"lowland" poems
It's cold in Duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On **** branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that January can bring.
The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see April the Winter so hard to survive?
The first heavy snows of the Winter have fallen on the higher ground
On Clara, Shrone and Caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.
But I can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of Knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.
Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of Spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.
It's cold in Duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all Knocknagree
But I can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day
And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of May.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
The blue Arabian sea, the towering Western Ghats
This then is Kerala the most beautiful Indian state
Lush green hill stations, lowland paddy fields
All are in Kerala between the mountains and the sea
Fourty four rivers flow so water here for all
Exotic plants in abundance beside the waterfalls
Enchanting emerald back waters put here for your delight
The days are never long enough to view each wonderous site
Kerala is called gods own country, the reasons very clear
Wildlife abounds, exotic birds and sika deer
Here you will live longer than in any other state
Fresh food in abundance and low mortality rate
Why don't you come and visit this paradise on earth
And take away the memories that you will always cherish
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
MANY ways to spell good night.
Fireworks at a pier on the Fourth of July spell it with red wheels and yellow spokes.
They fizz in the air, touch the water and quit.
Rockets make a trajectory of gold-and-blue and then go out.
Railroad trains at night spell with a smokestack mushrooming a white pillar.
Steamboats turn a curve in the Mississippi crying in a baritone that crosses lowland cottonfields to a razorback hill.
It is easy to spell good night.
Many ways to spell good night.
3.5k
How shall I discover, uncover, and re+cover you?
the goal?
to make you mine, a follower. a fan, an intimate, a lover of'
each others (words?)
My options?
offered thee three to me!
A~Z,
or
your successes by
Popularity!
then of course,
read each crafted in order
of appearance,
but even that,
can be forward and back,
latest to last~est,
oldest to the knowing~est?
value your insightsfuls,
oh! on how to get best
into your insides but through
your
insights...
do I detect a tiny tremble,
in your finger writing tips?
random < in no particular order order> helter skelter?
you mean, be keen, like falling in loving,
discovering, the nuances,
old and new, prior and au courant,
just jump in, and let the au current
take me//
mmm
do admit, like a bit,
being big fandom of random,
which feels a tad like falling in love...
when the little surprises,
come best unexpectedly
tonight,
I will stuff myself with carbohydrates of additional sugar,
me love me sweets,
love me my bittersweet chocolate of triste,
which in english, has multiple levels of
most interesting con-
notations....
so down the hole,
who knows what will be
discovered
unveiled,
recovered,
hidden weaknesses,
historic strengths,
you asked...
and I shall be
the uncoverer
of the little tidbits,
that satisfy so much more
than just poetic simplistic curiosity
it is no wonder to me
that prolific and profile,
are rooted from the same
rivered source...
until later, then
sad eyed lady of the lowland (see note)
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 5:08 PM UTC
Booming Rhetorics (Spoken Word- Freestyle-Dramatics)
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
==Booming Rhetorics ==
by
Checkered Darks
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
(Copy the link below to your browser)
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/boomingrhetorics
Human nature itself is a smash of contractual responsibility. A splash of rights afloat as we sink in our psychological rooted moral panics. All I see is a cascading titanic of ventures our mislaid adventures one after another. The criss cross of chains, we bonded in tax measures, reserve treasures...... It's not my leisure I beg you don't make your pleasure.
I sink in pressure, resolving Karl Mark ideology of conflicted power. Is it our born nature or nurture to live in a world of social polarisation. A pole to pole, a tug of war. Each owning and holding a rope.Is it our task to cage in boxes, fencing notions of inequalities within our society. Is it our right this notion Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.
Help me out as as I wade in the swampy lowland. Treading through and through, head afloat, the submerging walk me to the shores..... Help me find my way through this dark tunnel. Help me see the light, let the sun ray penetrate my blight.
In our dichotomy of democracy we have made it right. A rolling ball of ........
1. Stock them high sell them cheap is the order of the day.
2. Social warehousing of merging demand and supply chain.
3. A disintegration of socialist entrepreneurship.
4. Re-distribution of Export Production Zones in marginalised countries.
5. A surge of capitalism on this patch we call the universe.
6.Conortions of monopoly colluding sustainability.
I pass this ball to you. As the industrial revolution fades and debates of "STEEL" revolves.
My Speech is a mere consideration, our contradiction. The contractual complications that we have grounded and granted ourselves as humanity. My voice is an exchange, my gift, a cloud of thoughts, an arousing hope our haunting costs.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
As long as there are teenagers extant,
Anomie and alienation of
an unripened generation
Shall spill upon this site in cliched cries,
Dabbling with threats of pills and lies,
The endless pain felt gives one fright.
To this old soul who wonders silently,
Will these thousands of pained children
Make it through to their next incarnation
So much angst, so much anger,
I wonder if God created poetry
To salve their wounds
Their unknown futures loom,
But all I read is hurt and doom.
You shall survive, children.
Awful poetry, some good,
you will write.
But write and write
till your heart be calmed
For even ancient kings felt the anguish of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.
This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.
For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, quiet like, praying,
Hallelujah, spoken in the original,
The tongue of his ancestors
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
Bulkeley, Hunt, Willard, Hosmer, Meriam, Flint,
Possessed the land which rendered to their toil
Hay, corn, roots, hemp, flax, apples, wool and wood.
Each of these landlords walked amidst his farm,
Saying, "'Tis mine, my children's and my name's.
How sweet the west wind sounds in my own trees!
How graceful climb those shadows on my hill!
I fancy these pure waters and the flags
Know me, as does my dog: we sympathize;
And, I affirm, my actions smack of the soil.'
Where are these men? Asleep beneath their grounds:
And strangers, fond as they, their furrows plough.
Earth laughs in flowers, to see her boastful boys
Earth-proud, proud of the earth which is not theirs;
Who steer the plough, but cannot steer their feet
Clear of the grave.
They added ridge to valley, brook to pond,
And sighed for all that bounded their domain;
'This suits me for a pasture; that's my park;
We must have clay, lime, gravel, granite-ledge,
And misty lowland, where to go for peat.
The land is well,--lies fairly to the south.
'Tis good, when you have crossed the sea and back,
To find the sitfast acres where you left them.'
Ah! the hot owner sees not Death, who adds
Him to his land, a lump of mould the more.
Hear what the Earth says:--
Earth-Song
'Mine and yours;
Mine, not yours, Earth endures;
Stars abide--
Shine down in the old sea;
Old are the shores;
But where are old men?
I who have seen much,
Such have I never seen.
'The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
Forevermore.
'Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
"But the heritors?--
Fled like the flood's foam.
The lawyer, and the laws,
And the kingdom,
Clean swept herefrom.
'They called me theirs,
Who so controlled me;
Yet every one
Wished to stay, and is gone,
How am I theirs,
If they cannot hold me,
But I hold them?'
When I heard the Earth-song,
I was no longer brave;
My avarice cooled
Like lust in the chill of the grave.
2.1k
From the tawny light
from the rainy nights
from the imagination finding
itself and more than itself
alone and more than alone
at the bottom of the well where the moon lives,
can you pull me
into December? a lowland
of space, perception of space
towering of shadows of clouds blown upon
clouds over
new ground, new made
under heavy December footsteps? the only
way to live?
The flawed moon
acts on the truth, and makes
an autumn of tentative
silences.
You lived, but somewhere else,
your presence touched others, ring upon ring,
and changed. Did you think
I would not change?
The black moon
turns away, its work done. A tenderness,
unspoken autumn.
We are faithful
only to the imagination. What the
imagination
seizes
as beauty must be truth. What holds you
to what you see of me is
that grasp alone.
1.8k
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
On yonder strand
In bridled land
A motley band
With vigor fanned
Across hill, lowland
With self righteous brand
Seeking brigand contraband
From each licentious hand
To forthrightly remand
Every highway spanned
Tolls, tribute to demand
Each pilfering cleric did reprimand
Then every bloated collection was panned
Every royal vestige scanned
Gratuitous coffers to expand
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
I am from tiny small town where a mountain looms above the village. The height of the hill prevents the eye of heaven from shining. Yet the winter night persuade its day to set early.
I am from the land of ****** bliss than the internal. Love and tenderness is the first option to suffocate… Jealousy, Hatred, and disrespect amalgamated where I am from.
Yet, I am from where I come from. My town, My Kasi, My land, my soil.
I am from a village like town right in the medial of lowland of mount horeb Between the Drakensberg.
Where the beautiful daffodils grow
Just beside the stream that flows gradually, giving the inner roots opportunity to select its necessities.
“I am from small family in the medial of Clarens.”
I am from family full of love and affection. Ubuntu and joy perfect its image. Yet we are not that bold to be in everyone’s Eyebrow, but I am from the family of Lengau.
The only unique family from love to respect.
I am from the family of MaLengau, the loving and caring woman of Bakoena. I am from the family of four gentle guys and three ladies.
I am from Clarens, town among towns…
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 11:08 PM UTC
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
First person singular prohibited. In order
to be more crow.
War! war! war! war! war!
Then there's that lowland wetland bird
around the stunted red pines crying
Birdy, birdy, birdy, birdy.
Hear the redwing blackbird chirring
Her, her, her... she
as one might expect, Spring.
Words for birds
since they're inaccessible. Aim
binoculars left, right, up, down, missing every time.
At the piano recital
Aaron made the penguins run, run, run, not waddle,
from a hungry polar bear!
Everything passes, even a massacre,
but birds outlast cars
and words like chemical and holocaust.
Woodpecker climbs oak,
Connecticut.
Not one neighbor heard the knocking.
The voice of a pewee
whose nest has fallen out of the tree.
Oh my! Oh me!
What did the wood thrush sing
that summer evening
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
When humankind is out of control,
The world suffers a giant loss.
Threats of mass extinctions aren't
Difficult to come across.
More than half of the world's primates
Are on the verge of extinction due
To agriculture, logging, mining,
And hunting. Where's the hullabaloo?
Lemurs, chimps, orangutans,
And lowland gorillas are under threat.
When we endanger others, we also
Endanger ourselves, don't forget.
Habitat loss, climate change,
Wildlife trade…. Scientists fear
That if these are not halted, many
Primates will sadly disappear.
We're talking about numerous species--
A couple hundred, not just dozens.
What is wrong with **** sapiens?
How could we do that to our cousins?
-by Bob B (2-6-17)
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:47 AM UTC
here we are again
walls, white
cotton sheets
teal socks with the tread
we share small talk
i ask about home
things are the same there
i tell you about my bedmate
she thinks she's satan
it's all up from here
when you leave
i sit down to dinner
a jail meal
it drips from the mute's lips
who sits staring
at the table diagonal from me
she is afraid of dogs
i, a dog
bite a dry piece of bread
and cough
in this lowland we halt and look up to the sun
but see only a black sky
and when you ask
are you getting better
the response
yes
is for you
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Wonder as of old things
Fresh and fair come back
Hangs over pasture and road.
Lush in the lowland grasses rise
And upland beckons to upland.
The great strong hills are humble.
1.2k
In the lowland fens at the worlds end,
Like the ferryman, a blue heron waits,
Eyes of dragon fly, hover, over still water,
His legs are the oars rowing to the dead.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
The little towns near Egmont
That nestle on the plains
To gather close the winding roads
The homing trails and lanes,
The little towns near Egmont
That sleep the whole night long
Cooled by the scent of mountain breeze
Lulled by the sea wind’s song.
The little towns near Egmont
Will ever seem to me
Like stars that deck the evening sky
Or isles that dot the sea,
Like beads that sprinkle here and there
On Taranaki’s gown
Like figures in a rich brocade
Of yellow, green and brown.
The little towns near Egmont
Seen through a summer haze
How fair and fresh and free they lie
Beneath the golden days,
Not crowded in deep valley’s,
Not buried in tall trees
But open to the sun, the rain
The starlight and the breeze.
The little towns near Egmont
What busy lives they hold
With happiness and health to keep
Secure from heat and cold,
The comfortable homesteads,
The park like lands so fair
God keep them restful, clean and pure
As Egmont’s snow peak there.
Hanna Hair
Dawson Falls Lodge
Mount Egmont, Taranaki.
January 1926
This poem, hand written and forgotten, was written by a guest of the house, in a thick, ancient tome of comments and articles, secreted in a dusty corner of the beautiful and quaint Dawson Falls Alpine Lodge, nestled comfortably in the dense, high podocarp forest, far up the snow clad slopes of volcanic Mt. Egmont in Taranaki, New Zealand.
From its high vantage point on the mountain looking out toward the curving coastline of the vast Tasman sea, the lodge affords magnificent views of the sparse settlements and farmlands spread widely on the lowland plains before it. By day the smoke rises from farm house chimneys, by night the warm honeyed glow from scattered windows dot like an expanse of fire-flies amidst the velvet blackness extending out to the luminosity of the line of breakers pounding the distant coast.
This delicate work captures the sparse beauty of this magnificent rural place, it further affords a snapshot of that particular era and of the pioneer spirit and rugged endurance of the settlers who made this isolated land home.
Marshalg
Dawson Falls Lodge
26 October 2015
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Que Sera, Sera, Whatever will be
We are what we eat, what we absorb, what we take in,
this is mine,
I taste and find, mmmm, worth a chew, slow said
the voice,
of the caterpillar,
of course,
smoke rings,
from the smoke stack
on a D-9 Cat, stuck in the mud,
since November,
till summertime,
lowland realization, land too flat, don't drain.
I jes' set'n'look at that,
Chrome Yeller Caterpillar, worth more than I made,
in ten years after the army,
and I laugh, at how I ain't bound to fret,
or fuss,
no nonsense was ever actually more than literaturely true.
Jan 24, 2023
Jan 24, 2023 at 4:48 PM UTC
*Off to sell 'market tomatoes' to those East Atlanta communist
Those long haired , know it all Bolsheviks and their
electric cars , running around half naked like they have
a clue about a farm , their buying these god awful tomatoes
for two dollars apiece , they smell like *** , wine and sun
screen haggling over my price like I'm growing food for
free , like I've no other place to be
Are these organic , absolutely don't panic , their grown
in A1 chicken **** , the finest soil I've ever been associated with ,
a secret family recipe cooked in Georgia July heat , blessed by
a 'Witch Doctor' from New Orleans , a bit of peat from lowland
forest , cow patties from a friends dairy barn , dry manure thanks to
a 'Horse Princess' from Zebulon , ****** on by a pack of ornery goats in the village of Kelleytown*
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Rising up above foam-crest waves
the Highlands call me home
Yes, call to me in Gaelic tongues
to leave my water’s roam
Riding across waves of ocean's far
to reach this wondrous shore
I'll soon be there on ancestral land
known by lives before
Then nearer still, the waves reduce
I find a river wide
I sail within its Lowland shores
upon the Firth of Clyde
As stars reduce by the morning's rise
more wonders take their shape
I see cliffs all lined with moss and grass
that form this wondrous scape
This beautiful land with its rugged build
bids to me "come explore
and climb straight up to a Highland lake
then to the Upland moor"
So along the Clyde I sail my craft
and enter Scotland's soul
Like a Tartan's weave this water binds
a nation as a whole
To the North you see the mountains raise
so rugged and wild and free
To the South are hills with moors that roll
calling all "look, come see"
But it was the Clyde than won my heart
as I sailed to this place
For it opened wide, like arms stretched out
granting a sense of grace
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 10:16 AM UTC