Put Youself In Their Shoes Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Placed 1st
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It was late August, during summer break,
We went to our grandma’s village called Snake.
She had a small house beside a big lake;
She was known to people as Mrs. Blake.
She liked to live in the village alone;
There she loved to live a life of her own.
In her little field, corn seeds, she had sown;
That time to its full size the crop had grown.
Around the field, there was a mountain range…
There we went for harvesting for a change,
Not expecting anything in exchange.
As we were novices the work looked strange!
We worked since morning till evening untired;
The art of harvesting we had acquired.
Our work in the fields everyone admired;
The children of the village got inspired.
After the work, we returned from the field;
People welcomed us with smiles unconcealed.
And honored us by giving us a shield;
To them our whereabouts grandma revealed.
Picture: 3
Date of posting the poem: 8/16/2023
Categories:
untired, 5th grade, august, summer,
Form: Rhyme
Still no Window,
Still no Whiskey.
Still no Mountain,
Still no Glade.
Still no Rustic
Bench or Rickety
Table. No Oil
Lamp, No Hand-
Whittled Pen.
No Daydreams
Wafting 'n Wefting;
Curling Heavenward,
Mingledancing with
Tobacco Scents.
No Time Sense,
Such as with
Such Contemplatives,
Such as with
Surrenderers to
Fate...Much as with
The Untired Retired.
I suffer from
Idylolatry and Idleolatry.
I suffer from
I suffer from
...and yet,
I write.
Categories:
untired, philosophy, poems, poetry, poets,
Form: Free verse
The Oak Tree
The master of forests
gives the shade we desire.
The mighty oak towers
over the trilliums flowers.
Acorns deliver,
lands precious devour,
for blue jays and squirrels
and all plants and soils.
Broad leaves transpire
earths cycles untired.
Suns shade and shadows made
from edges of towers.
Through stoves it warms,
on cold days,
the small cold feet of children
after hours of smiles.
2000
Categories:
untired, environment, imagery, nature, tree,
Form: I do not know?
Still no Window,
Still no Whiskey.
Still no Mountain,
Still no Glade.
Still no Rustic
Bench or Rickety
Table. No Oil
Lamp, No Hand
Whittled Pen.
No Daydreams
Wafting 'n Wefting;
Curling Heavenward,
Mingledancing with
Tobacco Scents.
No Time Sense,
Such as with
Such Contemplatives,
Such as with
Surrenderers to
Fate...Much as with
The Untired Retired.
I suffer from
Idylolatry and Idleolatry.
I suffer from
I suffer from
...and yet,
I write.
Categories:
untired, poems, poetry, poets, writing,
Form: Free verse