"landowner" poems
We had well-heeled days
With sprawling village,
Glowing crop field, homestead,
and flock of cattle !
We worked day and night
Made our life accomplish with fruits of toil!
Those were the days of amiable knot with everyone,
Spring was echoed with the sound of ‘Dhol’ and ‘Bihu’!
Summer was fragrance with wet soil and mud of crop field!
Autumn was resonance with ‘Aoi-ni-tom’!
Winter was mirrored with golden Paddy!
Now, we are like a vagrant!
We work in other’s field
We are living on our landowner’s marshy!
“Have you seen that boat on the river?
Our village was there!
Mighty Brahmaputra had carried away
Our home and glee!”
Now, we depend on our land owner’s marshy!
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
I have a confession to make, I said. I drink to forget all
That my failings and foibles beget. Sobriety
Sends me to most fitful sleep. No rest for he who in his unwaking hours
Mulls over the wine of his life, which he sours
With his own cork of guilt and self-conscience. All mine self-confidence
Derives from Contradictions repressing. Catatonic sleep of great notoriety
Is my limbo, my heaven, perchance my sick death. The
Removal of a blot on the face of this land should solicit, I fear, cornet
Mouthed angels to sound clarion of victory. If I was religious
I should become a flagellant invigilate most excellent
Flayed as the poacher would the pheasant.
And the landowner would the poacher.
Silence from both. I take a drought from my drink, she a small sip.
She looks at me and I look a way.
Do you want me to pay for this? She asks. Just the tip
Quoth I. Another drought and a sip.
Another.
I break down. I have nothing to believe in,
To believe in foul dogma to wash my soul of sin
I find repugnant. Belief in Progress and people and
The wonder of Nature is akin to praying to the inconstant sand
Castle made by the hand of a passing child.
Belief in my girlfriend! More my love’s greatest failure
To grant her the care and affection she deserves
Due to my sand castle of pride in which I do serve.
And thus do I say, to purge all my lust
There’s only one way, in Self-disgust I trust.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
On the side of the country lane a wooden post holds a sign indicating the route of a public footpath. Hardly a mile goes by without passing another one, maybe more. They don't stand out, so common they hardly register as we motor by. Some of us have explored where they lead, others have not.
Some follow hedgerows, ditches; others strike across open fields. Wherever they are, the landowner has a legal obligation to allow free unhindered public access. Growing crops must be cut or sprayed to keep paths clear.
Many of these paths were formed by country folk walking to church, work or market, taking the shortest route across the fields. In 1948 they were recognised and given legal status on the definitive map.
Close to villages the paths are well used. In more remote areas some are barely walked from one year to the next. Even so, they are still legal rights of way.
The celebrated fell wanderer Alfred Wainwright put together his famous Coast to Coast walk by connecting existing rights of way to form a continuous route from the Atlantic to the North Sea, passing through three National Parks.
Almost a kind of accident of history, the footpath network is now a National Treasure.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
Tranquil Freedom
I think back to my early teens
To what I had but what we've lost
As kids we would walk about four miles to fish a special pond
In a special place
Sneak in through the gap in the iron railings
We thought we were so clever but the truth is the landowner always knew what we were up to
But he didn't mind. We weren't there to vandalize and destroy
We had the freedom to roam
That quiet tranquil place
Sunlight on the breeze driven rippled water
Bird songs
Lying on the bank, up to the armpit in water
Searching in the mud for fresh water mussels
Always looking for that special pearl
Never did find it
I look now at what our kids have got
Can't go here, can't go there
Nothing left, nothing, nothing
No more the woods and wide green swathes
No more the freedom
No more the tranquility that once was mine
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm
No more
She’s my loving me indeed
But she won’t hand me a part of the deed
She told me this in the stable
In the morn’ at four
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm
No more
I was serving dinner on the table
As she suddenly took my blackened arm
In servility I took her lustful kiss
And as expected she sent me away to the stable
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm
No more
She’s treating me like fertilizer
Only I’m not white
And out of her food I don’t get a bite
Out of her blood I don’t get a right
I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm
No more
I gonna **** her
I don’t want live to die no more
I want to escape
From tilling her land
And her life shall
Go to Lucifer
To save me command
I’ll accept my title
As landowner
But I’ll still be a farmer
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:34 PM UTC
OVI ODIETE'S 'GO WITH' SERIES
READ THE PARABLE
OF THE PRODIGAL SON
Luke 15:11-32
A great landowner had two sons
The Elder was quite "good"
The younger was a wayward type
Did not do as he should
He was bold as brass and worse
He caused his father strife
He wanted his inheritance
To lead a sinful life
His father granted him his wish
And so off he went
To the brothels and the ***** Dens
As was his sensual bent
After he had wasted his last dime
(Or Shekel in those days)
He lived in a pig pen
Due to his Wayward ways
He knew his father's laborers
Did not suffer lack
He wanted to join them then
He wanted to go back
So he returned over the hill
And was yet far away
His father ran to his young son
Fell on his neck that day!
Put a mantle on his shoulders
And a ring upon his hand
"Let us Feast on fatted calf!"
This was his command
The Elder son returned from field
And saw the merry feast
He would not go in to it
Was not happy in the least!
"Why do you greet that silly fool!"
Angrily he spoke
"you give him the fatted calf!
I don't even rate a goat!"
"Your brother was a lost one
He knew not the way
You have been trustworthy
Each and every day.
Why are you now so angry?
How is it you don't see?
Your brother was a slave to sin
**and now he's finally free!**
The father was so like our Father
Finding mercy. Is it odd?
He wants us to come on home
*Come home and
GO WITH GOD!*
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/29/2016
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
this place is not my home.
but I don't know where home is
this is the closest I have ever come
(in two years I will be twenty)
(in three I will be twenty one)
my Spirit shall not abide in man forever,
for he is flesh
will I ever find a place of my own
(it all comes back to the old dream
of the landowner,
the homestead,
the acres and harvest)
sometimes I feel like
I'm searching for a way
to quit this earth
and carve out a place
in the belly of the universe
and call it my own
(will I be safe/happy/loved then)
my alma mater is not my mother
and neither is the holy ******
every non home has a shadow
(my mother has a power over me)
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
When we first moved in,
The landowner said that
The old crabapple tree in
The yard hasn't yielded
Its fruit for many a year.
The executioner was going
To end its life, but we
Convinced the judge to
Grant a stay of execution
Regarding the beheading
So we could make a valiant
Effort at rehabilitating
The desolate old soul.
All because of a last minute
Reprieve, that unproductive
Tree has been rejuvenated
And regenerated; once
Again bearing fruit for
Many a year for us to eat
And share with others.
Apr 29, 2025
Apr 29, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC