Harvest time fills the mountain air
Sep 8, 2013      Sep 9, 2013

Thirty- four hundred feet above the sea
In Appalachian hills Blue Ridge
An eighty year family tradition
Lives a story rich and unabridged

Harvest time fills the mountain air
Vines line rows with trained precision
Both European and French American
Varieties produce a delectable collision.

Hummingbirds light on Miss Ruby's pink petals
Oak branches sway vessels of Riesling and Merlot
Kaleidoscoping spheres of cobalt, crimson,and gold
Beguile all into tranquility with fruit's flow.

An afternoon at Burnt Shirt Vineyards
with CarolinaBound.
Miss Ruby butterfly bushes were being
entertained by dancing butterflies.
Hundreds of empty wine bottles were suspended
from tree branches as the sun shined through them
casting beams, a kaleidoscope of colors, to stain our skin.
Raquel Cheri
Raquel Cheri
Oct 6, 2011

Words tossed
landing in mind fields
Thoughts perceptions
grow like weeds
Water swaying turmoil
nurturing seeds
Harvesting our love
holding up shields
simply waiting
wanting to give our souls freely
Tending to wounds
The memoirs of agonizing gullibility
Like razor blades to my brain
You take away the pain
Mere words could not explain.
Laughter holds all meaning
To this love lust never fleeting
Repaired damage thriving surely
Through the plains of time

In the old days, there was a plentiful harvest of words, but only a few heard them - t
Melody W
Melody W
Dec 4, 2012

In the old days, there was a plentiful harvest of words, but only a few heard them - truly heard them. These words fell from the sky like manna, only to be trampled upon, tossed away, and quickly forgotten. At high noon, a rising murmur not unlike the rumbling of thunder burrowed itself into the earth and festered, intensifying even as the colors of nature intertwined and coagulated into a mottled brown-grey. The people covered their ears to block out the horrible shrieks, but to no avail. For what seemed like an eternity, the whole world engaged in a frenzied danse macabre.

And then there was silence.

Jessica Lewis
Jessica Lewis
Mar 4, 2013

A passerby might wander,
casting admirable eyes,
stopping for a moment before
plucking until dry;

where wild berries in youth,
quickly round to full promising
piqued bulbs (lustful cores),
which stain fingers as
pulped juice pulsates out;

seedless and pointed, brown
crowns stand proud on twigs,
lifeless they may seem.

Sep 10, 2010

golden wheat sea waves
hot sun shines over combines wake
happiness is dust

a pink dawn fades blue
beautiful sunshine beckons
finally payday

© Stephen Petluk 2010
a harvest moon at its finest,
Sep 23, 2010

Night air, so tranquil,
accompanied by you and me,
and an ever gentle breeze
soothing our decree.

Words so soft,
spoken like raindrops
making love to a puddle;
majestic discretion revealed
to the only two willing souls
savoring the sky.

Nineteen hours away,
you still manage to sink
into my welcomed chest
as our synched eyes caress
a harvest moon at its finest,

the royal glow ascertaining
a profound truth heavier than
the radiant Venus hanging below
on its translucent string,
swinging with the stars,
swinging in our arms,
in our hearts;

Michael W Noland
Michael W Noland
Mar 15, 2013

Sheriff has his feet up
Outlaw rides a path
Deputy is cleanin up
Whore draws a map

Of a tumble weed
Tumbelin down the street

Where the fields a burnin
And the wells are dry
And the blacks burnin
The curious eyes

Of a crow perched on a fence
wheat hangin from its beak

Where bones are speakin
From a barn ablaze
Old man speakin
From the flames

Admittedly, this ones a bit weird. After reading it several times a day for two days, i feel as though its an opening to a bigger piece that may require a hook, and though i hate hooks and hate following any kind of rule set, i think it would be fitting for whatever the fuck it is im trying to do here. Feedback appreciated. I will likely disregaurd it, and utilize your feedback in my own way, but i appreciate it none the less. You fuckers rock!
Above me a plane flew into the harvest moon
Jazmin Dawn Mehrmann

Running uphill
I tripped over a BBQ brush
I turned
We exchanged a nod
Then I thanked him for getting the gristle out
Above me a plane flew into the harvest moon
And bled diamonds into the sky
I found a broken pipeline marker
And wrote your name in the sand
Then blew it across the cityscape
I saw the light catch the grains
And hoped that the wind might carry it
To a lamp near you

David Beresford
Oct 23, 2011

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.

Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.

Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.

Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.

Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.

Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.

As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.

This was written in a hurry as a commissioned item - a poem to be read out at the harvest festival the following week.
Reading it requires pauses, for effect, and to cover the variations in timing.
Much of it was inspired by what I saw while out running along the Hoton ridge on the Notts. Leics. border.
May 16, 2013      May 17, 2013

can i go higher?
farther than this love of mine?
when i burn this heart,
remember what i promised i would be.

i would continue
teach them malicious ideas.

while balancing on the edge of truth
and the precipice of thought.
where are you my dear?
buried in the garden
Amongst forgotten flowers and the ever present weeds.

i need you now.
not down that musical road of past lick. touch. screw.
i need you right here

the battlefield of love is unrelenting. painful. undeniable.
a field of rotten vegetable induced death.
whorish in action
horrid in creation.
i burn

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