Short Ploughed Poems
Short Ploughed Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Ploughed by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Ploughed by length and keyword.
LOVE IN WAITING
Ploughed earth my heart is
Yearning your love to receive
Ecstasy blossoms
© Demetrios Trifiatis
12 JUNE 2013
A woman in a man's world was Artemiia Gentileschi
broke the glass ceiling to be free
She much to her famous pa did owe
but in her day ploughed her own furrow
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Artemisia_Gentileschi
The beauty in the sky at night
Is not only a shepherds delight
The amazing scene across the sky
Taking the breath of you and I
Pretty pink reds and gold
The colours change as the clouds unfold
Just like ploughed fields the patterns form
Preparing for a brand new dawn.
MAD TIMES
The season of hope and growth
Following those cold empty days
Dark ribbed ploughed fields wait
As new life sniffs the warmer air
Bursting forth, as if all new ideas
In shades of lime, olive and sage
Avidly searching to see the sun
Soon to realise their new vision
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
Diesel spray for Christmas
Butt-face bar of soap for birthday, it's no small joke
On isthmus
They laughed out loud
Though on emotions 'bout to choke
You're ploughed
Watch out!
Charma evokes.
Flout~
Diesel spray for Christmas
Though on emotions 'bout to choke
Flout~~
Overnight rain hangs wetlights on the twigs of the autumnal hedges,
as the light blue sky is ploughed by diagonal yellow furrows to remind
farmers to finish their ploughing in this 'Yellow Belly' county, the most
the most farm favoured in all England.
the blue sky ploughed by diagonal
Laborer and oxen are drawn
to slumber and to toil.
trodden fields of dawn
through basalt seeded soil.
A consistent daily chore
broken and blistered skin
farming out of folklore
the spirit from within.
An iron age passes by,
ploughed by tools of wood
Faces etched, livelihood.
(The traditional farmers of Nicaragua)
I did with sinking heart, notice
Ask me what, and I will deliver sans prejudice.
Minus three from a decade being on precipice,
Yet hammered for erecting defensive rise,
His self-belief pervaded poll's vice.
Thus ploughed he, relentless and determined
towards staggering recordings of happy lies.
Finally he did recede, failing entry's justice.
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!
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.
I ploughed myself into a hazy dream
The depths of which I dared not leave
I did not then but now I see
The truths that stand before me
A cathartic cause that they undertook
That echos through the ages
Stories told by mystic men
Of queens and kings and sages
It’s time too pay the devils due
The pain inside me rages
I wrote my death into a book
It’s found within these pages
Tonight, my skin is a checkerboard
across which your fingers trod.
My eyes are the ransacked cities;
my arms the passageway to escape.
Your hands claim my ribs, my neck.
Your hands rest on my cheeks
sprouting full-formed wheat stalks.
I am the sea, formless and uneasy.
You are the ploughed land, stable and course.
Your calloused hands are tendrils of smoke
hovering in this watchful darkness.
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
-
It takes a man with fiery guts
To stand the heat of the spiteful lots
Of little greats still untamed
And future stars still unnamed.
The sweat never ceased to fall
And the stress really took a toll
But success came out after all
Making the stress worthy of all.
Though no thanks be said or showed
And no hats be tipped or bowed
Always remember you are beloved
By those hearts you ploughed and sowed.
Its a situation
What is gone up
Must come down
Its circumstances
What goes around
Must come around
The events are unfolding themselves
Its a mystery
What has been done
Cannot be undone
Its analysis
What has been a regular
Cannot be a guest
The diary is fully booked
Its an honour
What has been cherished
Must be treasured
Its trustworthy
What has been soared
Must be ploughed
The time will tell the tale
You always repeat the moons
in your eyes.
I will not drop my lids.
I was talking to myself
about the perversity of skimming
the sperm, throwing black rocks
on milk white daisies-
to protest against the fields
not ploughed deeply and scattering
the seeds in wild jungle.
One day panther will die
on his own, head down,
swaying, leaning on one side
and then collapsing.
No pheromones will come out
from the spent body.
Satish Verma
A mule’s dream
A farmer was ploughing the field
his tractor was pink in the idyllic landscape
He ran out of diesel and went to get some more
at the nearest petrol station
A cloud descended, wrapped to the tractor in wool
and took it up to heaven
When the farmer returned, the tractor was gone
The mule, unemployed, spending days under a carob tree
saw the farmer go to fetch the harness
Together, as before, they ploughed the field
Ancient battle
Beautiful field blood-red poppies
ringed with delicate dandelions.
Once a battlefield
the righteous, in blue uniforms
shiny golden buttons.
The terrorists of the time
were farmers and shepherds.
The revolutionaries lost the battle
and many more.
In the end, the rebels won
got their land back.
When the field is ploughed
human skull appears
rebel or soldiers, who knows?
Rusty buttons surface too
not of gold, after all.
The hottest sun hid under the dense cloud
A harbinger of mercy with tiny droplets of rain
All my worries are ploughed
and i am relieved of pain
The road to happiness has many bends
and some times i need a high jump
I am bestowed with the best of friends
To worries together we clump
The Darkness that scare me alot
and the danger that sometimes i pretend
With friends i make the best of plot
And i see the light in the end
It’s long I last bowed
To the Adjudged Endowed;
Long I had vowed
To boycott any crowed
With voices irksomely loud
Or purposely proud
Which often got me cowed
Of feel “The Ploughed”
Or my peace disallowed.
The choice should be a Man’s
To idolize the Endowed
Or kick-start juicy plans
To ascend to some cloud
And from there govern The Proud
Or down throw to The Endowed
The message of “Overtaking Allowed”.
So, it’s ‘A choice to bow or not’
Depending on what you’ve got.