"grassland" poems
‘We live with forest’ and ‘forest live with us’!
Tallest tree of the forest is the symbol of our hope,
The Python is our messenger of past,
Blossoming flower of grassland are our depiction of smile,
Birds are the our fortune teller,
Earthworms are our marker,
Butterflies are our messenger of worship,
We design our life with them,
They are our image of clan and family,
We can’t live without them,
Our aspiration is tuned with their respiration,
We are cheerful with them!
***
Now, out of the blue, you arrived
and say we are poor!
So, you will build industry for us and give job to us!
But for that,
You occupy our land, our forest, our friends and respiration,
We never thought!
‘You are such a pitiable’
That you can’t build anything without our forest,
But you say, ‘we are poor’!
****
Please, go away from our blessed place
Don’t wipe out our friend!
We are rich and happy with the blessing of our friend
There is no need of your industry,
Please go away
Leave us alone we will design our destination.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her ******* he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
The small grassland hills are dancing.
The sky is blue and the breeze is long,
I reach out, I touch and I look—
Into your eyes, my fingers in your hair.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Imagine you are walking
Imagine
Imagine a place
A desert place
Where the heat steals your energy
This endless sea of sand ***** you in
You are imagining a place
Imagine
Gentle grassland
The full moon is enough to keep you sane
The wind whispers your name with a cool and warm voice
Imagine you are falling
Imagine
Barren sand in your mouth
Your face meets the horizon and it kicks you in the eyes as you sink
Your screams are heard by no other except the hand that saves you
And once more you are walking in the desert place again
©Copyright 2006 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:58 AM UTC
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.
They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.
They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.
From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.
Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.
Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.
For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.
'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.
They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.
'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.
'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.
Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.
'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.
For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
3.6k
I
I learnt this week
that time and distance
can be friends to memory
their respective lengths
only wet and sharpen
the edge of love
but for us dear friend
we hold hard to hope
that we may
one day soon
share the present
and live each moment
in each other's heart.
II
Hearing you on Holkham beach
- whose soul is greater than the ocean
whose spirit stronger than the sea -
did I doubt for a moment
that you, though buffeted
by a cold east wind
would never age for me,
nor fade, nor die.
Nor you for me (she said)
Goodbye, my love,
a thousand times goodbye.
Write me well (she said)
and turned and ran.
III
The Reedham ferry was but a river's width
and yet I stood at the water's brink
and watched the reeds quiver in the wind,
watched the rain splatter on the puddled path.
All around to the human eye
this valley, a plain of grassland
broken only by reed-fringed pools,
was a gentle, unpeopled, easy place.
The absence of relief left
no fixed frame of reference.
Places apart from one another
would concertina and merge.
Tempted to cross I waved a no
to the ferryman in his quayside hut
then turned and walked quickly
back down the long, low road.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.
.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC
He stood on the grassland of Ledi Geraru.
The sky was a vast expanse of melancholic gray
and the crimson blue light made the night imminent.
Each twilight his feet felt the kiss of the dewy shrub
as he waited for the first star to come out
that in a hushed sweep descended as peace.
He would raise his finger to the sky
and upon the river of his eyes
the star broke into fragments of tears.
He was slowly dying
but a greater him was to tread the grassland.
His eyes weren't found.
Only his jaws still stuck with the beauty
were dug up from the stardust.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
we promised each
other a
broken
lawn
mower
so we mowed
the dirt
instead
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
To the tune of "Red Lips"
Lonely in my secluded chamber,
A thousand sorrows fill every inch
of my sensitive being.
Regretting that spring has so soon passed,
That rain drops have hastened the falling followers,
I lean over the balustrade,
Weary and depressed.
Where is my beloved?
Only the fading grassland
stretches endlessly toward the horizon;
Anxiously I watch the road for your return.
2.7k
Every morning
I feed the mewling cats,
chug my hot instant coffee,
sit at my rickety linoleum kitchen table
and peer hopefully out my thin window,
through the cracks in the glass
beyond the rusted screen
into the acres of wet trainyards and commercial blocks.
There in one non-descript grey building
underneath the watertower
beside the Sheriff's substation
a band of laughing saints
craft delicate malas of lapis
and manzanita windchimes
while diaphonous angels all a-hover
manifest vast verdant grassland prairies,
great ocean waves, sunsets
and spring flowers hidden in rock crannies
where nobody will ever walk,
and they launch grand air balloons
bulging with epiphanies
that may drift my way.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
Glorifying amidst the snowy mountains bestowing
rivers with a splendid shine searching a land
to shower its warmth in a dense grassland,
sun rises with the dawn
like the spring blooming life in the lawn.
Cold on the cemetery lay like the corpse,
the flower in concealed corner of the lawn.
Life rejuvenates it to exhibit its charisma.
With its exquisite grace,
life fills the daffodils
blooming merrily in the meadows
with the exotic flush of odor enchanting thee .
Life of seven ages leaps and exits slyly like a stranger.
Neither the witty nor the wisest nor do the philosophers
can bamboozle the fate, neither can they preconceive
the lot ,the fate has in store in each slot
hence live the life with fullest enthusiasm and zeal,
the chariots of life bridging
the expedition between birth and rebirth.
Struggle the chill like a gladiator
stand undeterred by the worldly woes.
Life is symbolization of bluebells,lavenders
hedychiums planted on a deserted road,
blend of happiness and agony .
Surrendering to agony is pure escapism.
Each has to surrender on the altar of death
a day or later ,
but till life why not worship the life
like an idol enshrined in the temple
so when thee are asked of
satisfaction in the heavens high
thou may not quote "alas it could have been a day later"
rather thou may be the most enlightened
devotee to stay in the state of bliss and utmost salvation.
Men say life is mortal
But life is eternal you see,
the life is like a divine cascade of holy waters,
one drop dies ,other rejuvenates to life.
Till the nature lives, shall live
the men and generations yet to come.
Life is pouring like the nectar from the heaven's brink,
quite insane it would be to not drink the summary of life.
BY CHANDAN SHARMA
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
Often we approached the bay over high ground
Taking the track from Totland between the heather
Where the small blue butterflies dusted the grass
With a fluttering sparkle and the gorse spoke yellow.
The climb to the top was arduous with many stops
Sitting on prickles, the scent of sheep buzzing
Around our ears and nostrils and filling sandels.
A rest refreshed with that thermos coffee hot on lips.
Then in an instant we came out of shadow to meet
The white glare off the sea and a downward decent
Across grassland filled with thistles
To drop
Through style and gate and down onto the road.
Love Mary
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
Into the valley of unicorns,
with innumerable horns protruding,
a plethora of dazzling white mass roams
the grassland,so pure,so innocent,
the abode of dragons,the red-winged beauty
concentrating their breath on a cave high
above the snow covered mountain,
and beyond it’s fiery veil rises
the freedom of a thousand phoenix
which soar high above the violet sky.
O my beautiful mind,to whom do you
really belong? you surpass all my
narrow visions and bring me to this
paradise,I get lost.
In the ocean of pearls and diamonds
glittering in the sunlight,my torn
and tattered body of Desire submerges-
like a salt-doll,my docile materialistic Self
who came to measure its depth,dissolves,
I cry with joy.
It is then that my Independence breaks
the barriers of a century’s history,
and my Bliss is cursed with the most
horrific beauty.But O my beautiful mind,
how do I sustain you? for I am again awake
in my bed,left only to savor the token of
Freedom that you leave by,I wonder HOW?
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
these foothills
rolling in pine and
grassland meadows,
where silvery lupine
follow the melting snow,
hint of the mountains to come
in spiny crags that
catch a cumulus pocked sky
cottonwood tufts rain
this day after solstice
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
You walked into my life
And strode over my feelings
Crushing
My heart
In every step
Throughout the path
You traversed
My blood marked your way
When you ran back
To the entrance
Fearing I would value you
A little too much
Scared that you would fall in love
A little too much
But Alas ain’t I the little girl?
Who had once sent a prayer up above
“Watch over him, Lord!”
And you struck me down with your words
And your actions so well constructed
And I?
Being the little girl as always
I didn’t even try
To chain you down with the fire of my love
What if it burned you down?
What then would be the remedy?
I didn’t even try
To drag you back
With snarles of seduction
Or little sweet nothings
I didn’t even try
To smoke your cigarette
And kiss your lips
To match your taste
I just watched you
Walking across
A patch of grassland
When you mistook my tears
To be
Mere dew drops
Dear darling friend of mine
Some day you will find
A star shining bright up in the sky
Beckoning you to love
Not to criticize
Dear darling love of mine
And that day you will realize
That the sparks of success raining down on you
Have already been paid for
With the life of a little girl
Who
Loved you a little too much
Who
Cared about you a little too much
Who
Let herself fall down thirty storeys
In loving memory
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
on the high pass the last land
the grassland we'd drag our sheep
to briefly graze between the valleys of
colca, and puno.
focused in motion, heads low
wrapped round in many layers when we'd sleep.
in dens, in dark, in distrust of stars
and worn old men of mists each night,
that toothlessly bite,
at broken brown stone, gums
hopeless, hungry, salivating and desperately white.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but rocks dreaming cold rock dreams.
remembering when babel fell...
fists first ****** from young rubble, to find
that hands are hands and hands can climb.
nothing lives at 14,000 feet.
but the livestock we'd drag
and keep alive, tireless
because towers are brought low
but hills only grow
and there are coats to stay the snow.
but to pass through this place we
knowing tempt death, incur
the wrath of Abraham blaspheme
the Word and the Way and
the rich air and pastures,
from which rocks are raised
to keep us from the heights for which we lust.
in old history, obvious.
forgot. spoke only in folk songs.
ritualized in rote laws.
but in secret, memorialized.
as solitary, at the highest point
each passerby takes pause...
stares down at the earth from the sky,
kneels, in the dust, picks up
three, four, not more, small brown rocks
to place at maras in defiance and triumph.
superstitiously stacking little stones.
as if to say,
"here lord.
here is something you can knock down.
here is something you can bring low."
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
There are many meanings
Hidden in every flower
And grassland ...
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 10:54 AM UTC
.
The moon undresses you, little bird,
Your eyes are indigo skies without stars,
Your breath is summer grass after shower.
How you hold your arms before the night,
A lance of milky sheen and flailing bliss,
Your arms arrest as they softly surrender
And your ******* overflow in moist shores
Of white sand and shells, little ears to kiss,
I am drowning in your curves on the waves
From the sea, delirious with eye of moon,
Drunk with wild ocean as it consumes me,
Your hair is new grassland to run through,
Windy as a child breaking for the beach,
I latch my fingers to yours like driftwood
Tangled in kelp, the salt we share, steeps,
Is **** and deep and our lips are shucked
Oysters, blind, iridescent, sliding with eyes
Into the famished throat of ***** heavens.
.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 12:04 PM UTC
Life—what a cruel prankster you are.
My childhood
felt like a peaceful breeze—
beneath that breeze was a brewing tempest.
You threw me from grassland
into a never-ending abyss.
I tried to crawl out of it,
but you hurled back a rock called Expectations.
My soul, once cheerful,
was torn to shreds by your rock.
After facing the worst,
I tried to crawl again.
But then you cast a mystic pebble.
I glanced at it,
thinking it small and easy to conquer.
Yet reality struck again—
that pebble was an ever-growing giant
named Doubt.
Under these weights
my peace was crushed,
my sanity stolen,
my heart shattered.
Even after all this,
I tried to regain strength,
wanting to climb again.
Yet you showed me no mercy.
You sent toward me
an abyssal storm of Negativity—
devouring my mind, breaking my spirit.
Yet you stand there, menacing,
wanting to take more from me.
Even after sending me into that nothingness,
you still want more.
O prankster, stop with your prank.
I beg you, please—
return my peace.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC
Fog and mist rising,
And then disappearing behind the peaks.
Fog and mist rising
From the lake as if
The water itself is burning beneath its lurky surface.
Fog and mist rising and dissolving into the meadows,
Painting the grassland in grey and white.
Fog and mist rising and nestling in the deodars,
Reflecting the icy surface of the water in its vapour.
Fog and mist rises higher and higher than the mountain peaks as if teasing the slope of the hill.
Fog and mist rising and tainting the hillside until nothing is visible,
Not even the roads in haunted small towns.
Fog and mist rising from nowhere and covering the hills
In blue and grey and white.
Fog and mist rising like an old curse after the rainfall dances.
Fog and mist rising and then disappearing
behind the peaks,
Where there is only the open sky.
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 9:41 PM UTC
for the missed and the missing
~~~
lea - a tract of open ground, especially grassland; meadow; land used for a few years for pasture or for growing hay, then plowed over and replaced by another crop; untilled; fallow
~~~
In the Lea Field
And again that man
in the fallow fallen field,
grasps his own tiller,
looking ahead, downwind, leeward to plow,
impatient to cut rows of upturned earth
to grow markers,
plant seeded rows of words
and again that man
presumes time,
planting a yearly crop of
hoped for just enough time
but it does not suffice -
enough and sufficient time
will not grow in the lea field
this year
Now a man comes to mind,
living and dying
in a lea field
the man too,
field fallen fallow like the grassy meadow
that once fed his overcast gaze
yet the man believes still,
word seeds of lea poems prior planted
fullsome in their dormancy,
potent with patience,
shall not always remain so...
they are
bridges-in-waiting,
un-til,
ready once more
for the missed to
till
anew
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Urgency was in your expression
as we hid underneath the sofa
in the final moments
of the party,
before you gave me away
to the dogs
for supper.
Somehow, my great escape
led me right back
to you.
But my fingers didn’t fit
between your garden gloves,
and your distracted gaze was fixed
on the traffic lights
outside the misted window.
All I saw,
was our condensation
on the glass
through golden lamplight
and the yellow bookshelves.
Through the abandoned sidewalks
under cypress trees
and fluorescent street lights
into the dark grassland,
where you chased
my favorite seabird,
and I scolded you like a child;
you ran ahead, searching
for more excitement.
But time had other plans,
it froze itself in that moment
your face became my mirror,
and I carefully touched
your lips with mine.
You pulled away,
tried again, and our
noses met, like two
wild animals
agreeing with a ritual
to raise new life
together.
Mar 25, 2022
Mar 25, 2022 at 5:06 AM UTC
You are the heavy rain,
I am the grassland
plagued with drought.
Love me, cover me,
help me heal myself.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC