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Seema Feb 2018
I am my masters slave
Surrounded by fields and shallow caves
I stand here looking upon the mighty corn field
My mouth is stuffed with grass thread sealed

I am my masters slave
When gust winds blow my hand starts to wave
Standing strong I show am brave
I love this job that he gave

I am my masters slave
Rain, storm, heat leaves me withered
But with my husky style am not bothered
I stand here without any complain

I am my masters slave
Day goes by with scaring crows
Night passes staring at the field rows
With my masters hat on, I surely give a **** pose

I am my masters slave
My head strapped on tight with rope
My hands and legs dangle on the pole
I don't have feelings neither am a living soul

I am my masters slave
Serving with all my will and might
An unpaid job but with a title given as scar knight
I am happy to live in my masters sight

I am my masters slave
I will always serve my masters orders
In all good and grieving times with my other hordes
All knitted and standing some at the borders

My master is my friend
I shall serve him faithfully till the end
Until my master finally rests in his grave
Till then, I am my masters slave

Fictional write. Spilling imagination.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
The night the Veil is thinnest
between the living and the dead.
Samhain eve reverberates darkly,
Worlds hanging by a single thread.

The Moon is high and midnight approaching,
as she slips from beneath the sheets so warm,
gently placing her wand in the secret drawer,
dressed in her hooded cloak, making for the door.
Barefoot along a path so long and  dark,
accompanied by the sounds of insects chirping,
the night songs creeping around her body,
Spirits of the Night smile at her wanton flirting.
Her legs carry her across green meadows
and on through the deep woods to a field,
drawn by hunger to a lonely figure on a hill,
she lets drop her cloak, her nakedness revealed.

Alone and pinioned, arms extended,
a warning stood upon a mound,
the guardian, a sentinel unbended,
statuesque, and tithed to the ground.

Her voice lifts high above the wind
and soft incantations fall as spells.
The Enchantress sings songs of yearning,
chiming along with Samhains bells.
And the warm midnight air shimmers
as the figure starts to turn to flesh,
reconstruction from the sacred heart,
for her painful memories to redress.

Thunder rolled, lightening flashed,
as she sank down to her knees,
reaching out to release his manhood,
and the howling wind began to ease.
His responsive flesh quickens with blood,
but not one sound does he make,
as she spies a grin upon his face,
a true sign that he was fully awake.
Lips and tongue work hard to arouse,
so his wand would stand with pride.
She stands up trembling and bending over
reversing a step to take him inside.
The storm rages with wild abandon,
like their frantic mating upon the hill.
Then as conjoined lovers reach ******
the storm is spent, and everything is still.

And the Spirits of the Night smiled upon her bliss,
at the Enchantress Crossing the Veil of the Abyss.

And with the passing of the storm
the spell died and was no more.
The one thing that her lover left,
her ****** purse filled with straw.

So smiling at her naughty nights play
she set her feet towards her home,
on this the very darkest of nights,
where both the living and dead roam.
Along the paths and back to her bed,
she giggles manically and starts to sing,
hoping the future reveals her joy,
of what her scarecrow lover may bring.

Samhain night over, to deep sleep she goes,
and soon Winters Solstice bells will ring,
It is then her dreams will surely know
whether her belly will swell in the Spring.

© Pagan Paul (15/10/17)
Lady Ravenhill Sep 2017
Blackened crow circle
The fruits of her harvest
Protector of straw
©LadyofRavenhill 2017
Haiku #39
Kewayne Wadley Mar 2017
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Hickory oak.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.

The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!

Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!

Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Leal Knowone Dec 2015
Tripping' to sleep after the departure of the ******* puppets & scarecrows from new depth of perception.
dreaming will into existence. The day of the dinosaurs has come and gone.
We are but Tourist on this trip, So lets just watch the flowers bloom. Floating on the mist of a cold summer moon.
Lets us breath in the beauty all around us.
Triangles in the night sky,visions in our eyes
Circles around us,psychic tyranny
Beauty even in death. Its good to be alive
Transition your day to night, in the realm of dreams, but this vision is reality
AW Sep 2015
Nails in pocket
For future fastening
Of repellence on wood
Legs twisted, stiff, that
Forgot how to follow
In any other way than
Swaying in the wind
Hay hair shining in
Sunlight less every time
The dustbowl hits
Rags around lumps,
Stakes, rakes
Make for inadequate
Facade of waking
From afar well placed,
At ease, maybe
Somewhat untidy,
But balanced, stable
At a distance, listening
One might even hear
A raspy voice whispering
Wind to wood,
Promises of movement
Mistake a hollow stare
For vigilance
But with senses obsolete
Inertia well-rewarded
Mere being never sufficed
But for here and now
#3 in The Randomized Sessions
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
A scarecrow
Tired and pale
Rakes himself up
After the squall
Frank Ruland Nov 2014
If someone
speak for themselves,
then they have no

If someone
tell you what's on their brain,
then they have straw for a

But, if someone
tell you what they're feeling,
that just means they're dead
Please noticed how I said CAN'T, instead of WON'T. I've already received a few messages concerning this poem. It's written mostly about a failing relationship, but I suppose it could be applied elsewhere. I'm not going out of my way to offend anyone with this, thanks.
Gabrielle Ayoub Jul 2014
I often find myself standing alone
I scare people off, I'm fearful of the unknown
They call me a scarecrow but what do I care?
Finding a glimpse of honesty seems to be rare

Sticks and stones are made of my broken bones
And all of the words that have stung me
My heart impure, oh so demure
I long for an utter recovery

I fear it's rotted away beyond any possible repair
In the shadows I pray that someone will end my despair
All they see is a scarecrow, they don't see the human inside
The loneliness in my heart has forced me to hide

All my true feelings, they don't know how much I've cried
Hoping someone would save me without pushing me aside
I'm one of a kind, that's the one thing I know
I'm a scarecrow on the outside, but my soul will always glow.
The concept of this poem is that i have become a scarecrow because i can no longer trust anyone, so i prefer to scare people away rather than trusting them.
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