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Carlo C Gomez Sep 21
The wetland red
Cranberry fields
Ripe and glistening
Like the morning dew
That forms on wild thicket
In anticipation of harvest
As plaintive tones from a distant flute
     drifted across the mesa valley    
the sun over Spruce Tree House
     began its descent toward dusk.

Above the courtyard, Anasazi masons
     plaster-sealed the final stones
on the great cylindrical tower.
     Collisions of mano and metate
echoed across the canyon as women
     crushed dried kernals into cornmeal.
Others hummed as their skilled hands
     brushed thin black patterns onto
scores of newly crafted bowls and jars.

A young girl rushed up a ladder
     to announce her brothers' return
from ripe mesa top fields,
     carrying baskets of fresh cut
corn, squash and beans on their backs.

A summer of nourishing rain
     promised that storage cists
would be stocked well with food for
     the arduous winter ahead
and seed for the vernal plantings.

Dusk fell on Spruce Tree plaza
     as rich aromas of venison
and fresh baked flatbread
     suffused the crisp October air.
Anasazi is the fourth poem in a cycle called Echoes from Colorado.
Jordan Gee Aug 1
Looking down from over their bodies - I count them.
My split mind at once rejoices in and recoils from that counting.
Peering back over my shoulder I make
dark associations.
It’s as if I was afraid of becoming lost
the way the bodies made a trail like bread crumbs,
leading back from the places I had been.
I walk with the Holy Light.
I walk with my dark companion.
I walk between the spines of the body shrikes.
They harvest all my crumbs and remind me I am lost.
They hook the bodies high from spikes
so I look up to make the body count.
I can see the Holy Script
but I can’t seem to find the way.
Red and gold beacons in the dream,
flickering off and on like syncopated declarations
as if saying:
Here I am
Here I am
Here I am.
All elbows and knees I slip between the webs of the
orb weavers and the cactus spines of the butcher birds
while they count the bodies for me:
Here they are
Here they are
Here they are.
Hang-dog and hard of breathing  I have my medicine.
I’m hanging from the sleeping cliffs over
hell’s half acre and the high deserts.
I remember my brother flying me to California on a great olive branch.
He fed me sushi and smiled while he watched by brain heal.
But I was coming for the bodies.
My count was smaller then, but it was high enough for him
and his hands were the keepers of the flame.
The fire there was exiled and quietly he laid it by.
My brother spread out over the carpet of time like
the faithful departed with the weavers and the shrikes and
mounted bodies in the sky.
A child appears before me on the walk - eyes like a baby deer.
His mother is two blocks behind, so he asks three questions while he waits:
Why are you smoking?
Where are your hands?
Is it getting dark soon?
He leaves me to wonder where my hands are and where the dark is,
the Holy Sage smoking at my side.
Like some dark sabbath.
Like some reading of the will.
Like some dark and holy delta sleep in a crib of red clay.
I have a feeling I have been gone a very long time and I
want to be home now,
but there is buzzing and chirping and a red light and
Saul of Tarsus holds a great tome before me and with my hands
I hide my eyes.
I am the dreaming of the world of dreams.
Therein the Holy Light rages like the flare of 1000 suns
while my eyes are shuttered tight
like old memories all gone beyond the sorrow.
The old oath keepers are all plates and screws.
The golden woven orbs and cactus spines are all empty on
the altar like a decommissioned slaughterhouse.
So I go and make a body count.
Shrikes (/ʃraɪk/) are carnivorous passerine birds of the family Laniidae. The family is composed of 33 species in four genera. The family name, and that of the largest genus, Lanius, is derived from the Latin word for "butcher", and some shrikes are also known as butcherbirds because of their feeding habits.
Rivers flowed from my eyes
Into the seed within my heart
I nourish the seed with the well of love
right now I am in a drought
I long to soak in water through my soil
I long to spread my roots through this dry soft land
I long to sow truth
this is my intent
I long to rise up and bloom
I long to open my petals and taste the sunlight
I yearn to bask in the warmth of your rays of love
until we meet again I sleep and dream of you beneath my petals
Isaac Jul 5
Conceiving anew, Gaia
Waiting for you, Messiah
I have ideas swirling in my mind that I give birth to life
Nurse these creations until they live in my life
Or lives of many these burdens no longer heavy
My babies saving me whenever I slip
My babies keeping me sane during trips
To the night of the dark soul to recover my shattered pieces
Take these fragments to the sea
To inner peace the blending of all my energies
So I can co-create life for my sake because both halves are mine to take
I am the seed and the nourishment
I can create anything without interference
Not one or the other but a combination which is better
The ying and yang both blended together
Inside of me and my soul, I speak
My speech no longer riddled with insecurities
Throat chakra open and my knowledge devoted
To seeing the world change
In Gaia's name
Lyn-Purcell Jul 5

Heart aglow with praise
Songs that heals the souls of all
Born, the rich harvest


This one is for the muse, Polyhymnia
I've always imagined that her hymns could move the sounds
of the earth, hence why her harvest is always bountiful.
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Much love,
Lyn 💜
Raze the fields of poisoned crop.
What antidote is there?
No cure for absent hearts
and black tar tears.
Burn the stores of harvest grain
claiming to be clean.
Save the innocent seeds
so we me grow free again.
Ylzm May 8
Once all earth was pleasant
All year spring from pole to pole
Seasons marked by flowers
and Food, but for some weeds, aplenty

Then time changed, marked by seasons
Time to sow, and time to harvest
Some land froze all year, some baked
In darkness and cold, the sun longed for

Then time changed again, chaos in the heavens
The day and month and year, no more certain
Stars wander, sun hidden at midday
Unending nights and dark days, tomorrow uncertain

Then time changed again, and no one knew
But for some Magi from the East
learned in the secret wisdom of Daniel
And time is now marked by the Week

And time will change yet again: who knows ...
Amanda Apr 20
During the harvest of hearts
Budding fruit of desire
What is rooted deep
Will reap to admire
I don't know where I got inspiration for this one from. I just liked the sound of the title. Alliteration ftw!
The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

for Harvey Stanbrough

I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

This poem was originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor, then later by Mindful of Poetry. I wrote the poem out of dissatisfaction with the strange idea that poetry should consist entirely or primarily of concrete images. Would the “experts” who espouse this bizarre idea junk the great soliloquies of Shakespeare and Milton and the direct statement poems of A. E. Housman? It also bears noting that the twin titans of English modernism, Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, did an awful lot of “telling” rather than always “showing.” Keywords/Tags: Harvest, roses, images, imagery, imagism, meter, time, beat, rhyme, shimmer, gloss, perfume, reap, reaping, gossamer
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