"ploughs" poems
Spring memes
Cuddle under iced sheets
Seduced by frigid lies
And a burberry scarf;
As snow ploughs rule the runway
Glazed rosebuds,
Thimbled thorns,
Strawberries wrapped in cashmere;
And a carrot-nosed character dressed in white,
Play the fiddle
Naked limbs creep
Into the sky,
Seeking green accessories
For fashion week in June
Amidst global miles of warmth
Grandfather's clock
Ticks wisely ahead,
Hands free of politic;
And the memes of Spring delayed
Propagate through verse
And cliched controversies...
Eclipsed by tweets from the Black Sea.
~ P
(#TheMemesOfSpringDelayed)
(3/7/2014)
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
7.6k
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
An old tree is
Embracing the soil
Embracing the sky
Without a will
Simply, to thrive
Just as easily
To die
Rid of evening chants
Lacking logic, lacking time
Each thread
Integrates
Thoughtlessly
But we
With ladders of misery
With counts and scales
And endless isolation machines
Our soil is dust
And fabled peace
Lies dormant
Rust creeps over
Our ploughs and tractors...
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC
A rain cloud, I was
in one of my incarnations,
heavy and pregnant with water,
it was proud,
billowing, adorned with
lightening's golden thread,
it poured in torrents,
with roars of thunder,
then sped through the fields,
that became fertile,
farmers with their ploughs
and bullocks came out,
the fields were bright green
with dancing rice saplings
Some other time
I was an ecstatic bulbul,
mango blooms told me amorous tales,
I voiced each in snorous ghazals,
The rice fields were ripe,
musky scent was ******
Women came in waves
and harvested the rice,
their songs were on romance,
ardent love and parting
hearing the bulbul
they perfected their singing.
A long time ago
I was a goat's kid,
I sprang around and danced
in the harvested field,
the cloud wanted to pet me
but she was so far,
bulbl sung a special tune
for me for a while
Looking at the green grass
on the other side of the fence
I would think wistfully,
what life would bring.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 10:28 AM UTC
The Harvest Bow
As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game *****
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.
by Seamus Heaney
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see.
The sunbeams scarce ****** me with a smile,
So thick the leafy armies gather round;
And where they do, the breeze blows cool the while,
Their leafy shadows dancing on the ground.
Full many a flower, too, wishing to be seen,
Perks up its head the hiding grass between.—
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be;
Where all the noises, that on peace intrude,
Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee,
Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
2k
The only thing brighter than hope
is loss
it chews into the goldsmith
that makes the soul
and gnaws me into colors
each part of me flying down
into the wilderness I am fluttering
as the farmer ploughs me into earth
where my intensity can rest.
In full dress once
I left an economy of boughs,
the candle isn't lit, a wick without its crown
I leave the world schooled in lean and lithe, a yogi,
I am here to study my own neglect.
The rest of the world, lion bodied,
glances at my century of rough.
But I robed the ground with my convictions
I couldn’t keep them
seasons burst out of me
even if I wanted to hoard my greedy treasures for myself
I couldn't
thus robbed of my enfranchisement
I mutter in time to the wind
sorrow gave me this reason-flayed second purpose
Which is to feed others, my body now a spilled nut
I am birded by the sowing belly of earth
my bells are rained and pinched
by this tapering
I am being shrunk to get through the door to death
only snow will enter in the end
when I am covered white and immaculate
together we give up color for the season of bones.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
Oh universe
How you sustain all lives
Is so marvellous
Mother Nature
You constant watcher
You are not a quitter
The seas know their space
The sun sets in the west
And never loses that course
The trees cleanse the air
Herbs with sweet smelling fragrance
And wild honey tastes so sweet
Oh universe
How do you manage this
With so many of us?
The hogs eliminate snakes
The pests feed on wastes
Vultures take care of dead carcasses
We all look to you when we need food
You provide it
We eat it
Every one of your dependants
Know their expectations
In selfregulation
The eater and the eaten
Life never ceases
It only changes form
Rotting plants become humus
And sustain growing plants
Edible animals become part of man
man's DNA lives on in their descendants...
And then man grew a few beards
With his advancements
Interfering with all others
Breaking laws
Creating disaters
In the eco
thick smokes of toxic
chemicals that destroy flora and fauna
Massive deforestation
and then he turns to you
expecting you to produce
When he ploughs your soils
Looking up to the clouds
You used to give a ****
But now you feed them back their poison
And their lives shorten
Retribution for being stubborn
And interfering with you
Mother nature
You heard them talking of space exploration
Look for life in another planet as solution
You just laughed
They think that they can destroy you
And leave for another planet
You are the only One
Blessed among the stars
To sustain lives
They will come running to you
Like the prodigal son
And maybe the rebellious
Shall have learnt a few lessons
Oh Universe
Its so fabulous
that you sustain all lives
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
I wish to see a world of my dreams
Full of rejoice and sunbeams
I wish to see the children
Not growing like weeds
But like flowers in the orchard of humanity
With adequate feeds
I wish to see the poor's children
Carrying books like me
Unlike their parents working in sun's steam
I wish to see the teens
With footballs rather than
Sweating in the farms with ploughs
I wish I could be the change
That this world of my dreams need
But alas! My friends this only happens
In my dreams .
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
They sing their dearest songs—
He, she, all of them—yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face….
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!
They clear the creeping moss—
Elders and juniors—aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat….
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!
They are blithely breakfasting all—
Men and maidens—yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee….
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.
They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them—aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.
1.5k
Refrain:
Oh Mr. Obama its your war now
war profits are up and so is the Dow
we've carried the gun and dropped the plough
these wars must end so end them now
Osama bin Laden hit us hard
he knocked down our buildings
in a murderous barrage
then President Bushie
atop a rubble heap
vowed to **** Osama
bury em for keeps
Refrain:
Oh Mr. Obama its your war now
war profits are up and so is the Dow
we've carried the gun and dropped the plough
these wars must end so end them now
W and Dickie invaded Afghan
soon thereafter disposed of Saddam
seven years later casualties swell
these wars are nightmares a living hell
Bombs destroy civilian homes
missiles strike by killer drones
collateral damage a cardinal sin
hearts and minds we'll never win
Oh Mr. Obama
this is your war now
we don't care who started it
it don't matter no how
sign the peace papers
make the hard call
bring the troops home
before one more falls
to build our country
we need global friends
fightin for oil
is war without end
You must think it over
give it some thought
the lives you ended
the horror wrought
Refrain:
Oh Mr. Obama its your war now
war profits are up and so is the Dow
we've carried the gun and dropped the plough
these wars must end so end them now
Our country needs fixin
there's much to do
jobs, health n schoolin
and homeless vets too
you got a Nobel
a prize for peace
you said war was hell
is too hard to cease
to continue the course
to bomb and bash
hate grows against us
we risk a great crash
a hope we can believe in
you would oft say
you win election
we don't change our ways
these wars are pointless
don't make no sense
bring the troops home
let the war machine rest
Refrain:
Oh Mr. Obama its your war now
war profits are up and so is the Dow
we've carried the gun and dropped the plough
these wars must end so end them now
Afghans are dying
they take up arms
to **** young Yanks
and do us harm
so think of moms,
lovers and friends
of young dead soldiers
we'll never hold again
how are you sleeping?
do you toss and turn?
do the faces of dead ones
make your conscience burn?
So Mr. Obama
just bring them home now
the Good Lord will bless you
beat swords into ploughs
Refrain:
Oh Mr. Obama its your war now
war profits are up and so is the Dow
we've carried the gun and dropped the plough
these wars must end so end them now
Music Selection:
Country Joe and the Fish: Feel Like I'm Fixing to Die Rag
jbm
NYC
3/15/10
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
Dost thou look back on what hath been,
As some divinely gifted man,
Whose life in low estate began
And on a simple village green;
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And ******* the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star;
Who makes by force his merit known
And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne;
And moving up from high to higher,
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
When all his active powers are still,
A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,
While yet beside its vocal springs
He play'd at counsellors and kings,
With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands;
'Does my old friend remember me?'
1.2k
Silver seam dream
locked in liquid sunshine
Swords into ploughs
The Dove of Peace
Peace brothers/sisters
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:36 AM UTC
Is it too bad to say that I feel empty?
There are no memories of the two weeks that passed too soon.
its like the time had stopped,
Onlu flashes of surprise, laughter, hope, pain, respect, anxiety, guilt, sorrow, worry, gratitude, love, sharing,
Listening in speachless silence.
I feel like sand.
I feel no water inside me.
But I remember water falling on me.
I remember the green glint of the reflected sun.
And then the wind of time blew,
and the footprints lose their memory.
The sand wonders why?
All the water has to dry,
or get soaked up too deep, too quick.
That a thousand ploughs can't reep.
So it holds on against the wind,
But nothing will hold on till the end.
Forgive me if it fades away,
But the soaked water will stay,
To give me cool when the sun gets too hot.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
When the sun came crashing from the sky
we knew why the oceans all ran dry
and we,
like harum scarum lunatics watched all this, believed it was a magic trick and later it would be alright.
But the night grew strong the longer it went on and we were wrong to laugh and play while everything we had,
faded into grey,then black and we realised it would not be back at the click of the fingers.
Some vestiges of a memory lingers on and fables told are of a day of gold and light and might we hear the story one more time,as told by the old man with more time upon his hands,about the distant lands where men could see,it seems an eternity of gloom has left much room and yet not to expand but contract back into caves, and slaves we were to ever think the madness could go on without some form of retribution,
some divine or godly intervention
an architect whose own invention had been superseded by what those whom he had invented needed?
It's all too late
we'll have to wait for another spot that turns up in a universe,where nothing worse than this could possibly occur
and though the candle is unlit,a bit of it will fall into another lighting of the sky
and once more I'm sure we'll wonder why
the magician always spins a double zero and wins.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Take these tears from yesterday
And kiss them all away.
In the shuffling long, long line..
..stood men from another world..another time
Dressed in linen shirts and boots and kipper ties
Men with tired sad..grimy eyes.
And in the Labour exchange a man would say
Ninepence ha'penny...unemployment pay.
This..
..for men who had gone to war
And evened up the score...crushed the fascist state.
Why do they call this country great?
Those men who sat beside the Thames..
..and with one stroke from Sheaffer pens destroyed us all.
But these proud old men..did heed this country and its call.
Left the fields and left the ploughs..the pits and mills
The rolling hills where they were born
A forlorn hope..for a brighter day
Kiss my tears from yesterday away.
Why do they call this country great?
This Island state
The ancestral homes
Of dead mens bones.
Expletives long deleted..hope depleted..future boarded up.
We will not drink a cup and sing to..
Auld lang syne.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
Eyes of dreamer
soul's redeemer
gaze wonders
ploughs wanders
sadness hidden
pain overridden
heart weaves
today's wish
life, a moment...
well of ponder
draws veil
marvel or maunder
mystery rides
smooth or wild
emotions pine
Connection
yonder...
Dreams dance ,
eyes sparkle
diamond aura
shimmer inside
soul yearns
Beautiful guise
tracing deep
walking beside
Love in Light!
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 9:22 AM UTC
lord
i am
your blacksmith
free to
do your will
through
my skills
to
fashion
this world
with
hammer and anvil
turning
swords of men
into
wooden ploughs
thus
give it backbone again
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
I move away.
Every motion I make is
That of someone leaving.
I move away,
Like finished dancers; ploughs
Of birds heading to or from
Some paradise or not. I
Move away from excessive
Touching; such caresses turn
Desperate and demanding to
A man whose lovers are gentle
Mountain breezes and whispered
Songs of dry leaves hissing
Like the last breath of
A ancient artist seeing her
Masterpiece through closing
Eyes; content and, like all things
Living should,
Embracing the dying a slow
Death that Life truly is, and
Knowing it's no place to stay.
Not staying.
Moving
Away.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
Bewildered and haunted,
This one night,
Feelings of disarray,
Taunting from the full moon
Haunting through the blue room
A fearful haunting sound
In the midst
Of the town
Owls crying as they flee
Evil prying as we see
The night has come
To lock us in exile,
Beneath its red eyes
Embers of darkness
Glowing afar
Chains of attacks
Calling from the witching hour
As men sleep without power
Let us watch the night tears
As it conquers all its fears
Which it kept for a million years
But when morning comes
And the rising sun ploughs
I will
Leave
The night
Into a dazzling
light
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:47 AM UTC
The skies glow , in a deep blood red
The air stands still , infused with a black mist
As we feel her stalking ,her clenching fist
Dancing and playing in the night
As she lies beyond our sight
Preparing to make a great fright
Like a ghostly phantom she floats
Freely in the darkness of our
Unconscious mind for she is the
Great Goddess Kali
Pushed forward by the power
Of the sun on her back , and
Thirsting for destruction
She rages and ravages
Without remorse , or question
Or even second chance
She ploughs through all
Breaking hearts and parts
As she sews a new start
There is no great master
Who is anywhere near faster
As even the great Shiva's knees buckle
As he lies felled and vanguished
We are lost in darkness ,
dazed and confused
As she blots out the sun
While we are washed in the
Flames of her ferocious fire
She cuts away black matter
From our dark hearts
And decapitates our
Many false faces
But honored are the souls
That meet her highnesss
Her greatness ,Kali
And dared are those
That look into their darkness
As we are bathed in the coolness
Of her silky blue skin
Quenching our boiling hearts
Brave are the souls that
Dare to look into her eyes
And find a soft milky mothers eye
That carries and holds us through
As she cradles with her eyes
As I bow , my ego falls
And my Love seeks
The Great Goddess KALI
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
*The biochemical snow emanates bopping dejected the extended, short existences of winter,
Twisting and wandering in knee deep whiteouts that scream and moan,
The chemical spirit, at first light mildly falling in inverse star-shaped fragments,
Beseeches virtue before the wheezing shovels, the scraping ploughs,
The ghosts departed back to air in a crystal tune,
A triad stinging from the bare breach in grade school melodic period.
From the willowy walkway down the timbered trajectory,
Snowflake burdened branches combinate into a rhyme with the masked sun,
The raw, stripped light in overdue the hemlocks,
Stillness shattered only by the cracking cold.
The rivulet is icy over, yet liquid runs,
Underneath, under, deep in its veiled preserve,
Life, the anonymous shadow,
Scuttle’s from stone to stone,
Mingling up a smidgen of gravel from its silent inactivity.*
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 3:52 PM UTC
i.
words blur themselves
in the remote reaches
of the mind, verbs
and adjectives search
for voice in a tongue
captivated by ice,
flowering like the
newly blossoming sun.
ii.
frozen,
with the frost
that winter
breathes,
the winter’s silhouette the
ghost of the snow.
iii.
her voice a million
white leaves
learning how to melt
like a little snowman
wrapped in a warm,
red scarf.
iv.
the water breathes
its kiss of ice,
mirrors pressed to
the sky,
white hedgerows
with leaves
that shiver
gathering april's
weak sunlight,
framed like a
watercolour the
shadows of
midnight’s blue inks.
v.
the lake ploughs
its bottle-like
greens, surrenders its
shimmering breath
to the waste land of
the sky.
vi.
love drifts with the seas
where the waves rush
past, a colossal stream
below the blue stars.
Apr 2, 2018
Apr 2, 2018 at 7:18 AM UTC
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
That vessel grew up in bed,
With a covered head,
So that its frame did not get wet,
But better yet,
Many times,
Resins used were left to dry,
Into the cracks their poxys pry,
To amalgamate the creaking ply.
And only when the final *****
Twists its way to something new,
To tie the lace of this floating shoe,
Still sitting under rusted roof;
When the metal files are swept away,
And the hazel mast accepts its stain,
By a whitened brush proclaimed,
Only then does she take her name.
For a day or two she’s left to linger,
Poised at the top of her sheltered slip,
A proud and shining ship,
Held in place by the gasping grip,
Of the steadfast holding line.
Her ivory sails lie week and flat,
And there is irony in that,
For a girl already waxed and named,
With canvas cut and metals tamed,
Perched there upon that ledge,
Has yet to take her newborn breath.
Through forward rings two ropes are thread,
To heave her from her resting bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
Into the water below,
A world she does not yet know,
But there she is bound to go.
Soon her airtight helm will taste that salted swill,
Her rudders will shoulder the force of a thousand men,
And by her maker’s will,
She will not meet her end.
Bang,
Goes the steadfast holding line,
As the forward rope force applies,
Without a wince or a whine,
Does our vessel bid goodbye,
To her sheltered bed,
Call it a yard, call it a shed,
And with one final gracious bow,
Into the wet of the sea she ploughs.
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC