Ah, poetry
The last vestige
Of its vestige
Fragments
Of a shattered love
Broken
By the demands
Of beauty
Showing its age
Metaphor
Lost in its meaning
Metered fences
Challenging the wanderer
Corralling the herd
Nuances lost
In the unplowed fields
A dandelion shunned
For lack of compliance.
Oh, poets,
Would we be led
To worship
At the slaughterhouse
Of free thought
Reshaped words
Rekindled passion
Or stand as one
Alone
Undaunted
Group
Of forever’s rebels
The land is vast, and wealth is here,
But wisdom’s lacking, though the way is clear.
Many lands remain untamed, unplowed,
If not for corruption, much would be allowed.
Where is the strength, where is the might?
Where is the mind, where is the fight?
If a dog doesn’t bite the pants' hem,
Could this land become a paradise then?
The jealous can’t bear the hardworking soul,
Even if they can’t plant a tree, their goal.
A task undone by thousands of hands,
Can one person make it without bands?
Though our weight may be light,
Our dream is to be a nation bright!
Many tasks started, but none complete,
This is why our fingers are in defeat.
One of their own had wandered far;
the others know it strayed away.
From the high cliff, they stare and wait
for the lone sheep that went astray.
Yet there below, alone, he roams
perhaps a longing to be free;
find newer roads for a better life
upon the path along the sea.
Sometimes it's best to leave the road
outlined as stable with the crowd;
to be the one that stands apart-
and travel avenues unplowed.
To travel avenues unplowed
and concentrate on finding one;
become that stubborn lone lost sheep
to pave new paths still left undone.
Why do weeds wear blooms of grace,
Hidden in corners in their secret place?
Risen in cracks, in fields unplowed
Stands a splash of color, tall and proud
Unwelcome, they say, as they pierce the rigid ground.
Perhaps in weeds, there lies a truth,
That beauty shines despite its youth.
They grow where no man dares to tread
Encompassed in pink and vibrant red.
They are pulled, yet they return.
In their petals, we can learn.
Weeds, thought of as wild and free
Are Nature's flowers in secrecy.
I love to watch a farm awaken in the early spring,
Especially as the birds in the forest happily sing,
The farm knows how to be itself, profound and true,
Like the faded red barn, quietly beholding the view.
In this moment, the farm finds its serenity,
Between sips of morning coffee, so heavenly,
Tempting songs of cardinals, a melodious cheer,
Chips and whistles carried by the breezy air.
Who wouldn't be captivated by this wondrous sight,
As darkness surrenders to the emerging light,
The old barn stands, with no complaints or pleas,
No need for a fresh coat of red, at ease it sees.
The morning fog, a gentle, subtle trace,
In the fields unplowed, it finds its place,
Soon, corn will grow in rows so neat,
And crows will gather for a sumptuous treat.
Gently I inhale the farm's awakening charm,
Especially in the early spring's tranquil arm,
Where the soul knows no bounds, it's free,
Across an undefined horizon, a painting, you see.
Quiet repose, a vastness, the soul's delight,
A pretty picture as the new day takes flight,
The farm awakens with beauty untold,
In the early spring, where dreams unfold.
He squandered time, left fields unplowed,
in search of highs, pursuing thrills,
neglecting that he'd been endowed
with gifts to cultivate and till.
He wandered where his heart did please,
but pleasure slipped by small degrees.
A random walk, no certain line:
the storms in life were kept at bay.
But with no star to point or shine,
he, ere awares, had lost his way.
Once jubilant, his raucous dance
had brought him to a wide expanse.
There in the field, he saw them toil;
relentlessly, they stored away
the harvest so as not to spoil,
to see them through a future day.
He should have marvelled at their craft;
instead, he skipped off with a laugh.
The weather turned, conditions grim;
he found no respite from the storm.
A fleeting thought occurred to him:
that colony was nice and warm,
but having not the strength to fight,
succumbed, unconscious, to the night.
The ants took pity: although he
was thirsting, cold, and oh so thin,
and time would pass before he'd be
industrious, they took him in.
"Why wasn't I just disavowed?"
he wondered, this time not so loud…
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
with no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)
A mutt rebounds past my window
as I contemplate the morning weather
while sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour,
who’s clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and with a winter implement
grasped in her mitten-covered hands,
bravely confronting the heart-attack weather
while tossing snow over her shoulders
to clear the driveway from garage to curb
for the mechanical beast to enter
the unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt
(no doubt an excuse to catch her breath).
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master,
who brushes the snow from his fur
and, I venture to guess, says, “Atta-boy!”
as if the dog had overcome
some great endeavour.
But they both seem to derive pleasure
from the brief encounter.
The master resumes her shovelling
and the mutt his romping,
and I, continue thinking
while sipping my hot cup of coffee that I, too,
will have to face the inclement weather,
clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
and commit to the task of snow shovelling.
Even the moon was cold
wrapped in clouds, like
an old shawl, dark, no
twinkling stars shown,
only the breath as they
walked, single file, to
where they did not know.
Past farms lit by only
what little of the moon
dared peek out, past
fields unplowed, blowing
in the harsh wind,
falling apart as they go.
To the sea, to the sea,
the waves crashing, the
storm brewing, to the ship,
to another land, tocking
and tumbling through the
sea, the moon shining on
the deck, where men dare not follow.
Single file they walk, past
houses of those gone long ago,
to the farms, to the men, to
the heat, unbearable heat,
the sun bore no clouds,
no relief as they bent,
hand picked and rough,
this land they did not
own, but had to plough.
Even the moon was hot,
sweating at night so
the air was thick with
almost rain, but not.
Sleeping outside under
the stars reminded them
of home, but not. They
toiled, they waited, they
planned, but none saw
the end of the pain, they
laid on their backs, exhausted
every night and wished for clouds.
Sensational shockwaves of fall, 2001
witnessed world trade struck cold.
As its backdrop collasped, we trembled in a sea
of misgivings untold.
Brilliant aftershocks arose then in quick pursuit
though nation’s nerves were pained.
Countless rich outgiving, volunteer champions
committed, unconstrained.
Into unplowed soil of cowardly destruction
bounteous seeds were sown
freely without thorns of selfish gain or glory.
Faith bloomed - distrust, overthrown.
The horses hitched, the team stands ready
The farmer’s hands on reins firm steady
Prepared to work with heads held proud
To challenge fields that lie unplowed.
With gentle hands he guides the crew
To plow the furrows straight and true
At corners turn, a pure ballet
These mighty steeds, grand Boulannais.
All day long they mind their plowing
Weather fair, daylight allowing
The three of them all work as one
The farmer and his team ‘til done
He Cares,
So Should We
Written: by Tom Wright
2/2/2018 2:30 am
When we live for Jesus each & every day,
It doesn’t matter neither time nor cost.
Good seeds we’ll sow on our given way,
Our mission is simply, witness to the lost.
We plant good seed in fields unplowed,
Sometimes the resolution we never see.
Then at day’s end our heads are bowed,
Thanking Jesus again from bended knee.
He Cares,
So Should We
Written: by Tom Wright
2/2/2018 2:30 am
When we live for Jesus each & every day,
It doesn’t matter neither time nor cost.
Good seeds we’ll sow on our given way,
Our mission is simply, witness to the lost.
We plant good seed in fields unplowed,
Sometimes the resolution we never see.
Then at day’s end our heads are bowed,
Thanking Jesus again from bended knee
With Calm Repose I Ponder Earth And Sky
There in hidden den of sweet solitude,
With calm repose I ponder earth and sky.
Depths of human weakness- my attitude,
those fleeting wisps of racing Time flown by.
I hold this, my sweet spot as my haven,
wooded seas and imagined paradise.
Serenity found, tis' not stone graven
yet Nature's wonders give greater advice.
All about, wicked world mixed as it turned
changing people into sad, selfish beasts.
Greed, people cry out for more than is earned
as darkness eats its many rotten feasts.
Brutal naked truth can, if its found yield,
happiness is- an unplowed, fertile field.
Robert J. Lindley, 4-09-2016
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
Total # Words: 100
Note: Sonnet on Life, Nature, Solitude and man's
great need to see his true place in the world..
There is no one left for explana-tion…
They are all gone,
The violent end has come…
Revving up since realization,
Of the abstract.
NO,
NO,
NO,
NO,
Hope. Another one-
Love, yet another-
Space well there’s a fact.
So how do we…decide?
On the dot of midnight demised.
Quasar, no, galaxy
Red-blue. Maybe the work of a gypsy.
AGGressive-ly dealt with-
In order to paint wilted whispers.
Van Gogh would be proud!
Of this wonder we allowed to be unplowed-
Ab st ract. Abst raction.
A snow bound silence descends now
upon my hallowed home,
the traffic's gone, the streets unplowed
and I'm engrossed in tomes.
A ribald tale of myst'ry roils
the knights have charged the breech
the bard sings tall tales of old
of maiden's love's unleashed.
The pendants mark the battles course
as Saxons face the Celts
unarmored men fought Saxon's, Norse
in naught but paint and pelts.
And so it was, and so it is
as men live or die for a kiss.
Sub Categories
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