"tiller" poems
(thanx all for the great suggestions)
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women who wink
drive men to drink
together, glasses clink
tattoos follow in ink
and that ain’t the only thing
~
the tiller tied & forgot,
the slip knot jinxed
the sailboat nearly sinks
~
he cries aloud “you minx!”
I’m all done in,
you’ve got me sminked,^
you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink
~
she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,
“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,
count to cinq, don’t overthink,
join me overboard into the ****
I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink
where drowning possibilities are next to nothink
promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
~~~
My memory of grandpa
Was that his hands were red
Showing me some pictures
A kid's book before bed.
The bones were raw and gnarled
The sinews looked all sore
The skin was thickly callused
Spotted, lined and scored.
They showed wear and tear
They echoed his toil
Grandpa was a farmer
A tiller of the soil.
Grandpa couldn't read
But we could laugh and look
His hands delicately turning
The pages of a book.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/12/2015
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
Prowling through the undergrowth
In our barging juggernaut,
Ploughing the rolling hills of water,
Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past,
Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds.
For four intrepid days
Our film and photographs are empty to show,
No sign, only missed whispers,
Of the hummingbird blue blur.
A darting flash cresting the morning chill,
Regal turquoise stealthily steals
Our attention, our focus, and our tiller
Noses toward the bank hugger.
And we have him.
Small amber-royal fisherman,
Eclipsing his heron heralds
And the swans silent vigil
In majestic lapis lazuli.
Swift and sure he graces the water,
Fisher King,
Which bends beneath his dive.
Resurfacing, his golden breast
Mottled with silver minnow.
There recluse in his exclusive spot,
Fish foundering still in the ******
The kingfisher's poise frames his catch
Aperture, shutter, captured shot.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Tory Lanez
Drake
The Weeknd
PartyNextDoor
Post Malone
ILoveMakonnen
RDGLDGRN
Kyle
G-Eazy
Rae Sremmurd
Future
Travis Scott
Lana Del Rey
Bryson Tiller
Jhene Aiko
Cal Scruby
Twenty-one pilots
The Neighbourhood
Zayn Malik
Jimi Hendrix
Nina Simone
Damian Marley ft Nas
Stephen Marley ft Wyclef Jean ft Nina Simone (Song:keeper of the flame)
No-Maddz (Song: Shotta)
Jesse Royal
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
for Mark Richards
It was a spur of the moment thing -
One message freed us from Tuesday’s calling -
The next offered a morning's sailing.
So rather than spray water for Rocky's plants,
We skimmed over Carter Lake’s, crystal waves
With steady and ample winds at our backs.
Boaters and tubers speckled the waters
While verdant foothills smiled assent
From every shore and horizon.
Captain Richards skippered his Flying Scot
Toward the far off shore before tacking our
To and fro way back to the mooring ball.
In years past Mark had captained the Health works
For all the good folks of Pennsylvania,
But this morning he guided a much smaller tiller.
So we sailed and sailed under fairest of skies
In a swift and charmed little craft
Mark chose to call, Spur of the Moment.
Robert Charles Howard
Jul 26, 2022
Jul 26, 2022 at 6:29 PM UTC
Grandma’s old straw hat
rides low on her brow.
When hilling potatoes,
sweat rings the brim.
Twine provides a strap.
Sometimes, when a gust
tumbles past tomatoes
and green onions,
a calloused hand
pushes the hat back
to feel deliverance
from summer rays.
The brim shades a spot
two-feet wide over
thick-skinned Half Runners,
caresses long weepy
leaves of corn when she
brushes past, edges tattered
by forty years of okra stalk
shaving flesh and straw.
Ice water renews
her will under hat and sun;
as winds feign,
wrinkled fingers hold
fast to its lip, beating
hot air cool around a weary face.
When crickets serenade,
the hat becomes a bucket
for the day’s last peppers.
Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets;
the gate swings wide.
In the shed a plow sits idle
while the straw companion
hangs from a nail.
A swig of gas in the tiller,
brim shading my brow,
sweet soil tumbles over tines,
my sweat mixes with hers
under the garden hat.
© 2010 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
Take it into your own hands,
Take responsibility;
Grab the tiller, make your plans,
But you wouldn't if you were me.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
As the stormy weather passes;
Shadowed waves along the bay.
The wind sweeps through the headland grasses,
And we breathe the violent day.
And violent days abound,
Where the sea and land collide.
And in every fishing town,
Lay the marks of those who’ve died.
They lay as stark white crosses;
Set within, green and grassy field.
And we that breathe tote the losses,
… And keep our thoughts concealed.
For what can man or woman say,
That will calm the hurt within?
For some that braved the sea today;
…. Have yet to come back in.
Ten souls are held in thrall,
By the dark and brooding seas.
And stark are the faces, one and all,
As we make our silent pleas.
Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The church bell tolls a heavy toll,
And candles light, pane on pane.
Whilst desperate eyes search the rocky knoll,
Through high seas, and cur-sed rain.
Worried hands, wring worried hands,
And they wring out misery.
Wives fidget and spin their golden bands,
And make their silent plea.
Oh! Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The rain sheets in across the bay,
It writhes in violent spree,
And we look anon in grim dismay
At the ferment of the sea.
And terrible it is to see that sight,
That holds fathers, sons, and lovers.
And hold the fear, that the sea just might,
Bear new crosses, ‘midst the others.
And in the silence of the rain,
As it dashes hopes upon the sea.
I walk with other souls in pain,
As we make our silent plea.
Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye homeward bound.
The raging storm wreaks its worst,
Shadowed waves along the bay.
Our thoughts become bleak and cursed,
As we breathe the violent day.
And then a voice crisp and clear,
Shouts “Look ye to the lee”!
And there we spy the crew, so dear;
Of the good ship Karalee.
Oh, Sailor set your canvas tight,
And make your actions sound.
See that the tiller is rigged alright,
And get ye…
Homeward bound.
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 6:06 AM UTC
There is a passion that rends the skies
dark of pain, to thunder forth
in this suffering world;
Grace that rains and brings forth
an oasis of refuge in this
world weak of flesh;
The spirit rises weighed on the cross
by the suffering inflicted in place
of Barabbases, thousands.
In the dunes of the desert, a call echoes:
husbandsman, tinkerman, everyman,
Never mind the pharisees;
The spirit to the letter is moon
to the mirage.
Weighed down by the burden of life,
you who have been told you deserve
nothing more than the dirt of the earth
you sinner, you sufferer,
A passion calls forth to you. So difficult
indeed is to see the father, aye,
lawmongers, enough for us to see
this humble son of a carpenter here;
O you crushed
under the wagon wheels of time
taste that love by which you are
before Abraham was.
Come, be pillars
in the mansion of your father;
Tiller toiling away in the sweat of life,
you on whose shoulders walk
the sweet-talking liars
who yet enthroned say
you are worth
only more taxation,
You can part waters. You are a miracle.
You drive away ghosts. You can
call the dead to life. Yet you are
love and see no difference
in Mary from Mary,
a secret ocean at the shore of an oasis
to drink of, until we are here
as He is in heaven.
Heaven for us to see and live here
not some unknowable hereafter.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
She is descended from strong women.
Bronze women. Stone matriarchs.
Pioneers. Immigrants. Fighters.
Hand in the earth, sun on the brow,
salt in the sweat, beautiful strong women.
Her ancestors rode ships to new horizons.
Forging destiny for their children's children
by riding waves to new lands.
Her grandparents tilled earth.
Beat back the scorching sun
and grew life in rows.
They sowed a future like seeds
for their children.
Her mother provided.
Giving hands full with
life wielding cast iron pots like
weapons. Fighting back
hunger and want.
She kept full bellies so her daughter
might have a full future.
She.
She has given her life to loving her family.
And has been lifelong devoted to that endeavor.
Never failing a step.
She has walked through foreign shores,
trailer parks, brand new hearts, and broken cycles.
She has cobbled together Christmases,
shattered hopes, family meals, lunch money, and hope.
She is tested.
She has walked the path of her ancestors.
She is a Pioneer.
A tiller.
A provider.
A fighter.
A warrior.
She is my mother.
And she will beat cancer.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
I celebrate this journey in the desert -
I am but a traveler in my time:
in this pasture of my fathers, land,
where stands this miracle of glass
now calling manna down
from the high home of eagles:
I am but a helpless everyman, lost
in the desert, on a journey out
from the clutches of misery, and pain;
The world is making progress.
As I see the oases running farther
away from my sights: on
elevators to the skies, numbers
of the young call on benefactors
across the seas, for a ropeway
across the quagmires: a home, a car
and the family life; saving for a
better day, in the future, while
my home went from mudbrick
to thatched grass, then out on streets
by the gutter with the dogs;
I am a cleaner, cobbler, janitor
in the land where I was the tiller.
Wiping the sweat on my brows
as I loaf on the lawns, awaiting
labour days hyphenated by mealtimes,
there is no witch-doctor now, and
no money to pay up at the hospitals
that the wealthy from afar line up to,
but to die helpless a wretched death,
I celebrate my helplessness!
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Churning
Boisterous to me life a high powerful stormy sea will I ever see land again those peaceful
Dales the trees so deeply rooted in there canopy the swaying seems as undersea waves so softly they
Stir as at play deep valleys and hills below above aluminous sun light makes a rich glow in its tow I go
Ever so slow the sea grass moves in a musical undulating fashion the same as the grass on the plains
Colors diverse with coral markers at depths that unrest at the surface doesn’t reach the frothing foam
As it were a great goblet filled for god to drink a offering of thanks for such wonder that can be a
Complexity at once filling heights of emotional strands then instantly terrifying foreboding illustrious
Without equal so vast stretching all the bounds you have ever known by the sea blown tales that are
As voluminous as the sea itself adventure in the raw highlighted with charm by the cawing of the seagull
With the same speed they dive and climb on the surface races the dolphin the embodiment of joy and
Laughter the sea rescuers has been some of their duties to the blessing of many lost mariners in cold
Chilly waters these bubbly ones was the difference between life and death the sea does spray as with
Glory unbound in this all concluding vesture that is seamless all consuming tiring but invigorating once
The sea salt has entered your blood there is no escape its lore hypnotic unbreakable break waters will
Carry you inland by that she granted your greatest desire after she has reared her head and gave you
The Undeniable look at deaths watery jaws but when on her mercy you survive or in some fashion are
Flung on the shore you lose your emotional tiller and blubber like a baby then the manly part curses all
She Put you through you know one thing for certain never will she catch you a float but little do you
Know her winsome call withers all about so you hungrily crave the sea tossed tempest its excitement is a
Drug that a ****** has no cure for it puts robust living in your path all of your days while the timid land
Dwellers only look on in awe and admiration
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:54 PM UTC
Cotton is everywhere,
it's on the ground;
in the ditches,
all brown and soggy like
wet hairballs; in the wheel wells,
the rotor tiller;
the SNAPPER'
the squash;
your wife's ********
tingling her constantly;
the speedometer,
the pulled pork,
collards,
mashed potatoes
and most definitely
the gravy;
it's in the eyes,
makes them red
and explosive,
it's in the dark loam
and gloam; the unwashed streetlights,
the blue dark
and even bluer
lampposts in the middle
of fields black as oil;
the pink sun,
white clapboards
and redwood siding
of that burned-out homestead;
the cotton is everywhere;
thrown up by the slaves;
a ceiling made just for
February lovelessness
as I pull on my Marlboro
and crook my arm
like the cornices of a power station.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
her voice a fragile thunder
her thoughts gossamer wings beating on
the thick summer air
her awkward gestures a lovin embrace to
the eyes that haunt her histories
dawns intensity begins
its silent fire consuming more and more of
the spacious turning heavens
a star falls
she reaches out one unconstrained hand
fingers tracing its path across the pale blue skies
a word of worshipful sorrow on her lips
till it fades into the sea
extinguished with loves kiss no doubt
no doubt
she floats upon the wind
no sand or tree in sight
she floats upon the sea
back and forth across the deep night
seeing the world breath
seeing the mechanics of the star strewn heavens turning
how beautiful the stars
how desolate the sun
silence had finally taken her
her parched eyes now forever closed
her hand on the tiller
till doom strikes its hour
alone on the sea
her life slowly ceases
extinguished with loves kiss no doubt
no doubt
her dusty wings folded
the breached purity of her heart
leaves her a silent figure forlorn
with her eyes forever looking distantly
with longings painted vividly on her face
a desolate angel
of sea and sand
to greet the lost sailors
and thouse who wander the sea
at the end of their voyages
end of their days
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
for the missed and the missing
~~~
lea - a tract of open ground, especially grassland; meadow; land used for a few years for pasture or for growing hay, then plowed over and replaced by another crop; untilled; fallow
~~~
In the Lea Field
And again that man
in the fallow fallen field,
grasps his own tiller,
looking ahead, downwind, leeward to plow,
impatient to cut rows of upturned earth
to grow markers,
plant seeded rows of words
and again that man
presumes time,
planting a yearly crop of
hoped for just enough time
but it does not suffice -
enough and sufficient time
will not grow in the lea field
this year
Now a man comes to mind,
living and dying
in a lea field
the man too,
field fallen fallow like the grassy meadow
that once fed his overcast gaze
yet the man believes still,
word seeds of lea poems prior planted
fullsome in their dormancy,
potent with patience,
shall not always remain so...
they are
bridges-in-waiting,
un-til,
ready once more
for the missed to
till
anew
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
shuffled quietly into the busy day
transit thru layers of faces
and the thousand random sounds
meant to distract
but i keep pen to page till image surfaces
and words flow however uneven
almost seems like my poems are crossing roads
only every other phrase survives to the page
the rest lay unadorned baking in some
unrelenting internal sun
like roadkill my thoughts
strange and laughing
like prussian soldiers aligned wait for
the drunken magician to send
them charging into battle marching
lockstep backwards
they are sure to be slain
but they know they will be resurrected
later in my life as some odd little ditty
about some random babylon nubile kitten
**** and sweating at the door
looking for a fresh spike
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
the boat rocks slowly in the waves
and there on this un-named atoll lay the wreck of
some long beached sloop
her mast snapped in some long forgotten storm
and the poem i labored to give birth to
surrenders to such an image
of loss and forlorn dreams
goodnight my love
goodnight and sleep well iv got the watch
and nothing shall disturb
no storm nor pirate shall approach unheeded
lay back and dream of my poems to you
perpetual motion in this silent sky
the clouds form up white grey along the east
and in slow parade move thru my vision
'brisk eastern wind says rain' whispers a companion
'best be done with your writing friend'
so i close my book and put aside my worn pen
for the night
take the tiller
and make haste for open sea
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
At the helm of knowing the truth,
somewhere, far off your comfort zone,
on the tiller of becoming
someone's shadow,
In a slow motion to diversity
quite certain of a million ways to succeed,
only to get fastened and lost in a cold world
At the notion of love being a
heartache, nothing but pain
Much as you can't recognise the man in the mirror,
the door to your heart remains
closed,
to the sharing of your troubled
times
When you thought your head was standing upright,
your body firmly on your feet, the wind came tossing your joy away,
your confidence got swept aside
and your innerself drooped
When you walked to the dead end
but still wanted to breath,
your soul willing to live,
your heart yearning to give
when you were seated on your
bed,
your face wrapped in your hands,
whispering to yourself ,
that it will be alright,
Thats when you dig too deep to
find yourself
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
in webs of moonbeam shines
adrift
the tiller dreams
no more
beached on some ethereal shore
the signs
the broken souls ignore
now rolling home
to sand safe beaches
left to slowly
ponder
on the hand that heaven never reaches.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
It came from cloudless blue
No herald of its fall
Was served as heaven’s brew
To quench the thirst of all
To give to morn its dew
And cause to tiller’s prance
To wet dry ground anew
With peace, joy, song, and dance
A peace of spotless white
Urged warring halves to join
As weary eyes did sight
The gleam of nature’s coin
A joy of love’s consent
Burned bright from empty core
As ailing nose did scent
The rise of petrichor
A song to woe's distaste
From voice of grateful praise
As thirsting tongue did taste
The ale of favour's daze
A dance of festive tier
On soles of arid sores
As shutting ears did hear
The tune of Angels' scores
A comfort so surreal
Set last of five to race
As numbing nerves did feel
The warmth of wet embrace
It came from cloudless blue
As touch of God’s good hand
To bid fierce drought adieu
With child for barren land
Who looks not to years past
But thanks the Lord laid bare
Having found at long last
The one for whom to care
Dec 31, 2018
Dec 31, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
losing you and it's effortless
redefining short and sweet,
a whiskey neat,
eight years, much shorter than the forever,
everyone's grand assumption feast,
wrongly assumed, love consumed,
making ***** of her and me
for believing,
and looking now,
as if it's almost
our own closing time,
the hour of our
just desserts
you lose yourself, asking yourself,
can a three legged stools
with two busted legs be
just merely rocky,
without another hand on the tiller~shoulder,
something
with haunting visions
of falling, failing, flailing,
down the stairs
victim of a stoning, or just ******
gravity, the Blackhawk down,
the string puller, the no-reason reason
the slow descent,
so effortless, glassine smooth at first,
barely noticed, shrugged away like a small bruise,
then you cannot help to stop and forgive the incessant
wondering of how we got,
the confusion contusions,
now body bejeweled resplendent,
everywhere, in everything
you were once
a rock, a star,
with all the answers to the questions
she was about to ask,
your arm punched,
attached to an affectionate smiling,
for the perfection of our mutuality of
knowing
was her rock,
and now, quietly,
this last piece of jewelry consists of
a necklace of stones,
a choker of
glass pebbles in both our mouths
wry cry
realizing that the
darkness cracks of
busted and rusted,
are voluminous surround sound silences
breaking up,
either side of
us
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:44 AM UTC
Still like a waters edge.
A sense of no sense and nonsense.
Puddle drunk, a nun to nothing and cross dressing monk.
You cannae hide, seek the tongues that speak.
A riddle of the weak, a bridge that saves both sides from falling away to a mountains edge,
the tiller, distiller lookalike Windy Miller,
converse, adverse no rhyme or reason to build a better will.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
Much is lost in times of peace
As shepherds shear their flocks for fleece,
As farmers tiller and toil their soil
And kitchens bubble with pots O' boil.
The ways of war are best not forgotten
For sooner or later the barons boot
Shall have trodden,
Upon that farmers land.
Arm in arm and hand in hand
With brigands and brutes In armored hides of tan.
Though the pastures now lay golden
Beholden to the setting sun.
Keep your scabbard close,
Blade keen not blunt.
For far beyond yon neglected walls
The winds are rising,
The ocean's tidal breath
Brings tidings of war.
This time it may devour us all.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Life, be not arrogant, though some have called thee
Terrifying and delighting, thou art so; sowing random confusion,
Overthrowing mortals with unequal puzzles of both extremes,
Humans, condemned, to collect travails, improvident provisions,
Live, Life! But only through us, for thy are slave to imprecisions, conflated constant reversible, the free choice of souls' decisions,
Random and inopportune, thy bedeviling choice of hurdles,
Our swelled heads so vulnerable to robbers and roadblocks,
But cannot thou onfess, rare is thy victory, oft thy defeat.
Until we meet thy comrade in arms, our paths irregular coursing,
Of our own choice, so acknowledge thou makest our path to veer,
Impotent prince, 'tis always our hands, arms upon the tiller to steer.
Jun 10, 2017
Jun 10, 2017 at 7:06 PM UTC
Oh she's a wanderer
She's a distiller of souls
You cannot catch her boy
She'll just continue to roam
For she was whisked away
Her mind you tried to hold like a tide
But then you glanced away
And she broke free from your bind
Oh hope, the hope you had
Oh grasp, the grasp you held
Oh life, the life you thought yours
The life you thought there
The life you thought you knew
Slipping and sliding
Life, that wriggly worm
Life, that trickery
It's spun up on you
Gone and done a complete turn
Oh, she's a wanderer
She's a tiller man's child
A mocking bird
Lone and gentle against that sycamore wild
Don't stall her boy
Don't shelter or cramp her style
For she'll fly away
No mockingbird stays still for any length of a while
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Pull in the sheets,
trim the tiller,
shifting to the other rail,
light airs prevail, the
sails they luff.
Seeking the wind,
Cat's paws to Starboard
Hard-a-lee tacking to Port,
the breeze she comes,
boom shifts, helm heels
over, sails crack and fill.
Reef in the Jib, slack off the main.
She digs in, laying her rail
into the water, riding on the
seas thin knifes edge again,
the keel rises, steadies her passage.
We fly!
Ah, fair winds, sailors delight,
pleasant sailing, safe harbor ahead.
No greater joy than to sail and muck
about in boats on blue water.
Freedom achieved, intensely felt.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC