Short Ploughed Poems

cloudless sunlit sky
furrows in ploughed brown field
large flock of black crows...

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Lands ploughed,
hearts scratched,
For cultivation, 
every inch of them
is prepared...

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much to her famous pa did owe
then ploughed her own furrow
to have her say
breaking the glass ceiling 
of her day...

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LOVE IN WAITING


Ploughed earth my heart is
Yearning your love to receive
Ecstasy blossoms


© Demetrios Trifiatis
    12 JUNE 2013...

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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...

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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....

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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...

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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
...

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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~~...

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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...

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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)...

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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....

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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...

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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....

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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....

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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...

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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...

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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...

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Metro auto wipes against my glass muck,
fog and rain crush the inside out of me —

There part of her appearing windshield down; 
this myself, a glitter in the stoplight —

Now the slick and slip of odd out borders —
this accidental Déjà Vu ploughed steel;

Where the upside of this doll backseat pass —
my brass wheels, they spin only for your world,

And then to the swallows new to this air —
the color of heart still beneath our tires....

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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....

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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...

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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....

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