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Viseract Nov 2016
Bright blue skies and country roads,
Dust trails billowing behind the distant rumble of a 4x4
Gravel crunching, stones skipping
Sweat on his forehead and barley in his mouth,
Broad-brim hat clapped on his head
Dusty jeans and boots,
Checked red shirt and plain sandy dirt

This is the image of Australians
...and is somewhat arguable, but whenever someone mentions Australian stereotypes I instantly think of the "working" Australian and not the "bogan" aussie
NURUL AMALIA Sep 2016
The sun greets softly in the morning stage
Ricefield carpet so greenish refreshing the melancholy eyes
It's time to wake up
Birds orchestra with sound of water flowing can be heard
Such a nice music of nature
The wind blew the rhythm so the trees are dancing
Celebrating the beautiful days as usual
Life has just begun
Under the roof of the pretty blue sky
The farmer goes to his field
Walking on a wooden bridge with cadence
through a cheerful river below
Colm Jun 2016
Lonesome tree,
Left to stand in a field of green.

You are as free as free can be, at least as much as a tree can be.

You’re the sole survivor of a proud oak line,
And the tallest timber I’ve ever seen in this area of the countryside.

Only you have lived long enough to see the red sunrise.
The lidless moon and the eye of the storm sent by the sea.

It baffles me, that you a tree, would watch over a farmer and his family.
Your rightful and natural enemy, who pushes the plow beneath your feet.

Surrounded by a society which cuts down all of your company,
Just to build and sow with lesser seeds.  

And yet you, the mightiest of trees, refuse to pack up root and leave?
Refuse to let yourself be twisted by the progress of humanity.

Why are you doing this?

I guess no greater love exists,
Than to share your shade with your enemies.

Thank you for this, oh lonesome tree,
You are a symbol of life to me.
Visit me on Poetfreak to see the actual tree that inspired this poem.
Snehith Kumbla May 2016
Didn't reap
Didn't ripen

fed it an elephant diet,
stayed guard all night,
pray-bribed the rain gods,
plotted insect genocides,
sold my wife’s bangles

Didn't reap
Didn't ripen

once where were lush fields,
now the coming of concrete

Didn't reap
Didn't ripen

the seasons are unfaithful,
there is no spring songbird

Didn't reap
Didn't ripen
Ronjoy Brahma Dec 2015
जोँनि आबादथिलिनि सेराव
जेराव जोँ थायो
बेयावनो गोजा लैथोआबो
गोजाव लाङो आबादारिफोर
-
सोमखोर जानाय आबादफोरा
गल' गल' नायहरो
लेवार बेलावनि गोजोमनाय
आबादारिनि गोथै सोलेर
-
सिगुण सिलानि होँगो दोँगो
अख्रां गंसे अखाफोर नुहरै
साना सौसिख' हायै
खोमसि बे मोनसे दुब्लि
-
मोकथां सिमां नुग्रानि जोनोम जालिया
सिमांबादिसो जाबाय
सिमांनिफ्राय मोकथां जालिया
गोजा लैथोनि सेर सेर
Don Bouchard May 2016
Sometime early in the year,
Calving drawing on,
Seeders and tractors
Lose their dormant chill,
Began demanding preparation,
Murmuring anticipation:
"Clean the seed for planting!"
"Till the soil and ready it for seed!"

The farmer, wanting rest,
Anxiously awaits first sprouts,
Anticipates the time to till the noxious weeds,
Watches capricious sky for signs of rain or hail;
Tends fences; guards his fields,
Where ripening grain cannot predict the yields.

June scrambling begins:
The readying for harvest,
The hopeful storage plans,
The preparation of harvesters
Expensive beyond budgets,
Soon to lumber out and gather
Dying summer in....

Autumn's chilling breath
Calls quickening to the work:
The gathering of straw,
The hauling-in of hay,
The opened stubble fields for cows;
The planting of winter wheat,
That first must sprout before frost....
(If not the seeding may be  lost).
Ronjoy Brahma Jul 2015
दद्रेद्रे मिनि लाजिसुलुलु
ओँखाम थफ्ला रुजुनबोला
समायनासिन नुबावो फ्रि फ्रि अखायाव।
रांखो दाहोनाया नायगोमोयो
बेसे समायना देमबारिया!
खाफालाव दंना गैया आंहा??
हे गसाइ! हे गसाइ!
मोसौ हग'बासो सुथि मोनो
मोसौ आथिँआव नांगोल फाला अख्लाबो
बिखा खायसिब देमबारिया।
बेसे मिनिथाव जादोँ सल'आ
हाब्रु गदा गदि मोसौ आथिँआव
रांखो दाहोनानि बुदिया
मा इसे दुखु गोनां फालाय!
मोसौनि थै रना रनि आथिँआव
मलम फोननाया-
देमबारिया मिनियोसो
बहाबा दुखुखौ दोनहरना
नाथाय रागा खरा बुदांआ
रांखोनि सायाव मा बिसार?
गबावगोन दाबि रांखो दाहोनाया??
21/07/2015
Raghu Menon Jul 2015
Green
Refreshing
Maturing to become
Grains that will feed us

WIth the sweat of the farmer
WIth the tears of the widows and daughters
WIth the sorrow of the indebted ..
WIth the curse of the deprived and downtrodden..

We don't see the stories behind the scene
We relish the fancy recipes of the Master Chefs
Of fragrant rice, golden rice and the slim and slender grains
We forget the dark, thin, slender bodies who make it for us...
http://tprmenon.blogspot.in/2015/07/green-killing-fields.html
I was born at night tall like swagger cane
A Friday's child - delivered with muse
That was fortunate enough for my parents
Oral poetry poured plentiful in the morning

That's what Saturdays are good for
Teachers worn their loincloth lose
As wine and fish soup flowed at ease
While farmers set out to burn in the sun

Now you'll understand why I chose not to be
a Saturday's child, I dread to be a farmer
Heavy drinking may not be my fate as well
It sure sets the mood right for what's right

I took sides with either of the two vices
I pitched my tent where grace and virtues lies
The weather plots his journey
Town to town in dead of night
Fields dead and on a gurney
He comes in to make it right

A rainmaker, people call him
A psuedo-scammer others say
He sells himself as godlike
He comes quick and does not stay

He tells people what they wish for
He beats the storm in to their town
He seeds their minds with his tall stories
He promises more green than brown

Like an evangelistic angel
He beats the weather to the ground
He's a salesman like no other
He picks their pockets with no sound

A rainmaker, just a scammer
He works the towns where nothing lives
He is an alchemist non-gratta
He always takes and never gives

He sells snake oil and concoctions
He is a shaman in disguise
He promises rain where none has fallen
There is more moisture in the farmers eyes

He takes credit for a rainfall
He promises gold where once was straw
He's a rumplestiltskin with their feelings
He sells them only what they wish they saw

He may believe in what he tells them
He always puts his name out on a stake
But, can he truly make the skies open
That is a choice the desperate make
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