"cornfields" poems - Hello Poetry

"cornfields" poems

To be a woman Is to be property To act ladylike Is to mold into the stereotype To speak up is unheard of Just go crawl behind the white man you see in front of you A glimpse Of steel is all you see before The warmth of blood drains every part Every being you thought to be strong Now gone Pick up the pieces Bandage that wound We have a war One that was fought before Blood on the knife Stained the suit of the man walking to the congress chair He holds it up with a smile And the other men in the house follow As they add it to the closet of achievements We are strong We are not blind to perspective We see in color Stitch up the knife wound Targeted at the abdomen Property does not fight back A piece of land does not speak words The cornfields do not unite To be a woman Is to have a voice One loud enough to be heard over laws That prohibit natural human rights Our bodies are not to be tagged by the market vendor down the street Politicians now playing a game of operation in their makeshift white coats Forgetting all that we have achieved Women's bodies are now more dangerous Than a gun on school property To have a body Is to have a choice To be a woman Is to bring justice and unity to all

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Jun 1, 2020

Jun 1, 2020 at 12:25 PM UTC

For Old Times Sake

To be a woman Is to be property To act ladylike Is to mold into the stereotype To speak up is unheard of Just go crawl behind the white man you see in front of you A glimpse Of steel is all you see before The warmth of blood drains every part Every being you thought to be strong Now gone Pick up the pieces Bandage that wound We have a war One that was fought before Blood on the knife Stained the suit of the man walking to the congress chair He holds it up with a smile And the other men in the house follow As they add it to the closet of achievements We are strong We are not blind to perspective We see in color Stitch up the knife wound Targeted at the abdomen Property does not fight back A piece of land does not speak words The cornfields do not unite To be a woman Is to have a voice One loud enough to be heard over laws That prohibit natural human rights Our bodies are not to be tagged by the market vendor down the street Politicians now playing a game of operation in their makeshift white coats Forgetting all that we have achieved Women's bodies are now more dangerous Than a gun on school property To have a body Is to have a choice To be a woman Is to bring justice and unity to all

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Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant. Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide for? What use is it besides to look at?" Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields, by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind; I know elephants are good to babies." Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside." They didn't put up any arguments. They didn't throw anything in each other's faces. Three men saw the elephant three ways And let it go at that. They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon; "Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.

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Elephants Are Different to Different People

Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant. Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide for? What use is it besides to look at?" Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields, by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind; I know elephants are good to babies." Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside." They didn't put up any arguments. They didn't throw anything in each other's faces. Three men saw the elephant three ways And let it go at that. They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon; "Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.

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Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

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Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills We trekked and picked until the cans were full Until the tinkling bottom had been covered With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered With thorn ****** our palms sticky as Bluebeard's. We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. But when the bath was filled we found a fur, A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

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BURY this old Illinois farmer with respect. He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields. Now he goes on a long sleep. The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib, The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.

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6.8k

Illinois Farmer

BURY this old Illinois farmer with respect. He slept the Illinois nights of his life after days of work in Illinois cornfields. Now he goes on a long sleep. The wind he listened to in the cornsilk and the tassels, the wind that combed his red beard zero mornings when the snow lay white on the yellow ears in the bushel basket at the corncrib, The same wind will now blow over the place here where his hands must dream of Illinois corn.

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Aimlessly through cornfields flying quietly and simply listening, to conversations to music that's not mine to laughing and memories being made. Going no where but not minding. Numbers fade from importance and the dials behind the wheel don't matter. Only the dirt, the road, the growing dark, no destination, no worries about going back. Changing sky, and the people you just met but are certain you can't forget.

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Feb 12, 2015

Feb 12, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC

Aimlessly through cornfields flying quietly and simply listening, to conversations to music that's not mine to laughing and memories being made. Going no where but not minding. Numbers fade from importance and the dials behind the wheel don't matter. Only the dirt, the road, the growing dark, no destination, no worries about going back. Changing sky, and the people you just met but are certain you can't forget.

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lips become cherry red when I cry and chasing cars hurts from my ears down to my toes because it was never wasting time I almost killed my jeep battery (forgot to turn the lights off) drinking coffee to Iowa cornfields and a resurrected yearning maybe I'll leave (I want to) --LA, Paris, Austria, Versailles, Rio, Carmel, Amsterdam, Mumbai-- I'm audacious and arrogant--much too proud of my flaws leaving would be easy: intoxicating like caffeine stars fear laughing kisses but staying means home and English and standing out like a sore thumb (a beautiful one) in public and the people I deeply love (and need) I can admit that now so I'll watch the Capri Sun orange sunset once again tonight and try to intoxicate myself with cornfields, sassy 8th graders, my beautiful examples of true love, ADD, bashful boy, and pieces of the world on my body

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Apr 6, 2015

Apr 6, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC

lips become cherry red when I cry and chasing cars hurts from my ears down to my toes because it was never wasting time I almost killed my jeep battery (forgot to turn the lights off) drinking coffee to Iowa cornfields and a resurrected yearning maybe I'll leave (I want to) --LA, Paris, Austria, Versailles, Rio, Carmel, Amsterdam, Mumbai-- I'm audacious and arrogant--much too proud of my flaws leaving would be easy: intoxicating like caffeine stars fear laughing kisses but staying means home and English and standing out like a sore thumb (a beautiful one) in public and the people I deeply love (and need) I can admit that now so I'll watch the Capri Sun orange sunset once again tonight and try to intoxicate myself with cornfields, sassy 8th graders, my beautiful examples of true love, ADD, bashful boy, and pieces of the world on my body

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for you, we bundle into the car, the littlest (half my brother and twice my nuisance) and the middlest (14 going on favorite) the bitterest (only girl and pen-in-hand) and the biggestest (20 years of bombastic nonsense) 30 minutes and four cornfields later he'll start. "i have to *** "there's a bottle up there, dad." "dad, i have to *** "dad." "dad." "dad." and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours, sloshing and yellow too dangerously close to the color of something you would actually drink. the two youngest will get into some sort of argument some sort of argument that i will intervene in. "shut up!" he'll say. "chill out!" i'll shout. "you chill out!" and my father and my stepmother will eye from the front seat until one of them turns around ("relax, madeline!" sharply). and then the oldest like clockwork will act like he knows more than he does about something (my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss, "madeline!" as if i've killed somebody even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do). he'll make a face at me and i'll make a face at him. the littlest will inevitably stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second which i will not be able to stand, and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me versus the whole car (afterwards, much stewing, and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go). 9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later we'll get there. we'll make it. we'll only be a little worse for the wear. we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts our nine billion uncles and our three billion cousins, like we always are. someday something will be missing. first it was your back, and the postponement, and eventual cancellation of our trip. then it was your surgeries (why weren't they working?) and then it was a series of words i don't understand stage inoperable 3 cancerous mass lung malignant radiation therapy chemo you may crumple in on that blackness inside you, that's eating you alive one lung at a time, pushing, on your back, until you can't even stand. the fabric of our family is plucked by this disease. this is my poem, my plea for you and for us, that you not pull into the blackness, and that you fight the tumors and the tests and that you win.

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Jul 31, 2012

Jul 31, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC

the fabric of our family

for you, we bundle into the car, the littlest (half my brother and twice my nuisance) and the middlest (14 going on favorite) the bitterest (only girl and pen-in-hand) and the biggestest (20 years of bombastic nonsense) 30 minutes and four cornfields later he'll start. "i have to *** "there's a bottle up there, dad." "dad, i have to *** "dad." "dad." "dad." and he's going to *** in that ******* bottle which will inevitably stay in the car for the remaining 8 and a half hours, sloshing and yellow too dangerously close to the color of something you would actually drink. the two youngest will get into some sort of argument some sort of argument that i will intervene in. "shut up!" he'll say. "chill out!" i'll shout. "you chill out!" and my father and my stepmother will eye from the front seat until one of them turns around ("relax, madeline!" sharply). and then the oldest like clockwork will act like he knows more than he does about something (my father will just chuckle, but i'll begin, "bullsh-" i'll begin, but my stepmother will hiss, "madeline!" as if i've killed somebody even though the 8-year-old curses even worse than i do). he'll make a face at me and i'll make a face at him. the littlest will inevitably stomp on my seatbelt about 30 times a second which i will not be able to stand, and we'll get into an argument which will turn into me versus the whole car (afterwards, much stewing, and resentfully cranking my ipod up as loud as it will go). 9 hours and 12 thousand cliff-faces later we'll get there. we'll make it. we'll only be a little worse for the wear. we will be swept up by our twelve billion aunts our nine billion uncles and our three billion cousins, like we always are. someday something will be missing. first it was your back, and the postponement, and eventual cancellation of our trip. then it was your surgeries (why weren't they working?) and then it was a series of words i don't understand stage inoperable 3 cancerous mass lung malignant radiation therapy chemo you may crumple in on that blackness inside you, that's eating you alive one lung at a time, pushing, on your back, until you can't even stand. the fabric of our family is plucked by this disease. this is my poem, my plea for you and for us, that you not pull into the blackness, and that you fight the tumors and the tests and that you win.

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torn jeans dimples station wagons shifting eyebrows eager hands wry smiles chapped lips cheap beer deep-set eyes pirated music hates his birthday stoplight-kisses star-gazing in cornfields ****** knuckles broken minds lanky limbs poetry books scruffy faces jet-black coffee calloused hands that still feel soft adventurer's heart jumping fences midnight tokes always gives you hickeys always opens your door worn sneakers chewed pen caps late for work old windbreakers dirt under his fingernails omniscient smirks expensive cologne good intentions - but is bad with goodbyes hates himself for making you cry broken cigarettes aviator shades at night a perpetually furrowed brow and a laugh that sounds like autumn leaves as they crunch beneath your feet m.f.

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Oct 11, 2013

Oct 11, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC

torn jeans dimples station wagons shifting eyebrows eager hands wry smiles chapped lips cheap beer deep-set eyes pirated music hates his birthday stoplight-kisses star-gazing in cornfields ****** knuckles broken minds lanky limbs poetry books scruffy faces jet-black coffee calloused hands that still feel soft adventurer's heart jumping fences midnight tokes always gives you hickeys always opens your door worn sneakers chewed pen caps late for work old windbreakers dirt under his fingernails omniscient smirks expensive cologne good intentions - but is bad with goodbyes hates himself for making you cry broken cigarettes aviator shades at night a perpetually furrowed brow and a laugh that sounds like autumn leaves as they crunch beneath your feet m.f.

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Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping, By the cornfields ripe for reaping. There are lilies, and there blushes The deep rose, and there the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight flushes In the west; a fresh wind brushes Through the leaves while evening hushes. There by day the lark is singing And the grass and weeds are springing: There by night the bat is winging; There forever winds are bringing Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing. Night and morning, noon and even, Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven: The long strife at length is striven: Till her grave-bands shall be riven Such is the good portion given To her soul at rest and shriven.

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Christina Rossetti

Some are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. Round her rest wild flowers are creeping; There the wind is heaping, heaping Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping, By the cornfields ripe for reaping. There are lilies, and there blushes The deep rose, and there the thrushes Sing till latest sunlight flushes In the west; a fresh wind brushes Through the leaves while evening hushes. There by day the lark is singing And the grass and weeds are springing: There by night the bat is winging; There forever winds are bringing Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing. Night and morning, noon and even, Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven: The long strife at length is striven: Till her grave-bands shall be riven Such is the good portion given To her soul at rest and shriven.

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Hand out the window treading air. No seat belts and country songs filtered through the radio. Cornfields racing by in the peripheral. I was quite in love, with your old truck's feel.

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Jan 11, 2014

Jan 11, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC

elizabeth-novak

Hand out the window treading air. No seat belts and country songs filtered through the radio. Cornfields racing by in the peripheral. I was quite in love, with your old truck's feel.

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Under the amber sky she flows as far as the sea her bank on the other side is shrunk as eye can see I have seen joys rise like tide tears mingle in hers she is Ganga the one river mother of all rivers. On her ceaseless journey from high up to the bay melts snow in her flow springs life from her clay worshiped as holy mother yet spoiled by her sons she is ravaged time again slayed by evil demons. For ages she has nurtured life tilled green her shore around her have sown hopes its timeless folklore her soils have sculpted cornfields and images of goddess she is now an ebbing tide end's shadows on her face. Hear once her moaning waves her ripples' silent sigh from the silts clogging her breast her beds going dry dying groans of the mother poisoned in effluent choked by her people's waste killed without relent.

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May 26, 2014

May 26, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

Under the amber sky she flows as far as the sea her bank on the other side is shrunk as eye can see I have seen joys rise like tide tears mingle in hers she is Ganga the one river mother of all rivers. On her ceaseless journey from high up to the bay melts snow in her flow springs life from her clay worshiped as holy mother yet spoiled by her sons she is ravaged time again slayed by evil demons. For ages she has nurtured life tilled green her shore around her have sown hopes its timeless folklore her soils have sculpted cornfields and images of goddess she is now an ebbing tide end's shadows on her face. Hear once her moaning waves her ripples' silent sigh from the silts clogging her breast her beds going dry dying groans of the mother poisoned in effluent choked by her people's waste killed without relent.

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"oh, there you are", and i’m not sure where i’m supposed to have been here we are again angelflower tying stones to our chests and waiting to drown (this is okay, i swear to god, or something like that isnt that what i’m supposed to say?) i want to set the world on fire, gaslit galaxy isnt it so fitting? isnt it just perfect? i wonder how many astronomy problems you havent solved and you say, "god this isn't important right now how can you be a god when you're not immortal" sometimes i think you can feel me bleeding from 1643 miles away this isn’t neverland anymore-- what are you afraid of? something about cornfields and misery heartbeats and almost like you said something you shouldn’t have,isn’t it? you’re always so proud, you’re always so hungry. by god, you old man, you weathered, withered, beast grab a shovel, grab whatever you can this isn’t neverland anymore-- this isn’t andromeda,no galaxy here, no stars or planetary confinement, and you were never icarus.

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Dec 9, 2014

Dec 9, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC

corner store crybaby

"oh, there you are", and i’m not sure where i’m supposed to have been here we are again angelflower tying stones to our chests and waiting to drown (this is okay, i swear to god, or something like that isnt that what i’m supposed to say?) i want to set the world on fire, gaslit galaxy isnt it so fitting? isnt it just perfect? i wonder how many astronomy problems you havent solved and you say, "god this isn't important right now how can you be a god when you're not immortal" sometimes i think you can feel me bleeding from 1643 miles away this isn’t neverland anymore-- what are you afraid of? something about cornfields and misery heartbeats and almost like you said something you shouldn’t have,isn’t it? you’re always so proud, you’re always so hungry. by god, you old man, you weathered, withered, beast grab a shovel, grab whatever you can this isn’t neverland anymore-- this isn’t andromeda,no galaxy here, no stars or planetary confinement, and you were never icarus.

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Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds. The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage. However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “son of a ***** it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication. The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity. I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust. The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields. As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old. Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.

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Jun 2, 2014

Jun 2, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC

Domestic Quarters of Medieval Vultures

Phanerogams are plants which produce seeds. The wanton harlot may be laid against the wall, with legs splayed, and may also have given birth to unbridled rage. However, even though such stages of development can be entitled as “son of a ***** it is worth noting that all behaviour has meaning, my darkened companion of presumed sophistication. The scholastic scribes will etch their wisdom upon the hardness of our vile vanity. I hold in my hand a gothic stone, where those who stand before the courts accused of heresy and witchcraft can plead innocence before chanting crowds of bloodlust. The reaper will gather the harvest at Lughnasadh, whilst the olfactory nerve propagates her funeral games amidst the cutting of ancient cornfields. As we perch upon the gallows end, let us join hands and chant the mantras of old. Photosynthesis is a forensic entrancement where there is no rest for the sinner.

Continue reading...

As I walk this fertile land Sights of beauty I behold Vallies of blinding awe Cornfields golden green Sweet bluebells,kissing Foxes ,rabbits daily routine Countryside smiling so serene

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May 18, 2013

May 18, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC

As I walk this fertile land Sights of beauty I behold Vallies of blinding awe Cornfields golden green Sweet bluebells,kissing Foxes ,rabbits daily routine Countryside smiling so serene

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I was making my way down The highway, Cornfields on both sides of me. The moon shined even though It was still day time. The sky was a light lavender shade That oozed into a faded blue Twilight, you could say. I caught a glimpse of a doe And her baby Walking through the endless field. My mind wandered. Where did they come from? Perhaps they came from Deep in the woods, Where the birds sang And the creek bubbles, The sun seeps through the trees. Perhaps all the animals got along, Or maybe, They came from an open field, Maybe they had a family, A buck, a herd, Possibly even a few more fawns. Maybe something drove them from there. Maybe a gun, Maybe a predator, Maybe weather. My mind wandered more, Where were they going? Were they looking for somewhere safe? Or were they only trying to survive? I wished I could see more of their journey. I wanted to root them on. Keep living! Keep fighting! Where ever you're off to, keep going! Then the moment passed, They were long out of my sight. I hope they are still alright. I hope they were alright.

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Jul 20, 2018

Jul 20, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC

I was making my way down The highway, Cornfields on both sides of me. The moon shined even though It was still day time. The sky was a light lavender shade That oozed into a faded blue Twilight, you could say. I caught a glimpse of a doe And her baby Walking through the endless field. My mind wandered. Where did they come from? Perhaps they came from Deep in the woods, Where the birds sang And the creek bubbles, The sun seeps through the trees. Perhaps all the animals got along, Or maybe, They came from an open field, Maybe they had a family, A buck, a herd, Possibly even a few more fawns. Maybe something drove them from there. Maybe a gun, Maybe a predator, Maybe weather. My mind wandered more, Where were they going? Were they looking for somewhere safe? Or were they only trying to survive? I wished I could see more of their journey. I wanted to root them on. Keep living! Keep fighting! Where ever you're off to, keep going! Then the moment passed, They were long out of my sight. I hope they are still alright. I hope they were alright.

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Anonymous English Folk Song. A holiday, a holiday And the first one of the year Lord Donald's wife came into the church The Gospel for to hear And when the meeting it was done She cast her eyes about And there she saw little Matty Groves Walking in the crowd "Come home with me, little Matty Groves Come home with me tonight Come home with me, little Matty Groves And sleep with me 'til light" "Oh, I can't come home, I won't come home And sleep with you tonight By the rings on your fingers I can tell you are Lord Donald's wife" "But if I am Lord Donald's wife Lord Donald's not at home He is out in the far cornfields Bringing the yearlings home" And a servant who was standing by And hearing what was said He swore Lord Donald he would know Before the sun would set And in his hurry to carry the news He bent his breast and ran And when he came to the broad mill stream He took off his shoes and swam Little Matty Groves, he lay down And took a little sleep When he awoke, Lord Donald Was standing at his feet Saying, "How do you like my feather bed And how do you like my sheets How do you like my lady Who lies in your arms asleep?" "Oh, well I like your feather bed And well I like your sheets But better I like your lady gay Who lies in my arms asleep" "Well, get up, get up", Lord Donald cried "Get up as quick as you can It'll never be said in fair England I slew a naked man" "Oh, I can't get up, I won't get up I can't get up for my life For you have two long beaten swords And I got a pocket knife" "Well, it's true I have two beaten swords And they cost me deep in the purse But you will have the better of them And I will have the worse" "And you will strike the very first blow And strike it like a man I will strike the very next blow And I'll **** you if I can" So Matty struck the very first blow And he hurt Lord Donald sore Lord Donald struck the very next blow And Matty struck no more And then Lord Donald he took his wife And he sat her on his knee Saying, "Who do you like the best of us Matty Groves or me?" And then up spoke his own dear wife Never heard to speak so free "I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty's lips Than you or your finery" Lord Donald, he jumped up And loudly he did bawl He struck his wife right through the heart And pinned her against the wall "A grave, a grave, " Lord Donald cried "To put these lovers in But bury my lady at the top For she was of noble kin"

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Sep 23, 2015

Sep 23, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC

The Ballad Of Matty Groves

Anonymous English Folk Song. A holiday, a holiday And the first one of the year Lord Donald's wife came into the church The Gospel for to hear And when the meeting it was done She cast her eyes about And there she saw little Matty Groves Walking in the crowd "Come home with me, little Matty Groves Come home with me tonight Come home with me, little Matty Groves And sleep with me 'til light" "Oh, I can't come home, I won't come home And sleep with you tonight By the rings on your fingers I can tell you are Lord Donald's wife" "But if I am Lord Donald's wife Lord Donald's not at home He is out in the far cornfields Bringing the yearlings home" And a servant who was standing by And hearing what was said He swore Lord Donald he would know Before the sun would set And in his hurry to carry the news He bent his breast and ran And when he came to the broad mill stream He took off his shoes and swam Little Matty Groves, he lay down And took a little sleep When he awoke, Lord Donald Was standing at his feet Saying, "How do you like my feather bed And how do you like my sheets How do you like my lady Who lies in your arms asleep?" "Oh, well I like your feather bed And well I like your sheets But better I like your lady gay Who lies in my arms asleep" "Well, get up, get up", Lord Donald cried "Get up as quick as you can It'll never be said in fair England I slew a naked man" "Oh, I can't get up, I won't get up I can't get up for my life For you have two long beaten swords And I got a pocket knife" "Well, it's true I have two beaten swords And they cost me deep in the purse But you will have the better of them And I will have the worse" "And you will strike the very first blow And strike it like a man I will strike the very next blow And I'll **** you if I can" So Matty struck the very first blow And he hurt Lord Donald sore Lord Donald struck the very next blow And Matty struck no more And then Lord Donald he took his wife And he sat her on his knee Saying, "Who do you like the best of us Matty Groves or me?" And then up spoke his own dear wife Never heard to speak so free "I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty's lips Than you or your finery" Lord Donald, he jumped up And loudly he did bawl He struck his wife right through the heart And pinned her against the wall "A grave, a grave, " Lord Donald cried "To put these lovers in But bury my lady at the top For she was of noble kin"

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As I walk this fertile land Sights of beauty I behold Vallies of blinding awe Cornfields golden green Sweet bluebells,kissing Foxes ,rabbits daily routine Countryside smiling so serene

0

May 18, 2013

May 18, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC

As I walk this fertile land Sights of beauty I behold Vallies of blinding awe Cornfields golden green Sweet bluebells,kissing Foxes ,rabbits daily routine Countryside smiling so serene

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i. when i was a little girl, i wanted to die on the countryside my lighthouse eyes straight ahead and my head laid against the cornfields to breathe in the daylight and breathe out the mo(u)rn my mama said that would be a very long time from now (i'm sorry to disappoint you, mama) ii. my house was whisked away to oz when i fell asleep beneath the cherry-red poppies i ran and fell down the rabbit hole on the way back my hair entangled with the willow trees autumn leaves stuck to my rain boots as my jacket stuck to close to my skin and i felt human for the first time in ages (i'm not a child anymore) iii. asleep during midsummer i am sunbright and innocent (someday, my sweetheart) iv. little miss sunshine, i miss your bird sing-song voice and your bottle-it-up laughter your macaroni hair and your sweet acorn eyes that cheshire cat smile but most of all, i miss your reminiscence and the memories we never had together (now you're sleeping' six feet under) v. the sun set in your eyes for the very first time. i think of you among the sunflowers.

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Mar 2, 2014

Mar 2, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC

starspangledheart

carry me to the countryside

i. when i was a little girl, i wanted to die on the countryside my lighthouse eyes straight ahead and my head laid against the cornfields to breathe in the daylight and breathe out the mo(u)rn my mama said that would be a very long time from now (i'm sorry to disappoint you, mama) ii. my house was whisked away to oz when i fell asleep beneath the cherry-red poppies i ran and fell down the rabbit hole on the way back my hair entangled with the willow trees autumn leaves stuck to my rain boots as my jacket stuck to close to my skin and i felt human for the first time in ages (i'm not a child anymore) iii. asleep during midsummer i am sunbright and innocent (someday, my sweetheart) iv. little miss sunshine, i miss your bird sing-song voice and your bottle-it-up laughter your macaroni hair and your sweet acorn eyes that cheshire cat smile but most of all, i miss your reminiscence and the memories we never had together (now you're sleeping' six feet under) v. the sun set in your eyes for the very first time. i think of you among the sunflowers.

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Driving down a dull grey road A road leading to nowhere. A road that has ruby ribbons attached to it. Ruby cornfields in a sea of yellow. Splashes of hollyhocks and pink Poppies, amongst the green, Under a brown bridge, blue drink flows to and fro, side to side with stripes of white inbetween. Ruby cornfields in a sea of blue Lavender, mauves and scarlet inside. An English countryside waiting for you.

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Jun 15, 2014

Jun 15, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC

Ruby Cornfields

Driving down a dull grey road A road leading to nowhere. A road that has ruby ribbons attached to it. Ruby cornfields in a sea of yellow. Splashes of hollyhocks and pink Poppies, amongst the green, Under a brown bridge, blue drink flows to and fro, side to side with stripes of white inbetween. Ruby cornfields in a sea of blue Lavender, mauves and scarlet inside. An English countryside waiting for you.

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We visited the Van Gogh museum, said Dalya, Benny and I, he loves his art, has a Sunflowers print on his wall at home he said, I love Amsterdam, love the laid backness of it, we went to the Anne Frank Haus, too, hauntingly sad, my Jewish relations brings it home. Benny came to my tent (the fat dame was off visiting the sights) and we made love, hoping she'd not return too soon or at all, the sounds from the camp-site loudspeakers, rock music, guitars and drums, a slight wind shaking the canvas, the sleeping bag rough beneath me. Van Gogh speaks to me Benny had said, the yellows and black, the assumed madness, the birds, cornfields, the sun. I prefer Monet, I love his art, his capture of nature and the wild, the touch of brush. After making love we lay smoking and talking, I thought of the last few days left before homeward bound, the farewell, the parting at the English shore, we kissed and made love once more.

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Dec 9, 2015

Dec 9, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC

AMSTERDAM AND BEYOND 1974

We visited the Van Gogh museum, said Dalya, Benny and I, he loves his art, has a Sunflowers print on his wall at home he said, I love Amsterdam, love the laid backness of it, we went to the Anne Frank Haus, too, hauntingly sad, my Jewish relations brings it home. Benny came to my tent (the fat dame was off visiting the sights) and we made love, hoping she'd not return too soon or at all, the sounds from the camp-site loudspeakers, rock music, guitars and drums, a slight wind shaking the canvas, the sleeping bag rough beneath me. Van Gogh speaks to me Benny had said, the yellows and black, the assumed madness, the birds, cornfields, the sun. I prefer Monet, I love his art, his capture of nature and the wild, the touch of brush. After making love we lay smoking and talking, I thought of the last few days left before homeward bound, the farewell, the parting at the English shore, we kissed and made love once more.

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The closest I can get to you is the farthest I can get from here - the farthest I can get from these dreadful Columbus clouds that protect me from the unknown, the lonely cornfields that grow and grow, but only grow lonelier. But I like the clouds that blanket me at night, keeping me warmer than you ever could. And I love the way the sun rains orange and pink on the lonely cornfield, and the way the cornfield soaks it up and saves it for another day. I could love you if you could love Ohio's cornfields and cloudy days.

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Jan 30, 2011

Jan 30, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC

The closest I can get to you is the farthest I can get from here - the farthest I can get from these dreadful Columbus clouds that protect me from the unknown, the lonely cornfields that grow and grow, but only grow lonelier. But I like the clouds that blanket me at night, keeping me warmer than you ever could. And I love the way the sun rains orange and pink on the lonely cornfield, and the way the cornfield soaks it up and saves it for another day. I could love you if you could love Ohio's cornfields and cloudy days.

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It was July and something inside of her began to thud. small and light as a pulse grew from a seed at the bottom of her belly, weaved and braided with veins, commandeered organs like ivy on headstones. washed up and sprouted from her chewed down fingernails, popped blood vessels in her eyes. she thought, 'if this isn't dying then it must be blooming.' this new presence was abashed by the absence of Arabic script and an African summer. it wept at dogs as they panted; they could let go so easily- a few deep heaves and they're back to pure. easy and breezy and not the sad, harsh tear of skin below shoulders, the bruises creeping over wrists and the shredded esophagus. the soiled heart and tar-heavy soul. it panicked more and more as the calender blew past. it sobbed as tomorrow became today and today became yesterday. i lived a hazy summer. brown skin and hair that turned red at the crinkly ends as it baked. i walked through cornfields and slipped on husks. landed on my back and erupted in giggles at the snowglobe sky protecting me and caging me. incense and gin were as consistent as the advent sun. music blaring and bodies bumping and no release. no escape. my little book of plans was solid and secure. and then smashed. ripped. no poetry and braids. not dreamy just silly.

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Dec 16, 2013

Dec 16, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC

Fall 2010 lost, lost, lost.

It was July and something inside of her began to thud. small and light as a pulse grew from a seed at the bottom of her belly, weaved and braided with veins, commandeered organs like ivy on headstones. washed up and sprouted from her chewed down fingernails, popped blood vessels in her eyes. she thought, 'if this isn't dying then it must be blooming.' this new presence was abashed by the absence of Arabic script and an African summer. it wept at dogs as they panted; they could let go so easily- a few deep heaves and they're back to pure. easy and breezy and not the sad, harsh tear of skin below shoulders, the bruises creeping over wrists and the shredded esophagus. the soiled heart and tar-heavy soul. it panicked more and more as the calender blew past. it sobbed as tomorrow became today and today became yesterday. i lived a hazy summer. brown skin and hair that turned red at the crinkly ends as it baked. i walked through cornfields and slipped on husks. landed on my back and erupted in giggles at the snowglobe sky protecting me and caging me. incense and gin were as consistent as the advent sun. music blaring and bodies bumping and no release. no escape. my little book of plans was solid and secure. and then smashed. ripped. no poetry and braids. not dreamy just silly.

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I. That summer the radio Played nothing but Cat Stevens While I hummed harmonies In my first car It was a wild world indeed when kudzu overtook The cornfields All the ears were foreigners The leaves basked in light That dead-ended on route 15 II. That fall we spotted UFO's Shining over the municipal Park We chased them across the Ballfields To the high school cross country course A dirt track running Through the woods And when there was nothing Alien lurking there Our hopes fell Faster than the stars III. The following winter Three inches of ice cut the powerlines Impounded our school supplies With the outtages And the temperatures plummeting Seventy percent of our hearts froze All the parts that were water Expanding our chests Like balloons Expanding our vision too We thought this was the beginning Of the end of St. Clair county We though we'd all get out someday IV. By spring the graveyard smelled Like lilacs And dead town elders Came out to dance in the scent We played capture the flag there On school nights And the cops could never catch us Behind the headstones Of our family plots We wrote our own epitaphs "I was water and I could have been A fine wine" I fell asleep in sweet green clover to the sound of smalltown sirens...

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Aug 30, 2013

Aug 30, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC

holly-salvatore

A Brief History of St. Clair County, IL

I. That summer the radio Played nothing but Cat Stevens While I hummed harmonies In my first car It was a wild world indeed when kudzu overtook The cornfields All the ears were foreigners The leaves basked in light That dead-ended on route 15 II. That fall we spotted UFO's Shining over the municipal Park We chased them across the Ballfields To the high school cross country course A dirt track running Through the woods And when there was nothing Alien lurking there Our hopes fell Faster than the stars III. The following winter Three inches of ice cut the powerlines Impounded our school supplies With the outtages And the temperatures plummeting Seventy percent of our hearts froze All the parts that were water Expanding our chests Like balloons Expanding our vision too We thought this was the beginning Of the end of St. Clair county We though we'd all get out someday IV. By spring the graveyard smelled Like lilacs And dead town elders Came out to dance in the scent We played capture the flag there On school nights And the cops could never catch us Behind the headstones Of our family plots We wrote our own epitaphs "I was water and I could have been A fine wine" I fell asleep in sweet green clover to the sound of smalltown sirens...

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I spot the hills With yellow ***** in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.

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1.9k

Theme In Yellow

I spot the hills With yellow ***** in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.

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The soon to be beached meadows shimmers as the heightened sun dehumidifies the outlying cornfields evaporating the ground cover. Scarabs appear postulating the broken bonds of farmer and nature. In the combustible sands Great things will be birthed.

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Jan 18, 2014

Jan 18, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC

The soon to be beached meadows shimmers as the heightened sun dehumidifies the outlying cornfields evaporating the ground cover. Scarabs appear postulating the broken bonds of farmer and nature. In the combustible sands Great things will be birthed.

Continue reading...