Plowed Poems | Examples

We Wear The Mask

We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar



After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa 


Love of our land's labour should make us proud;
The efforts, time, and energy put through...
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.

But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed,
When slavery is to labourers in blue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.

Showers of rain ain't just of dusty cloud,
But of heavy downpour and not dew;
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.

Yet all harvest couldn't feed suppose crowd,
We become weary of need to pursue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud.


Just an endless space to measure; unbowed 
Hearts and heads under threat, government subdue...
Love of our land's labour should make us proud,
Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed.

TODAYS CULTIVATED WARS

TODAY’S CULTIVATED WARS 

War's rumors are plowed;
War sown seeds germinating:
Fruits of peace rotting:-

Howling Wilderness

In the wind, hear a plaintive, mournful wail.
It is more than a wolf caught in a trap.
It's more than fishing gear catching a whale
and rainforests being wiped from the map.

It is a voice that cannot speak in words. 
Across the ages, you discern the moan 
of vanishing prairies, buffalo herds, 
that's carried by plowed up topsoil, windblown.  

Earth's untamed ecosystems we hold dear 
are crying softly, asking for our help, 
grimly warning that they will disappear.   
Like a badly injured dog's dying yelp, 

hear the wilderness's last gasping breath, 
"Save me from the clench of languishing death".

The Night Before

I did not sleep that night,
the hotel room was already taking on
the chill ambience, smell, and sounds
of an intensive care unit.

Occasional distant laughter
in a corridor where people are carefree,
I pretend to laugh along
but thoughts croak and tremble.

I mean nothing to Cincinnati,
the city has no memory of me yet,
and If I die in its University Hospital
I will still be a hole within a hole
of a book never read.

During the 4 a.m. G.P.S drive
it rained a soft black rain
as headlights plowed into
the unknown.

Back in the hotel room,
I am still packing and unpacking
while somnambulant eyes
try not to see the looming Hospital entrance
emerging from a gray faced dawn.

The entrance is an electric mouth
that withers. puckers and reflates.

Beyond sliding doors, the day blanches white.

I Learned Gardening from my Parents

My mother had a way with green plants
They wanted to please her, and so they did.
She took cuttings and gave them to neighbors.
Millions of cuttings. Provided the town with cuttings.

We kids were gardening as soon as we could walk.
Out in the country, on grandpa’s land.
An enormous garden plowed by a tractor.
Our garden was the size of a small supermarket.

We planted our vegetables in rows
Slit the bottom of the seed packet and put it on a stake
Every second or third row was marked
So, I knew how to plant, weed, and hoe a garden

I learned how to grow my own food
After getting my own place, I realized I missed home-grown vegetables
I decided to plant my own garden.
I chose things I thought might be easy -carrots, radishes, and peas.

Corn takes too much room, and pumpkins are not early enough.
I had learned plenty from my parents; my garden was a hit.
I also had two rows of flowers.
Remembering much later....
My mother always planted two rows of flowers in her vegetable gardens.
Zinnias and Marigolds
The same two flowers I chose to plant.

for only a day

for only a day


once, so long ago,
we ran through plowed fields,
barely missing sharp glass fragments 
and jagged rocks
and never missing opportunities 
to laugh and stumble over one another

it was easy to hide from approaching cars
and imaginary pirates 
swinging galvanized swords

tears and blood were hidden in mud streaks
and wishes drowned in grass roots
where summer days covered the field
with corn stalks and blackberries

memories of childhood were
stolen away by nightmares 
of shallow streams
and blueberry bruises

at days end we retreated 
to trivial encampments 
within our minds

concealed barricades and crumbling forts
were whisked away 
stolen by afternoon winds

fear, that dominant master, 
directed us home
pouring emptiness into places 
where hope lived

for only a day

 © tolbert

In Grandma's House

In one corner of your room
you’d hung a faded photograph
of Charles Lindbergh and his plane
in sepia
covering
a lighter-colored square of wall
exactly the same size.

He looked so dashing
with his scarf and smile
but his eyes were dark and sad
          (like yours)
beneath his aviator’s cap
and it was signed,
“To Mildred.”

Why did you hang it?
Did you dream of flight
as you plowed the land
on your John Deere?
By the time I thought to ask
about the picture’s story
you’d already flown too far ahead
for me to hear your voice
above the wind.

Life

smell of fresh plowed earth
gentle warm rains fall on ground~
life is returning

The Heifer and the Ox - Mar 17

Said the Heifer to the Ox: “O‘ sorry Ox,
How terrible to work your heavy yoke,
All day to wheel around that grinding spoke!” 
She lay lazy in the shade of nearby rocks. 

But Ox plowed onwards. Hearing Heifer’s knocks,
And paying no heed to her pitiful smoke,
He laboured, knowing well the dreadful joke
Which soon was to repay her mindless mocks. 

And just then came a large procession near,
Garbed in diadems and resplendent frills;
“O‘ Heifer, if only you’d known your lot,
You’d have held your tongue and lived life in fear!“
The priests, dragging Heifer to the high hills,
Offered her to gods whose favors they sought.


(Inspired by Aesop's "The Heifer and the Ox".)

Weights and Measures

There is no scale that can weigh the power of hope 

Winter ICE riding an Alberta Clipper from the new northern state down to the Gulf of America 

A Brown wave
No time for Brown waves good bye 
A brown wave 

Sky ships set sail
Rouge cargo
Stripped, strapped, secure 

Refugee - no refuge - Refugee

Loose dirt plowed
Roots shifted, strained 
Lumps gathered 

Tear watered seeds sewn 
In Brown soil that hope 
might sprout like a tree

Sky ship sets sail 
Bounded cargo 
Refugee - no refuge - Refugee

Hearts of Gold

The bell rang
In the castle high, 
Calling for the rise
Of those below. 

War floods the gates, 
Not of fire or stone,
But of hearts torn. 
Now, they cause pain. 

Blood, death, gore, 
Strikes those below. 
Hearts of gold among the red, 
Try and fail to stop the end. 

In the castle high, 
They do not care. 
With hearts shrouded in gold, 
A metal so cold

No warmth of tears, 
Of terrors, of fears, 
No care among the ones of gold

For the reds pouring below, 
The lands plowed. 
The people die, 
Yet they do not cry. 

No, they're hearts are gold. 
No tear falls, 
Not for their land, 
Their home.

There's Something to this 'Santa Thing'

      Asked him for the good health I’d missed all year
         This week my aches and pains disappear

      Stress bombarded me every month, becoming quite severe
         But now in December, it’s vamoosed right out of here

      Feared to utter the words ‘Ice and Snow’ aloud
         Yet this December in Chicago, not one street plowed 

      Now, dare I ask for peace on earth, good will toward men?
         Not exactly Santa’s domain ~
            Please G-d he comes through again

Consequences

Consequences
Miracle Man
12/11/2024

We have all done things which we regret,
from a time in life when young and green.
While the reason for doing we quickly forget,
and the end result was often unforeseen. 

Without giving thought to false pretences,
we plowed ahead doing a dastardly deed.
Later we learned things had consequences,
if we didn’t follow what God has decreed.

One Brushstroke

Youth was just a lone brushstroke
Foolishly I thought it would forever glow...
the same best friend forever
the same candy store from heaven
the same field of flowers gold...
but youth never really had a chance. 
It was dragged from the warm tide pool
into the deep blue end. 
So many wasted moments
swinging from social anxiety tree
lonely bee looking for the flower
amidst a decade and a half of cold concrete...

The best friend died of liver disease
the heavenly candy store is gone
eaten by a horde of attorneys
the wildflower field plowed under
by rows of broken homes.

One brushstroke on the canvas of eternity.
The joke had always been on me.

No Romance for Farmer Fred

Farmer Fred on the day he was wed
Believed every word he said
He knew his light of love Nancy
Was so much more than a passing fancy
Nancy had brains, beauty, and drive
With her by his side, Fred felt so alive
Now after forty years of wedded bliss
Fred thought he'd give Nancy a kiss
So Fred gives her his famous wink of the eye
And beckoned Nancy to come over nigh
Now Nancy had a different idea
Sideling over she gives Fred a swift kick in the rear
Smiles and says "Get yourself out of here
And go fix that old John Deere"
So much for romance thought Fred out loud
Hush! you old fool, the back forty needs to be plowed

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