The sun climbs the glass-faced towers, Mist rises from ploughed paddocks.
Buses exhale diesel into the air, Fresh-turned earth lifts its dark, clean scent.
Coffee and pastries tumble into the street, Dew beads cold along the crushed grass.
My shoes kick paper from the pavement, My boots wake dust from the track.
A siren threads its needle through traffic, A kookaburra cracks the stillness.
Rain blurs the lines of the streets, Rain wakes the sharp smell of earth.
Fences divide the street from home, Fence lines loosen into distance.
At night, the city refuses darkness; At night, the stars reclaim the sky.
I look between the towers for one clear star, I look down the road for one clear light.
Once claimed to the Kingdom that the orthodoxy came not with a roar but a whimper, solidarity foregone, ego long-standing like iron-rich water from ancient bloodshed. Through the ploughed fields sent shivers askance the serpent, like shady cathedrals built on an edifice of scales, primed the true course of the whispering grasses, long abated and trounced in that stance.
a tangled, twisted oak,
might and trunk torn open, ploughed through,
strewn upon the forest floor,
limbs - desolate
caverns - Hollowed
chest open and body gutted,
taken for Its branches,
and raped of its fruits,
rotting as the fall sets in,
shaking with the cold of fear
and stench of death,
beaten and stinking
with wounds from the ancient serpent
should be left
alone
to return to dust
-
The Inland Algarve
The landscape is so oddly shaped.
Had once been a domestic landscape,
where the scent of wild herbs and the whisper
The wind through olive branches told stories of past lives,
Walking along a narrow cartwheel
Tracks I often come across the remnant
Of dwellings that once had housed
Poverty-stricken people who had
Ploughed small and reluctant fields
Olive trees had grown wild and tall
Bearing bitter fruit.
Some walls had no purpose, sinking.
Back to earth, becoming rocks again.
A haunted landscape in the inland Algarve,
a region rich with a history of Moorish influence
and traditional farming,
Algarve, and no one saw it doomed
Beauty.
Rabbits and boars peacefully roam, embodying
the natural serenity that still whispers through the land.
And sheep grazed in the gloaming.
Stillness, yet I sensed voices that once
Had loved and lived struggling
Against poverty and early death.
I've finally found my path again,
Feeling inspired with paper and pen.
Building a future, a community,
Seizing newfound opportunity.
Lost precious moments to darkness and depression,
Feelings of worthlessness and acts of aggression.
I hit my rock bottom with significant force,
Then spiraled so much further than I should have, of course.
But like the Phoenix, I rise from the ashes,
I rebuild myself, I heal these gashes.
With what I create, I will make my boys proud,
They will know that I love them, they'll know the field I have ploughed.
* 'Me In Three' Poetry Contest
* Sponsored by: Julianne Williams
* Entered on: 11/23/2025
Spooked
Driving along on my scooter, seeing the familiar
landscape, there was a time disturbance
The landscape was the same, but the trees were small
And there were fewer ploughed fields.
mystical shadows and a murmur of voices sounded
as an echo, and I felt spooked.
I stopped and waited, perhaps I had a funny turn
Slowly, the warp panned out, and I was back at
my own time, yet I sensed an unease I should not
come back to this place that had layers of old-time
that had yet to melt into the clarity of a white water
that has no story to tell.
One couple of days, I was hunting for fish
out in the woods where the corn is delish.
Shot the corn with my arrow; it started to flee.
I guess that means no fish fry for me.
Those fish are so pretty up in the sky.
When I aim my gun, the arrow goes high.
I can’t even hit the corn on the cloud,
and those fish I keep missing sure need to be ploughed!
Raggedy Army
As morning bathes in spring sunshine
A raggedy army stands in line.
Unkempt and ragtag, oddly sized,
Unarranged, disorganised.
Red, a splash among the grey
A new parade at dawn each day.
Some heads drooping, some held high,
A handful gazing at the sky.
Fresh and bright to start the morning,
Most won’t see a new day’s dawning.
In summer’s heat, the same routine -
A new head where an old had been.
In autumn’s fading dying light
A hardy few keep up the fight.
But then to hide in winter’s snow,
Till spring’s warmth says it’s time to show.
And bursting forth and standing proud,
Though scattered, battered, thrashed and ploughed
The raggedy army stands again
Eternal homage to fallen men.
Grace can't grind away the wrinkled gnarls time obeyed,
Nor hide the snarls, ploughed as furrows in the brow.
It carves the knurls for grip that age has disobeyed,
To a shape what decrepit, flailing lovers can still avow.
Grace respects the knurled design that time has hewn,
That's not a flaw, nor fault, but a form that time engraves.
With old branches twisted, scarred, gone too far to prune,
Grace hugs the bumps and twists that life well-spent saves.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to rage
Against the blight of the coming of the night,
Despite the cranky snarls that ring on anvil swage,
As loved ones bare the brunt of frail days plight.
So let the gnarls knurl the grooves to grip tight.
To fight and rage against the fading of the light.
FIELDS
Ploughed and turned over, the field respects the annual makeover. Not just to support another season of growth, but to remain fertile and welcoming, come rain or shine. It shows its face to the sky and smiles.
The earth tries to breathe
Deep soil moves ever slowly
Yielding more new life
Show me, Milo, your love and wonders
By Michelle Morris
14/09/2024
You turn and look back at me
With your chocolate brown eyes
Asking the silent question
Can we go on this path for a while?
I let you lead the way each time
Because I know that you are sure
Thank you for exploring it with me
This lush and peaceful natural world
Verdant corridors and bubbling brooks
Ancient trees and rocks and roots
Birds that delight us with their song
Bees and butterflies around flowers throng
Show me cow pastures and ploughed fields
Show me the blue skies where fluffy clouds are free
Show me your secret doggy universe
Show me, Milo, your love and wonders
© Michelle Morris, 2024
Sweating in the rustic dusts of Nazareth, you laboured.
As a farm labourer, ironsmith, weaver, and shepherd,
You ploughed with the peasants, who were curious yet loving.
They were teachers from whom wisdom, like clear streams, flowed, gushing.
You walked, pondering over the Sea of Galilee.
Where fishermen struggled like lilies amidst barberry,
The breeze, amalgamated with the Abba message, blew.
With you, the fraternity of the folks, day by day, grew.
You read about all philosophies and theologies.
Small or great, each one therein had unique ideologies.
The rich, though they seemed strong, bent in the winds of faith like reeds.
You held all of them in the same balance, mending their creeds.
Each herb, shrub, plant, tree, blossom, fruit, and weed imparted wisdom.
In the soul of each seed, the lord of lords founded the kingdom.
"Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it. " Quote by Rumi
Seek not the right person
Seek to be made right within
Travel to your soul's depths
See what is wrong, repair
Stay long, search, take deep breaths
Seek not the right person
Pray for help in being right
Search your soul, then love comes
If you love at all times
True love will overcome
Seek not the right person
Learn to give of yourself
Freely share worldly goods
Love others as you should
Stay away from falsehoods
Seek not the right person
Learn to build souls up
Reach down fill empty cups
With kind words each day
Let us all be grownups
Seek not the right person
But right within your soul
Not self-righteous and proud
We can be wonderful
A heart just ploughed and sowed
He lived in four little rooms
locked behind the door.
And the night shined through
where a light shined before.
A red flame burned ashen gray,
dying on the floor.
So you move yourself along.
And grind on down.
And scrape the path you drag around.
Stumblin’ on the way.
A new day with no grace to say,
starin’ down the ground.
They’re softer lies to swallow
when you’re drunk.
Or when you’re full of faith
and barely saved.
It’s only things that fade.
And leave impressions in the dark.
And demons in the haze.
Sunlight burns night away,
turns darkness into day.
So sing inside your walls.
And make the lamps low.
And watch the white screen glow,
black on grey.
The words that you say.
And drain yourself away.
Another night burned white by day.
Oh my Darkness, I beg you stay.
Are you fated?
Or are you led?
Well either way the moon will grow.
And spread out wide across the snow.
Piled high and ploughed.
Raised between the lines.
And layered across the years.
Winters Sun.
Crystal shapes on the windowpane, glistening in the morning sun. Fields all ploughed now show the signs of Jacks skates from the night, birds all flown just the winter animals left to roam.
Summer garbs now replaced thick woolly jumpers hats and scarves are now all the craze. Children moan at the long cold nights, while others enjoy cups of hot chocolate tea, ensconced in warm and happy homes, while outside the snow lightly falls.
St Nick his turn soon to come, readies his list and the reindeer team, till that day fingers and toes both young and old, feel the cold from doing chores in winters sun.
By
Patrick D
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