Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mia Sadoch Sep 2018
There once was a farmer
Whose fields grew stale.
No matter his efforts
They would turn out to remain hopeless.

It had been years since they turned sterile
Yet the farmer still held out hope.
Against all odds, he still believed
That one day his harvest would be plentiful.

Do not become this farmer
That exhausts the earth.
Look for new fields
On which to grow your love.
That farmer really is too stubborn...
Frances Marie Apr 2018
Pitter-patter;
     pelting peaking the poignant hearing of a peering, personable
     person.

Awakened she walks;
     waiting for water to weaken against the small windows,
     withering away.

Flourishing souls;
     stemming from spring came spitting droplets, refreshing flora.

Drab days;
      dead development dawdled by dreary dates - winter is gone.
    
Joyful cheers!
     Carrot's stones cherished close for colder days.

Winter disappears for departure.
    Spring reappears for resurgence.
Everyone enjoys spring but I think rural and urban farmers alike understand that rain is the prime time for plant growth.
Naman Mar 2018
Set foot, stand on ground
Wakes up early before kickdawn
Rich in culture, filled with bask
Thanks god, for every grain, for
every rain,for every ray and another day.
Back to fields , growing seeds
Plucking the mist of irrational deeds
Running the treadmill of ounce dearth.

okay,let's count
when no rain, an unreasonable pain
Unseasonable rain, yet it flood the drains
Glimmering sun, adhesive air,
verdant emerald of vegies and corn
Filled with sweat of one's brow

They live life in a dense mess 
Farmers are in complete distress 
Apparantly with no fruitful harvest 
The whammy bankers further oppress. 
Their light erades like a blaze
They in darkness try to elope
But whirls in deep evil-twin
And find life hard to cope 
then they pick up a rope 
And hang-up all their hopes!
With this, one less counts the population
And this is how it will end,
the population count will decrease
No doubt with cost of an earnest gem!
Rodium Tek Jan 2018
A horse walked up to a farmer.
This horse was anything but a charmer.
This was not a horse that worked or ran races;
But it was a horse that had three faces.

He said "Hello farmer, I see you're farming.
I know I look scary, but I don't like harming.
I'm just here because I want to help you.
Maybe even become part of your animal crew."

The farmer replied "What the heck are you?
You look like a demonic horse with three faces.
I don't even want to look at you.
And do you even know what grace is?"

"You speak foul of me, which I hope you remorse.
After all, you are speaking to the Three-Faced Horse.
You shouldn't judge, based on appearance.
I'm in fact a horse filled with with brilliance."

"I don't care how good you are.
Your so ugly I could see it from afar.
I couldn't look at that all day.
So please leave me alone, if you may."

"Well, it's no wonder you don't have many friends.
Nobody likes somebody who judges.
Although it's not too late to make amends,
If you're a ****, people will hold grudges."

"You might be right, but my answer is no.
I seriously will fight you, after all I make a good foe.
So please leave my farm and don't come back.
It is getting late, and I should really hit the sack."

"Leave I will, because I know your *****.
But you will experience karma, and you won't be happy.
If you keep judging, then you will be alone.
So for your bitterness, I hope you will atone."

The day ended, and the farmer went to sleep.
The horse left the farm, and didn't come back.
To the farmer, the horse never made a peep.
But in a few months, the farmer died from a heart attack.
I know it's ridiculous.
Lemon Wren Dec 2017
A farmer named Cane bought a goat
And was alarmed to find it could float
It drifted away,
All while chewing its hay,
And a writer of this story wrote

Please, if you are one of concern,
For this goat and the farmer in turn
Know that it is quite true
That the goat as he flew
For the ground he did simply not yearn

Once more, our friend Cane
Was bewildered not pained
To see his new animal fly
And as the goat rose,
Well, he crinkled his nose,
And he smiled as he said a "Goodbye!"
Ahmed Ali Nov 2017
A pious man had two daughters beautiful set forth ,
Till one day he married then off both,
one wed the farmer and other wed the potter,
the wise man called on them a year after.

To the farmer’s wife he asked how she felt,
"A lot happy father, only there is one thing I want yet
We sowed some seeds and the rains have not made the fields wet",
Do not worry dear I'll pray after I have left.

As he crossed the fields green,
He prayed for the  clouds  to rain.
and went to see the other one of his lineage,
who lived yonder in the next village,.

To the potters wife he asked how she felt,
A lot happy father, only there is one thing I want yet,
We made some pots and the sun is not as hot as it should get,
The wise man sat up and soon he went out and left.

Under the big tree.. he knelt down and prayed
Asked His forgiveness, uttering these words as he raved,
O Lord.. thou are the only one to know what to do,
The wisest of all, thou only  knows what is the best..!"


This is a story narrated to me by my mentor (Moula)..longtime ago and I only gave it a shape of a poem. Before this I had posted  it on my Multiply blog.

(By: Khan, BA..01-1-2017)
however man may try to alter the things  ultimately it is the Divine that sets is right.. the key lies in finding the path to Divine and stick to it..
Raghu Menon Oct 2017
I want to be
the honey bee
that sings and hovers..

I want to be
the little bird
Flying freely in the sky..

I want to be
the little lamb
Tasting the new shoots..

I want to be
the magnificent lion
That is calm and at peace.

I want to be
the stream in a brook
That giggles down the *****.

I want to be
the weight less clouds
That drifts way in the winds..

I want to be
the little ant
which is focused and mature..

I want to be
the splitting lightning
which cuts the air with a thunder..

I want to be
the loud thunder
that brings the hope to farmers..

I want to be
the lashing rain
That washes away my tears.

I want to be
the merciless slayer
of the mean, the corrupt and the bad.

I want to be
the laughing Buddha
To come to peace with me.
Various contradicting phases of me, the things I like and cherish at some points of time.  May be a nonsense poem, but with lot of sense to myself.
Hasan Aspahani Jul 2017
A pair of lovers is a pair of tongues that say the word alternately, the same word, which moves from mouth to mouth.

A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes that never tired of looking at each other, lyrics to each other, closing each other, in the light and dark.

A pair of lovers are two travelers searching each other, and steadfast wait until finally found each other.

A pair of lovers is a pair of names that ask each other for a place in memory, so as not lost in the loss.

A pair of lovers are a pair of farmers who rush to the fields do not wait for the rain to die, because love is a fertile morning.

A pair of lovers is a pair of eyes in the night, there is a beautiful dangling light, and there is hope that gee, rampant.

A pair of lovers are two lines on a gurindam, longing for revenge, mutual opening and closing, harassing, muffling.

A pair of lovers is a pair of longing hands, stalling to the empty, as if to rub a love on the forehead full of sweat.

A pair of lovers are a pair of hearts at a glance, bristling, as you imagine the longing will be very torture.

A pair of lovers is a pair of interconnected books, the first book, continues into the second book, and vice versa.

A pair of lovers is a pair of books that amaze each other on the cover, because it knows very well what is written on them.

A pair of lovers are two books, writing and reading each other, without ever interchanging the pages.
Vachaspathi Jan 2017
The crops went dry as there was no rain
A year of hard work went in vain
Tears started to flow in his heart from which he couldn't refrain
But the phoenix in him rose from this pain
With a hundred elephants strength he lunged on the field to sow another grain
Ignatius Hosiana Jan 2017
There Was An Old Farmer called Zelalem
Whose dream was to visit Jerusalem
for which he tilled crop and prayed for rain
to mint some buck albeit in vain
That relentless Old Farmer called Zelalem
Next page