"plowed" poems
late night by the holland sill
white framed and frilled
alongside the meadow
down by the grand
where cat fish
and cow pies
and silly yellow bees
make their stay
there are swings now
and empty barns
(with quiet corners
and broken walls)
echoing chambers
that speak of the past
...and little dogs
not big ones
the plaster cracks
and wheat sways
from a warm west wind
it’s about time
for that late afternoon pour
you know how it cleans the soul
old percy would say
and flanders
(the holder of those pigs)
who fed us good
with sow and milk
as we plowed the
dusty fields
into the
hot summer sun
i can still hear the screams
of river shore dreams
the grand slams
and flints run dry
the barks
and breaks
and bends
a world past
with forbes
and dolls
and crab apple trees
think i’ll take a trip
up the back lane
they’ve cut the brush
and opened the line
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
Robert Frost once talked of taking the ‘road less travelled’.
Well, I didn’t.
When the time came, I blindly went and took the safest road.
A very long path where the pitfalls were plenty.
I stumbled in the bracken. Stymied by the darkness that fell quickly as I ambled along.
The soul bruised, battered and exhausted at every infrequent stop.
It was not apparent then that in this venture there was a bleak dead end ahead.
I plowed on even though something inside was telling me again and again to turn back.
But, slowly, a gleaming light of hope crossed my vista beckoning me home.
I crawled. My strength regained as the light intensified.
Then the end was in sight - the portal was within grasp.
And so, yes, I now take that road less travelled.
Standing tall and proud as I gleefully stride down its glowing thoroughfare.
Smiling at the diverse and playful changes that cross my pathway.
All told, it’s never too late to trust your instincts and make a difference.
Just ask me.
And Robert Frost.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:41 PM UTC
Is it acceptable to **** anyone and everyone you want,
Be mysteriously exposed in your photographs,
Act carelessly with people and friends drunk and drugged and dicked out of your mind,
Forget the hurtful and blissful past for a reputation,
Exist in a way the girl you were never thought you could be the girl you are,
Because you’re in your 20s?
You remind me of the characters Greta Gerwig plays in some of her films,
But not Gerwig herself,
Although you do look an awful like her Hispanic version if there was one;
I guess that’s you.
I bet when I was placing the edge of the razorblade against my wrist,
You were getting penetrated and plowed by a **** between the legs.
Your innocence was smothered by your lust and
Our history got erased by your fears and flaws.
I just wanted you,
But then again, everyone already had you,
And it was not my fault;
It was your choice.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?
And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?
And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
Alone. She has no home. No where to go. Who can she trust? Mistrust. She's been betrayed. Delayed. Mistrust. Betrayed. A mistake. A trust. Him. I love you. A hug. I hope I'm not bothering you. Betrayed. Rumors. i loathe you. Disgust. I thought I could trust you. Betrayed. She's dealing. Learning. That this is life. She's feeling down. She's been deceived. A sad clown. Plowed down. Betrayed. Broken. She lost her will. Her token. Sullen. Now who can she trust?
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
Ash to mouth
divide north and south
east and west,
shout with class of Scout
let it out with griffin clout
we here we out , hear me out
— rhymes in time without
silent shrines to mime
cleared the crowd
covered eyes and mouth
over body desert shroud
if vengeance is your business
then from swords to plow
en lakesh
an eye for an eye binds
the all to be blind
but you can’t unsee the signs
no thoughts unclouded by loss
out the window I toss
mosaic fragments that cost
health and awesome sauce
Nazareth gutted commandments
by anarchy spelled
disaster after culture
massive ego it swell
up the road ahead a pit depress the juncture
so we spit the dirt divide just to touch the other
from pup to wolf so many bites, a pitted puncture
so much disfunct the fight till all be winded lungs sir
you can run
but from
gamma ray
you no hide
passed a black hole
wand inside
a body died
but it’s alright
(it’s heaven sight
till Zombie night )
animate dead necromantic black ring
the rhythm of life and death a chronic swing
the pendulum blade cross over cosmic skin
consciousness draw out from within
traced the win which wound round tat to skeleton
a dusty tome bound and crafted man
medicine subtracted by the head that spin
in the sky and its happening, blessen-ings
the miracle is mystery u cant guess it
talking 3 eye see
talking vip
climb high as canopy
walking so
my shadow lands under me.
ten toes touch to the dusty roads
when toads appear throats close
mighta had the Midas touch
still the golden one
was too much to flush
you might live in Laos
you my livid crowd
you might live it now
neva hit my limit how
cause you live in now
when you wake up proud
timid mind plowed
divid-dine fill the cloud
insta crowd wowed
this I vowed
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
Here late into September
I can sit with the windows
of the stone room swung open
to the plum branches still green
above the two fields bare now
fresh-plowed under the walnuts
and watch the screen of ash trees
and the river below them
and listen to the hawk's cry
over the misted valley
beyond the shoulder of woods
and to lambs in a pasture
on the slope and a chaffinch
somewhere down in the sloe hedge
and silence from the village
behind me and from the years
and can hear the light rain come
the note of each drop playing
into the stone by the sill
I come slowly to hearing
then all at once too quickly
for surprise I hear something
and think I remember it
and will know it afterward
in a few days I will be
a year older one more year
a year farther and nearer
and with no sound from there on
mute as the native country
that was never there again
now I hear walnuts falling
in the country I came to
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For seasons the walled meadow
south of the house built of its stone
grows up in shepherd's purse and thistles
the weeds share April as a secret
finches disguised as summer earth
click the drying seeds
mice run over rags of parchment in August
the hare keeps looking up remembering
a hidden joy fills the songs of the cicadas
two days' rain wakes the green in the pastures
crows agree and hawks shriek with naked voices
on all sides the dark oak woods leap up and shine
the long stony meadow is plowed at last and lies
all day bare
I consider life after life as treasures
oh it is the autumn light
that brings everything back in one hand
the light again of beginnings
the amber appearing as amber
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Clear, serene, crystal pool of collected calm
naked to the eye, deceiver of the deceived.
I see myself in you.
And so much i hate.
For you spectators are sport;
To be picked and plowed, ticked and crossed.
Making old wrongs new.
Fooling all.
You lie to my face, I see how you
bend and twist your shape.
Contorting my view. Calling me untrue.
Nothing is upfront.
My hands are tied behind, a foot above
hovers the dagger.
It hangs, yellow, brittle, jagged canine.
Reminds me of your smile.
Villains smile. One day I will rap a knuckle,
crack your rattling skull.
I will open that box and set evil upon the world.
All I have ever known.
Seven years bad luck;
better than a life time.
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:39 AM UTC
A timber night in a dark way can't stay for long
plowed down, scorched down - must be torn down
kings of city pipes, dusty concrete heirlooms, read a bible to sleep
Wake in the morning, sun rays shine through dust ridden books
Morals, condoned in heart shaped smoke clouds
Greed's arms will swell rejecting midnights' hiss' "Where will they live?"
'Sirrrrrrrr' 'Homeeee'...... Floating like gas particles, words lost.
A stand alone will die to unknown prosperity
ropes straggle helpless branches
Clenching their last breathes, the weeping skies sit silently
Hateful hateful hunger, feeding the bodies thirst
Our midnight Cowboy song goes: Manufactured green, leaving scorched earth barren, unwritten torch, unseen
For we saw what we wanted to.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
As I remember how her lips felt as they plowed through the barriers of my insisted claims of heterosexuality I cannot help but think,
without falter...
wow
okay,
but this isn't why I'm a feminist.
My attachment to her,
my fellow female,
member of my legion,
has nothing to do with
my squinting eyes
at the
blinking neon signs of
inequality
that hangs about all of our heads every day
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
You let someone unworthy of your love make you feel
unworthy of any love. Yet you are making someone else
feel the same way because you won’t give them
a chance. But that person never seems to count.
You gave everything you had believing
in something. But then it was taken away
and given back and taken away again.
You thought it was the moon didn’t you?
It’s no wonder you are sad but you
believed what you heard. You didn’t wait
to see if it was real. You lived the dream and
still you don’t know how to wake up.
It’s a funny thing to be approached by someone
while you live your life and give them all the power.
A tree doesn’t stop making shade or shedding leaves
just because a new bird makes its home there.
Every field is plowed more than once so why
relive the past when each season is a new
memory if you’ll only be who you are. The heart
of the soil made for all of life is still yours to keep.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
For sow the wiz
and for that the bliss
Flee through the apple tree
It is harvest times
Now jam and sweet like pie
Oh the bliss of a midnight sky
We plied and plowed
and for that the bliss
Fill up a room, no one to miss
It is now harvest times
Us to remember the Queen of ages
Don't forget to pay the wages
Oh the bliss of lovers gazes
Further down the deep deep blue
Of ocean wonders, to remind of all the ships that went through
Rough patches of ill willed weather and stormy faiths
I hope we all remember that it is to Christ we stand our faith
Oh the bliss of Life
Oh the bliss of Faith
Oh the bliss of Summers mother leaving heaps of Love on the stairs
For those who not have the bliss of being sometimes missed
By someone who actually cares
even just a little bear
lonely in the woods a quiet autumn afternoon
Not knowing when winter starts or when to say hello to the moon
Who to say good night, good morning or good bye
When you are a lonely cub in the woods and your mama was a wish on a star.
Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 5:01 PM UTC
As these forlorn cadences await- unfold
To compose a disbanded vow
Yielding unto harrows of gates untold
Charms death to disdainful plow
Death is plowed to a forgiving halt
While silver moonlight and whiskey dances remain
Glittering gold in this crimson vault-
Feeble souls conjure grace as graceless minds abstain
Counterfeit conceits ravish this open cellar
As the night’s last dance ceases to a disgraceful plea
The dweller’s disdain is akin to my killer
And heaven yields blood to salt the earth for thee
Come away now with your anguishing defeats
Seek not a jagged spike as the heaven’s conspire and wake
Glory and gold may turn us black as deceit
But deception admonishes the dancers in their quake
Spellbound nuances of this reality await at every turn
Mourning and fighting the finality of this grave
Orchestrated knives are rosined like honey, beckoning our blood to burn
At last, a burning reckoning comes to ravage the brave
But refrain, oh killer- host of this crimson vault
Enlist a memoir for our sins
Recalling the pieties of our gracious faults,
Enough to make this blood go thin.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
(memories from a lost youth)
Shoe leather for brake pads
we scuffed to a stop.
"Their" cried Derek "It's their"
Tumbling down hill scratching
and ripping through
bramble thicket we gave
chase.
Into the newly plowed field
splurging treacle like, through
mud that tried to **** off your
feet.
We stopped in shock
as a gust of wind lifted the
bright red balloon, with its
unread message waving to at us;
as the wind carried it on to
where?
Derek screamed words you can't
say to an adult when your only
ten.
Defeated we splurged back to our bikes.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Imperfections are beautiful..
they make us stand apart, from the crowd..
they are not always meant to be plowed;
Imperfections..
They are not liked by any
and camouflaged by many,
but they are closer to my heart..
as they are evident on me like a schardt
Imperfections..I will not disown them for any flagships..
Because imperfection is what defines our relationship;
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Maybe we’re all just snowflakes; nothing more than crystallized water from above, doomed to finally land and melt into nothing. We are snowflakes, plowed and pushed by what is bigger so that we may be out of its way. We are all falling through a path fated from the start with a fluffy and slow descent, and an ending we all see coming. Thousands fall each minute, and each one is unique. But we’d never know if a snowflake four miles away is identical or not. Who could prove it? They tell us that is the truth, so we catch it on our tongues and swallow down the minuscule truth. We are snowflakes. And it makes me sad.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
Witches are immortal, & we're starting to see
You may have burned the bodies
But the spirits they fled free
Witches are ethereal, & we're starting to feel
Ashes may have fallen
But they nurtured seeds you plowed from fields
Witches, we're alive
and we're dressed in gleamed skin
Our eyes pierce through bones
And our hearts never wear thin
We'll push you to the edge
until you turn into your highest form
The weak fear us because they know through us humanity transforms
We call, witches arise
And climb up the holes
It's time to bless the soil and unchain the shackled souls
With words, we unfurl magic
With truths, we unveil strengths
With power so infinite
It lives ever; it is shared.
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 1:28 AM UTC
With these eyes
I've watched
woodlands become housing estates
wetland drained
it's wildlife killed
fields plowed by roads
and hedgerows and ancient stones
torn down
and
with these eyes
I've wept
for the village
of
my childhood.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
I went from the "overabundance of life"
to a knight of resignation
I'm back to cheap pilsners
local Genny's, union made
Sometimes a Three Heads
when I want to get plowed
I'm trying to refine myself
into a thoughtless identity
so I may taste life again,
make music again
Did I do it all in
the grapes of my youth?
I guess I need a sommelier
for my heart cause
all I taste is river rock
where there was once native berries
and rare spices
Sparks that charmed
The dazzle of a demon
that could cover their faults
You dine or drink with thee
and you're stuck in the Fae
I'm the only one that hasn't stayed
Jan 1, 2022
Jan 1, 2022 at 3:39 PM UTC
The shutters are rusted open on the north
kitchen window ivy has grown over
the fastenings the casements are hooked open
in the stone frame high above the river
looking out across the tops of plum trees
tangled on their steep slope branches furred
with green moss gray lichens the plums falling
through them and beyond them the ancient
walnut trees standing each alone on its
own shadow in the plowed red field full
of amber September light after so
long unattended dead boughs still hold
places of old seasons high out of the leaves
under which in the still day the first walnuts
from this last summer are starting to fall
beyond the bare limbs the river looks
motionless like the far clouds that were not
there before and will not be there again
2.1k
It was 4am and snow
had fallen silently for hours
leaving a thick blanket of marshmallow skin
draped over all, and silence reigned
like a wise emperor whose subjects slept
without fear of Timpani.
Trees were over- burdened by drift
and bent like old men,
they stood
where their seedlings had taken root
centuries before villages
crept
up from the valley
to squat among them,
bringing chimneys and children,
women and men,
and all their
dreams.
It was late
and stillness shimmered
in moon-glow and cedar musk.
frozen stars,
all around
mounds of them
as gentle winds
plowed through the natural world
sweeping smoke from rooftops.
As
Giant owls; Their wings
cupping the elemental
patrolled pillows strewn about
the star chamber
of all Gods...
Up where an omnipotent Love
dreams on and on about giant owls
and how from here, the owls were gods,
patroling the nursery
of new gods.
Owls were floating in warmth, that had been
crushed into something
it had never suspected,
they were Owls
that kept the riff raff
outside
the perfect moment
for gods to catch some sleep...
they make it so
As Owls
too small too comprehend,
the vast Love
that loved them...
even so
a majesty was theirs
if not a mind that could have known - and not
unravel from the effort
of such Understanding
They were
savagely beautiful
in all their oblivious fulfillment
of the creator's plan;
they were
Lords
wearing crowns
without burden...
At 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight were in there dens with uneasy sleep tickling their whiskers. Those mice out of sight of The Plan's Predator, unseen in the dirt pouch under rich soil and snow, The lucky ones continued to be blessed. The gods were sleeping... and they all loved mice... So at 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight; they received all access to another day on earth... they enjoyed the consequence of Love's action, for owl eyes were denied cute things to look at but saw everything else. And beaks ... Well....
They would go wanting.
At 4am, all Mice who prayed for windows never got windows at all.
And the first snowflake to ever have a Red dream
was later made a prophet.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
So pretty to see everything in white
Making all things look very bright
Everything was covered for as far as I could see
Nothing but eerie silence for a while I felt free
Everyone venturing out should wear their snowshoes
Their cars stranded on the road look like icy igloos
The weighted down evergreens have a glow
For they are beautifully blanketed with snow
Schools, roads and businesses are shut down
And no one is allowed out about in the town
Should get out and have some winter wonderland fun
Build a snow man and go sledding some
Make a snow fort or snow angels and snow-cream
Better hurry up before it's plowed, for now, it’s not a dream
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
The day he died
The sun rose just the way
It always did on cold December mornings:
Frost crystals on his back,
Breath steaming in the winter air,
A few sparrows chattering,
Molly at the barn mooing news:
Milking time!
Frozen water tank!
Hunger pains!
And where was Farmer now?
So he yawned and stretched himself,
Looked at the house whose walls
Allowed his master's voice to filter through thin, cold air:
Heard an oven door squeak wide,
The telephone ring,
Morning voices and the creak of floors,
And then the door cracked open.
Full scents emerged:
Fresh baking from the oven,
The farmer's coat and boots,
Laundry soap in fresh washed jeans,
And a bowl of food with milk
Steaming for him.
The diesel tractor coughed and roared,
Semi-warm from its head-bolt heater sleep,
and sent thick cloud plumes to winter sky
Before the engine warmed enough to move
The wheels' crunching pressure, packing snow.
Breakfast down, and morning chores to follow,
The St. Bernard stretched himself,
Pushed through the old iron gate
And followed in the tractor's track
To see the morning feeding in the snow.
No one could tell him he was getting old,
And maybe was a little stiff and slow
To follow tractors as they plowed their way
Through newly fallen snow.
An hour later, the man, the tractor and the dog
Had made their way below the farmstead hill
To feed a sheltered herd just out of wind's cold way.
What happened next is painful still to say.
The tires sank through crusted snow and spun
But forward movement failed it in its rounds;
Reversed, a chain came loose and outward flung
to pull the faithful follower down.
So what is there to say about a friend whose harm
And death came accidentally at my hand?
I knelt there in the snow and held him in my arms,
Sobbing sorrows... begging him to try to stand.
But he only looked up at me with brown, sad eyes,
Hard broken from the crushing of the wheel,
And moved his tail a little bit to show he was content
To lie there in my arms, and shuddered once and then was still.
The cows looked on impatiently,
Steam rising from their hides,
And saw me bawling on my knees
and begging mercy from my silent God.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.
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