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Knit Personality Dec 2018
The Candy Cane Tree
    Has peppermint bark.
It grows in the snow
     And glows in the dark.

It drips chocolate sap;
    Its flesh is white cream.
**-holy-night-**!
    It's a tree-hugger's dream!

The harvest of canes
    In autumn begins,
When peppermint brains
    Eat doublemint chins.
KiraLili Aug 2015
Combines start there turns
Morning mist covers ripe wheat
Red rimmed sun rises
Northern Saskatchewan Harvest in the Battlefords
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
A night owl in the harvest moon
was awake till the crack of the dawn
but wasn’t surfing online, wasn’t rowing
the boat in the digital river.
Deep down to a dreamweaving scene
that was, in musing, painstakingly creative.

Wait till you snap up a witty aphorism.
The darling buds of May will be in bloom.
The tickled pink nightingale too will
give out its voice, singing a song.
Save a copy and tweet it to all,
but do give us a demo, tell us a bit more.
Where does it shine and sizzle?
Where did the winter tuck away the rose?
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
Pickin’ apples off the tree:
that’s me,
ya see,
writin’ poetry
about all things Autumn.
I look for the ripest reds,
those ruddy red-heads
that caught ’em
a stubborn
sunburn
a sunny summery September afternoon,
when the white horn of the moon
was floating by
in the sea-deep deep-blue sky.
I pluck ’em
and plunk ’em
into a barrel
while singing a carol
to Autumn.

Pickin’ apples off the tree:
that’s me,
ya see,
tryna be Keatsy.
But it defeats me:
I try at it
but die at it.
The white sparrows are luxuriating in the furrows of glory, bringing diamond sheaves of beauty in the marrow of a golden morning.

Every leaf turning a golden flower with jewelry petals in explosion of beauty in transcendence of the sun of incandence!

Harvest in rushing armada, riding on wings of ginomous glory.

It's a bountiful spring with colorful opulence in overflow of wonders, burying the venomous autumn in flaming death!
Joanna May 27
The heart beats to give life, not death, and it is made to run this inner race, I confess.

To give forth its treasure to those who have a need and see the value of the harvested seed.

The heart beats to shed light on any who would not give up the fight.

To walk in a world of too much talk, and to live as a beacon versus too many lies.

The heart beats to keep it from turning to stone when left with unnecessary and suffocating ties.

For within, the heart, a story is told of an adventure not to be ignored that must unfold.
To read more of my writings go to: http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
Joanna Jul 30
Through the rain, the wind and blistering sand
workers toil without a plan.

Failing to see, much less care, that another's garden
is in disrepair.

Even so, there is a call to make a choice, to tear
down walls.

While preparing the ground, they pull the weeds,
casting bread upon life's water to meet another's
need.

And then with a little rain, and a little sun, one can
take joy in the harvest when it is done..
To read more of my writings go to:  http://reflectionsoflight7.wixsite.com/home
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
King Panda Sep 2015
bat-tastic lung
collapse
fragrant raspberry
leaves
gas exchange gone
wrong
little sailor
slivered ocean
reverse gravitational
sinking into
blackened angler doom
new age
humanitarian
loves others
loves discovering
new
truths
loves
plummeting through spaded
blinds
insanely unappreciative
red
the new harvest
the magician blinking
the the sky
imagination finally
makes
sense
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Wavering in the fair sun of my garden -
'tween the enclosed well and the laurel tree.

On a sidewalk, red and radiant,
Strutted two maidens together,
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.

Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.

No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.

(c) LazharBouazzi
L B Aug 2018
Bent
Near to breaking
by her burden
of fruit, swollen with seed
In that thrashing by wind
Bearing down on the sun
in her labor—
of  Need
to bear
the pain
to bring
her yield
to his hands—
her harvest
of warm juicy softness


Gone—
the upright
reach of untouchable spring
When stems, stern and smooth
wore a lace-beaded bodice of bloom
of coral chiffon
First leaves
a scarf
with a fringe of lime green
wrapping her gifted and lean
to the buzzing

She was lighter than dew
to the amateur insects
smeared with her

Her only accessory--
a robin
They had left
as evidence
they had ravaged
its song


Now broken and leaking
more damage endured  
Ripe fruit in rough hands
He leans against limbs
by his weight sternly pressed  
so suffused in the fragrance
of peach intoxicants
which he will have--

He is lost to his lust
He is forcing his need
into another year's beauty

asserting his claim over and over again
of that lost and ancient bounty
Many edits 8-16-18.
l Sep 2018
recently the daylight
lately the sunlight has a
feeling of autumn
Haiku
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing the rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Written in ten minutes when Frivolous Treasure, Ingrid, and SE Reimer
excised it from with me, a triage performed and a poem delivered, fluid and tear wet,  while Mozart's Serenade No. 13 for Strings harmonized what ever music the man has left.

flawless? Perhaps one slightly less flawed.

give us all your names and I will write someday
what my heart knows exists

Words are hopeless, poor substitutes for what they in vain,and we too, we call the heart's decay but this poem give unto me a deeper satisfaction than most...
Aspen Welsch Feb 24
Stop looking at me
as if I’m some
- thing
to swallow up
or spit out.
A berry, black, swollen
ready to be chosen for your
consumption. I sour on your
tongue, assaulting your
taste buds because you
thought the only
- thing
that mattered was the purplish black,
the juice that produced for your
pleasure, my ripe, plump bumps,
my green hands
outstretched ready and there, for you?
Still you pluck and **** and stare
and **** me up with your
barren compliments stripping
my sweet substance
one by one
by one, you
extract it out
of me
gracie Oct 2018
Keats says, "transcendence of the self",
so you become a fox, copper-coated,
bright-eyed. You become the light of a
harvest moon, playful and sweet,
dancing across the forest floor,
you become a lingering scent
on my thrift-store sweater: balsam or
cold brew coffee, wafting
through the bustling café. You become soft
Sunday afternoons, forehead kisses and
pretty words whispered over the phone,
the curl of my lip as I drift off
into sleep.
hey
i think ur p cool
i like u alot
maybe we could... hang out? or somethin'
I belong to the Earth
The Earth not to me
It'll swallow me up
when it's time
Or maybe it'll share
with the sea.

We don't cultivate our Mother,
She plants us like seeds
Provides us with a nice clean bed and always pulls the weeds.

Not all the seedlings grow into what she would want them to be
So we're harvested and mother tries again.
Love your mother
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Impressionist colors rising out of chocolate brown,
stretching chartreuse necks upwards.
Intertwining vines clutching each other in a desperate rhapsody of life,
all waiting to display their Creators’ palette of pure color.

Orchid and yellow chalices hold the morning dew
as all are christened in jeweled morning light.
With blue and white snow you carpet the ground
blanketing hillsides with hope of Monet.

Orange tongues of fire licking up towards the sun
while jade blades battle as new growth crowds in.
Blossoms hang full with a living harvest of yellow,
awaiting transport to another.

Stalks of dried grasses stirred by the August wind,
dancing to the rhythm of the warm stirring breeze.  
Summer now ebbing away in aged colors muted with brown,
returning to the muddied ground once again.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
karin naude Jan 2014
my ******* affair
a blood covenant
continues negative on the balance sheets
a constant power struggle
my soul and unwavering obedience the prize
secretly a grudge grows
(encouraged by continual love famine
inclined by love withdrawal punishment)
poisoning the source

uncomprehensible to me
why i am always found unworthy
fathers love, blessing and protection
unattainable
withdrawal, nonacceptance and deliberate bad wishes
fertilizes the acre
what will the harvest be
tug of war for my sanity
my Heavenly Father and mum
vs
the enemy and dad
forge in this firepit
born among ashes
ryn Jan 2015
Dig
.
•unchain me from unrest•
shovel me out of the dirt•
une-                              arth
my conge-   sted chest•
let my secrets blurt•
let them
spill.....•
just   for
the wor-
ld to see
•..string
me up...
..against
my  will
•harvest
the fruits
of the bi-
tter tree•
let    eyes
see  what
will show
•...let feet
be caught
in stubbo-
rn mud...•
let prying minds be baffled.....by
what they would come to know
•...let wanting hearts choke...on
the dirges of my stale blood....•
now dig me up quickly•'cause
it's been far too long..... and i
have been readied•exhume
all of me completely•for
no longer should i
remain as........
buried•
.
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