its fill,
for Myron the war had taken its toll,
he could only struggle on and rebuild.
The fight would continue to its sad end,
filled with terrors that make good people blanche,
but the Sioux kept their word, and never again
did they show face on the Baker Ranch.