"granary" poems
The human soul was threshed out like maize
in the endless
granary of defeated actions,
of mean things that happened,
to the very edge of endurance, and beyond,
and not only death, but many deaths,
came to each one:
each day a tiny death, dust, worm, a light
flicked off in the mud at the city's edge,
a tiny death with coarse wings
pierced into each man like a short lance
and the man was besieged by the bread or by the knife,
the cattle-dealer: the child of sea-harbours,
or the dark captain of the plough,
or the rag-picker of snarled streets:
everybody lost heart, anxiously waiting for death,
the short death of every day:
and the grinding bad luck of every day was
like a black cup that they drank,
with their hands shaking.
10k
All Round River and waterfall
Land of the harvest,
This is our village
Betelnut and betel's garden.
Home home the granary
Haystack and cowshed,
This is our village
Magw Bwisagu cheerfully and welcome to.
Water from the well water to drag up
In the house bring on waist wrap,
This is our village
As is family.
Early morning wake up the chicken
Harvest in the land of to go,
This is our village
***** and solution of farming to do.
And so the garden vegetables everywhere
Lai, lapha, mula and etc.
This is our village
Vegetables are not lacking.
Temple, church and bathou festival
Holy, our place of worship
This is our village of bodos
Goibari taijowbari, kantalbari, and like the names.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Mary plants stems of roses
Happy is her sensuous senses.
Rosy roses reddish ,yellow
Dribbling dews on petals glow.
Sandy was her piece of land ,still
Mixing humus made she fertile.
Grow up mango, cashew trees now
Hellish heat around falls low.
All the birdies, human beings with
Rolling breeze’s blessing grew forth.
Nurture Nature for our future
Save our culture agriculture.
Greenery is her granary giving
Honey, money, feeling pleasing.
Waves on beaches softly recede
Crawling ripples crippling proceed.
Do you know? lives here sustain
Only through eternal restrain.
Gain for all lies where interactions
Divine hold our honest actions
=============================
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 10:33 PM UTC
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!
(my sullen heart)....
still stays
I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass
Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all
Pulling poetry out my ***
___
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.
And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
3.1k
Storm winds from the west
Send us scurrying down the plank
Steps into the dank basement
Sounds become deafening as the
Skies darken
Whatever is happening
Is only visible through a four-paned
Window no larger than a newspaper
At age seven this is all new
Thunder, lightening, storms
Have come and gone
Usually starting in the west
Among growing and billowing clouds
This time the darkness is heavy
Winds blow straight yet swirl simultaneously
A look of fear unlike any he has seen before
Covers his mother’s face
His father, a man of few words and a placid personality
Forces new wrinkles upon his worried forehead
The hay barn slides across the yard
Walking as though each wall has legs
Slowly collapsing, it crumbles into the granary
Once it lands the storm begins to abate
They will survive
Slowly, step by step his father, then his mother
And finally he ascend to view what damage
Has occurred. One view and he knows the answer
The devastation is real and substantial
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.9k
This is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No music nor rhythm
But of images
Of farmers exultant
Though they break their backs,
Or their bones creak,
With every slash of their sickles,
The heavy strokes
Wounding light in the fiery heat of noon,
The gaunt-faced sons of earth,
Bringing home harvests of gold
To the people's granary,
Where no greedy landlords are in sight.
For centuries, the land robbers
Had squeezed their souls dry
In constant toil.
It may be that their time is up.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
But of history
Of workers milling around a lingering twilight.
Pounding their hammers with their might,
Ecstatic at the thought of freedom,
Yet battling still, long dreaded ills
Of feudal ******* barratry,
Imperialism
Storing up for the people’s cause,
Building a new commune in the new place
Freed from the landlord-minded President
From the imperialist ogres
Of IMF-World Bank and Uncle Sam,
The warmongers,
From oppression
And poverty and wretchedness
That, like a python, had wound
Around them to the end.
But this is no love poem
No love, no art work, no poem
No fictive tale but of radiant truth.
As throngs of men
And women march
Out of their homes
With new-found hope,
Gathering strength
As from a blasting storm,
Defiant now of lying saints or heroes
Or of murderer Presidents
Who speak with forked tongues,
As the throng march out into the streets
Flooding the cities,
Ready to offer their lives for freedom
To them would come such happiness,
Such love
No poem would express,
No art suffice to render.
This is no love poem
No piece of art, no song
Only a sense
Of how it is to tell of battles won,
Of folding in to feel the surge of triumph
Though brief perhaps,
Within this flashpoint moment
Of the people's war.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:24 AM UTC
Let prayer my maker,
Would never be set afar.
Crying out kind glory,
Boil this heart ever unbar.
Ye vigorous in power
Has no match contrast where are?
Run drought wide granary,
All that breed need not debar.
I submit solemn myself
Thy feet O great God!
Liberate soul from frenzy sin.
Put earnest breath alter lot.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
In-between thy waking hours and sweet sleep,
May thee know, I'll always crave thee near.
Like a Shepherd doth crave nearing his sheep
Or like an ardent drinker to his beer.
Despite that our love was but love in vain,
You're like the cat that ate the canary.
But may thee know for I was but a swain,
Thus my love, safe grains in a granary.
In my heart, thee perdurably linger
Despite having thee back is but forlorn,
To no other lady I'll point my finger
But long for thy love, every night and morn.
So, in-between thy sleep and waking hours,
May thee know my love shall never sour!
©Kikodinho Alexandros
17th September 2016
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
Decade of decades thru’
Crawled, walked and ran amuck
Flied, cruised, dived n’ delved
Stumbled, fumbled and tumbled
Blithe, he, the centenarian!
Transited and trespassed
All seasonal fare and furor
Of quirks, quacks and quakes,
Of chaos, canards and concords
Of fun, frolic and foolish
Neither did his debilitating diabetes got him scared
Nor hyperbolic hypertension placed him scourged
Death dared not break his breath; he is fit to the core
But the day is not too far for him to rest his oar
Fantastic phantasmagorias reeling
Through the clumsy chip of his mind
Century past was his prolonged sanctuary,
Reminisced he in awe, what he saw;
From rude n’ rustic paths to roadways,
From wading to waterways and skyways
Blowing cannons turning into zooming rockets
Swords and knifes on to guns n’ pistols
Heels of horses over to powered wheels
Wars broke into battles and battles unto wars, of course,
Anarchy of monarchy tamed and tuned to democracy
Candled kingdoms switched over to electrified nations
Electronic wizards brought life easy, cozy, busy and rosy
All was well that went but not so well as it wanted
The glitter of stars vanished in horizon
In the gutter of urban agglomeration
Greenhouse gases displaced the granary of greenery
None bothered of the smothered mother earth
Human values sunk in exchange of currency
Poor like him left their prayers unanswered since
“Does it carry any sense for me to hit century” he surmised
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
We sent him to represent us
And he obediently went
To represent himself
Never forgot us though
Remembered to turn back
To bite at the fingers that fed him
To kick us in the groin
As he filled his granary
Time is up!
He hasn’t passed our message
He is cunningly back
Asking us to give him
Vouchers for his greed
Our votes
Prove to me my people
Something is between the ears
Send him away
This thief messager.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
I carry the runes of you in my pocket
Smoothed while recalling
Your blank walks
A wash of blackcurrant and
Holly in your hair
Wandering aimless by shorn clapboard
and storm kestrels overhead.
I think of your eyes
While watching Venus blink,
Tiny speck of green popping
Out of the witching hour’s emptiness
Distracted by a sweet orb only daring to show itself
in time-lapse Morse code-
City firefly’s shy hesitant glow
of phosphorescent luciferase
Impermanent tattoos in the humid air
Asphyxiated by the hum
of flowing electrons by wayward wings
Vintage and neon.
I sweep your edda into the hearth
Ashen mingling of myrrh
and incense sprinkles its cinnamon
Onto bare exposed brick.
The lightning-scarred tree
with its bullseye of char
Burned inside-out,
Cindered base,
Reminds me of our concatenated dreams.
I touch the ghost of you
Roaming the paths of King’s Chapel
and Granary Burial Ground
Farsick and windtalking to yourself.
I still taste the ozone on your lips
After you rained all night.
I throw the bait of you into the water
and the sunfish of Northwood Lake nibble the worms
of your toes.
And I watch the sawing motion of your thoughts
on DVR over and over
Hearing the fibers tear
Knowing the damage of blades and friction
How your heart will always bear
All ninety stone
of Hunters Lodge.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Oh my Lord, once again I’m before you,
begging that You sift my heart.
Insure the chaff of my life is blown away,
while allowing the kernels of Your truth
to be planted in me, for the purpose of bearing…
spiritual fruit that delights You.
The door of my heart has been unhinged;
You may enter my threshing mill anytime –
even if You need to wake me.
Lift me up and shake me without ceasing,
until the day I’m stored in Your granary.
Author Notes
Loosely based on:
Job 21: 17-18; Zep 2: 1-3; Matt 3: 12
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2011, All rights reserved.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
Roots of Harmonny
The old mill stood still
It didn’t have the will
To do its job to fulfill
The grain waits until
The water hits the wheel
Then the grain to grist
Richest flower will exist
Bread of comfort it will list
The family it brings power not mist
The community is raised and broadened
The earth is strengthened nothing deadened
Just because man and the land befriended
The soil made it rich with gifts when not left unintended
A complex world starts with a good amount of corporation
Sun and rain and mans labor burst as grand emotion
Every part rest under the wonderful bounty without question
The barns the granary are bursting now what marvelous sensation
Rest all you that have labored enjoy the fruits without tribulation
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 6:02 AM UTC
no bleak
no gravel
no granary
flushed upward flossed through the cloud
proud of our colourful obituary
but there's nothing to hold us here
fear nothing wary
no feline attention
no canary to fulfil the coal mine
just the foggy cotton of perspiration and no cling
so we are benign to respond
rung to sense
to physics
to every-mans gravity
no grieve
no manner
no calamity
just plummet
and wind sore
and sun-bleached torn clothing
and dread of developing horrors
perhaps collision with unwanted human company
no paid way into outer space
jest descent
you flounder for memories
to flutter before eyes
instead you are battered by collage
an old video game console the cat peed on
clips you fragrant between the eyes
a set of your golf clubs in their bag
winds you hugging in the gut
(did you ever play golf ?)
so much more product and then the car
Jeep Grand Cherokee colour burgundy
draws level
doors hung open to the yap of history
grateful and familiar you take to its back seat
pull over a tarp and sleep
but its all crushed apart
and you face again
the plunge
turning corpses of hills below
the quaking landscape bellows "NO!"
and patches of spikey urban ventilation
all gush to volunteer you
***** toward your voice
that's screams also 'No!'
but realize
the voice
of the
earth
screams rowdier
and on a weeping in-breath
to replenish
Jun 20, 2022
Jun 20, 2022 at 1:39 PM UTC
It is only in this world,
This very ideal place,
That people goes insane.
Travelling there,
Sure you get convinced,
Its a small heaven.
A man so poor ,
Is blinded that riches ,
That he is so rich,
To Bill gates standing,
He builds a granary,
Yet nothing blossoms in the farm.
A plan is made,
Carefully laid out,
Procedurally worked on,
But alas!
Its just a mere thought,
Its survival depending on fate.
A youth sees a cute lass,
Praises her,
Compares her to an angel,
And like a combatant plunges to war,
To win the dream lady.
A shock that hits my ally,
Equals a thunder strike,
When the guy's effort,
Regardless of sacrifice,
And suffering endured,
Is stubbornly disregarded.
These world in question,
Should be addressed first,
Until reality is seen,
For they say,
Only reality part of a dream,
That matters a lot.
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
The world on your shoulders
radiating your womb with fluids
Like the granary that shadows grains
Sensational diamond amongst creatures
grubbing for grandeur and glamour.
Pleasing and birthing
with your hole, tender desires
Beautiful jewel and keeper
Your chemistry – mysterious!
that echoes a deep affinity with nature.
Wild joy like the world's madness
emptied in your river plate
As grim as the tourist
winning his destination at daylight
on the grace of your ferry.
Your colour –
soaked in chocolate, baked in wonders.
When your egg is ripe
You nurture with love and might.
Being of complexity, yet magnificent.
That the bird must return to it's nest with food and wine
for the hungry mouths, the thirsty tongues.
Your being is priceless and full of myth
That it stimulates my spirit with curiosity
On where exactly sourced your unique existence.
© A. O. Nwulia Literary Diary 2017
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
Autumn by John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Before seeds went into the ground, they harvested wheat.
Before there was an ocean, they strung pearls.
While the great meeting was going on about bringing human beings into existence, they stood up to their chins in wisdom water.
When some of the angels opposed creation, the Sufi sheiks laughed and clapped among themselves.
Before materiality, they knew what it was liked to be trapped inside matter.
Before there was a night sky, they saw Saturn.
Before wheat grains, they tasted bread.
With no mind, they thought.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 4:23 PM UTC