This means that they are bound by law and custom to plough the fields of their masters, harvest the corn, gather it into barns, and thresh and winnow the grain; they must also mow and carry home the hay, cut and collect wood, and perform all manner of tasks of this kind.
quote by Jean Froissart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Will Take You Home
Little girl lost
In a forest of dreams.
Its a dark old wood
And its damp with dew.
Hoot owl hoots
For a moment it seems
Something big and cold
Got ahold of you.
Just when everything gets scary,
Daddys come round for his darlin again.
Hold my hand with your little fingers.
Daddys loving arms gonna gather you in.
Aint no way the bogeyman can get you,
You can close your eyes, the world is gonna let you,
Your daddys here and never will forget you,
I will take you home.
I will take you home.
Gonna carry you back home
In my arms.
I will take you home.
Long is the road
We must travel on down.
Short are the legs
That will struggle behind.
I wish I knew for sure
Just where were bound,
What we will be doin
And what were gonna find.
Wherever we go, there will be birds to cheer you
Flowers to color in the fields around.
Wherever we go, Ill be right here near you
You cant get lost when youre always found.
Aint no fog thats thick enough to hide you
Your daddys gonna be right here beside you
If your fears should start to get inside you.
I will take you home.
I will take you home.
Gonna carry you back home
In my arms.
I will take you home.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New Seeds Will Be Sown
Bring in the harvest sheaves, and store
Them safely, on the barn's stone floor.
Let all who've worked to stack and bind,
On the farmhouse table, their cider, find.
They will heartily cheer the farmer's thanks,
Then get up to some quite jovial pranks,
While celebrating a long and hard day's reap,
Before falling soundly off to sleep.
The winter's grain is home and bound,
Taken with skill from the fertile ground.
And in time some new seeds will be sown,
As soon as the frost, snow and ice have flown.
The fields are left, just with rough stubble now,
Ready for furrows to be cut by the plough.
Next year these crops will grow once again,
Helped by the Lord, his sunbeams and rain.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Waiting On The Wheat Harvest
as you sow brothers sisters so you wheat harvest reap
as a grain of wheat dies germinates bears fruit to heap
Jesus will completely clean up threshing floor gather his wheat
chaff he will burn up with unquenchable fire hell suffering heat
an enemy came in over sowed weeds in among seed wheat
reapers harvest collect weeds burn them saving only wheat
Satan demands sifts men as wheat to blow away in sifting wind
Son of man will send angels to gather chosen ones from ill wind
a grain of wheat falls into the ground dies then bears fruit new life
so hate soul temptation in this world safeguard soul for eternal life
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Harvest For The World
Gather everyman, gather everywoman
Celebrate your lives, give thanks for your children
When will there be a harvest for all the people
When will there be a harvest for all the world
Harvest For The World
All babies together, everyone a seed
Half of us are satisfied, half of us in need
Love's bountiful in us, tarnished by our greed
When will there be a harvest for the world
A nation planted, so concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, greater grows the pain
And far too many feelin' the strain
When will there be a harvest for the world
Gather everyman, gather everywoman
Celebrate your lives, give thanks for your children
Gather everyone, gather all together
Overlooking none, hopin' life gets better for the world
Dress me up for battle, when all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price, come home with the least
Nation after nation, turning into beast
When will there be a harvest for the world
song performed by by Isley Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harvest Song
I am a reaper whose muscles set at sundown. All my oats are cradled.
But I am too chilled, and too fatigued to bind them.
And I hunger.
I crack a grain between my teeth. I do not taste it.
I have been in the fields all day. My throat is dry.
I hunger.
My eyes are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack'd fields of other harvesters.
It would be good to see them . . crook'd, split, and iron-ring'd handles of the scythes. It would be good to see them, dust-caked and blind. I hunger.
(Dusk is a strange fear'd sheath their blades are dull'd in.)
My throat is dry. And should I call, a cracked grain like the oats...eoho--
I fear to call. What should they hear me, and offer me their grain, oats, or wheat, or corn? I have been in the fields all day. I fear I could not taste it. I fear knowledge of my hunger.
My ears are caked with dust of oatfields at harvest-time.
I am a deaf man who strains to hear the calls of other harvesters whose throats are also dry.
It would be good to hear their songs . . reapers of the sweet-stalk'd cane, cutters of the corn...even though their throats cracked and the strangeness of their voices deafened me.
I hunger. My throat is dry. Now that the sun has set and I am chilled, I fear to call. (Eoho, my brothers!)
I am a reaper. (Eoho!) All my oats are cradled.
But I am too fatigued to bind them. And I hunger.
I crack a grain. It has no taste to it.
My throat is dry...
O my brothers, I beat my palms, still soft, against the stubble of my harvesting. (You beat your soft palms, too.) My pain is sweet. Sweeter than the oats or wheat or corn. It will not bring me knowledge of my hunger.
poem by Jean Toomer
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This Train Revised
Its a fish white belly
A lump in the throat
Razor on the wire
Skin and bone
Piss and blood
In a railroad car
100 people
Gypsies queers
And davids star
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory
This train
Measure the bones
Count the face
Pull out the teeth
Do you belong
To the human race
Doctor doctor
Are you unkind
Do you shock the monkeys
Cover our eyes
With clear blue skies
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory now
This train
Here is a dancer
Who has no legs
Here is a teacher
Who has no face
Here is a healer
Who has no hands
Here is a runner
Who has no feet
Here is a thinker
Who has no head
Here is a builder
Who has no back
Here is a writer
Who has no voice
These are the questions
These are the answers
Stacked like wood
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory
This train is bound for glory now
This train
This train is bound for glory
This train gonna carry my mother
This train is bound for glory
This train gonna carry my father
This train is bound for glory now
This train gonna carry my sister
This train
This train gonna carry my brother
(here is a teacher)
[stacked like wood]
This train gonna carry my sister
(here is a healer)
[stacked like wood]
This train gonna carry my brother
(this is a builder)
This train gonna carry my sister
[gypsies queers and davids star]
This train is
This train is bound for glory
These are the questions
Stacked like wood
These are the answers
Here is potential gone for good
song performed by by Indigo Girls
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As God Gave Freely
As God gave freely unto me
gifts of compassion love patience time
so I also give freely unto you
in the fertile landscapes of harvest mind
have I not prepared fields broken ground
have I not sown in full measure love seed
will you now take ownership of these fields?
will you water fertilize tender growth shoots?
will you weed harvest all life love gift fields?
for 18 months more have I alone toiled prepared?
are not these fields without cost to you purchased?
did I not give sacred work all my time livelihood?
will you choose to help harvest these compassion seeds?
will you let peace love flower with purity in your minds?
will you turn swords into plough shears till peace fields?
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harvest
Autumn feeds with harvest
Birds, animals and human beings.
It brings breakfast, lunch and dinner,
It brings the sweetest things.
Autumn in the gardens,
Autumn in the wood…
Nature has prepared all kinds of food.
Harvesting is pleasant!
Harvesting is good!
Happy is a peasant,
Happy is a wood!
Mice collect the grain,
Bees collect the honey,
Granny makes a jam,
Winter will be funny
Without any flam.
Apples in the cellar,
Grape turns into wine.
We are nature’s dwellers,
We all want to dine.
Gathering gifts of nature
You’ll avoid the hunger,
You will be much stronger,
You will look much younger.
Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 7th of September,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Corn Circles
Corn circles
Appearing all over the land
Corn circles
Appearing all over the land
Nobody knows where they come from
Nobody understands
Corn circles
Mysterious symbols in the fields
Corn circles
Mysterious symbols in the fields
No one knows - are they phony
Or maybe are they real?
Corn circles!
Corn circles!
Corn circles
Is somebody playing a trick?
Corn circles
Pixies, witches, hoaxers
Take your pick
Throw a few theories out there
See what sticks!
Corn circles!
Corn circles!
Corn circles
Patterns in the gold
Corn circles
Pretty patterns in the gold
Like something out of the future
Or something very old
Corn circles!
Corn circles!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Next To Collect
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
Tomorrow no one knows,
Just what to expect.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect it!
An overwhelming love received.
You may be next to collect,
A joy that never leaves.
You may be next to collect it!
A one of a kind peace...
On your mind.
You may be next to collect,
Just accept you are blessed.
You could be the next to collect...
RESPECT.
You could be the next on the list...
To get it and quick.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it...
An abundance of happiness.
The next to collect.
The next to collect.
You may be the next to collect it!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Harvest For The World
All babies together
Evry one a seed
Half of us are satisfied
The other half of us in need
Loves bountiful in us
Tarnished by our greed
Oh, when will there be a harvest.. for the world?
(harvest for the world)
A nations planted
So concerned with gain
As the seasons come and go, we wont wait in vain
Far too many, feelin the strain
(chorus)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest.. a harvest)
(a harvest for the world)
Dress me up for battle
When all I want is peace
Those of us who pay the price
Come home with the least
And nation after nation, tuning into beasts
(chorus)
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest
When will there be.. a harvest..
song performed by by Duran Duran
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.
quote by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You're bound to leave some grain when you harvest.
Inspired by Issa - Harvest Moonn
harvest moon -
the field flying
with broken stalks
harvest moon -
no more loud sighs
from the windy fields
harvest moon
thanksgiving incense
trails over fields
harvest moon
the garden echoes with plan
for the next season
inspired by
harvest moon-
some are stretched out
some praying
-Issa,1821
http: //cat.xula.edu/issa/
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Corn Song
HEAP HIGH the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer’s noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for His golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Gleaner
METHOUGHT I came unto a world-wide plain
Where souls stood thick as grain at harvest-tide,
And many reapers, full of pious pride,
With rapid scythe-sweeps mowed them down amain;
And zealous binders bound them up like grain
In sheaves: the reapers at each onward stride
Trod many souls down. These the binders eyed
With careless looks or glances of disdain.
But, following slow, a patient Gleaner came
And gathered all the Binders cast aside,
And made fair sheaves thereof. Whereat I cried:
“Why gather these? Who art thou? Name thy name!”
The Gleaner in a sad, sweet voice replied:
“The outcasts’ Saviour—for these, too, I died.”
poem by Victor James Daley
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The age of innocence
Re-collect
Re-ligio
A high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence
Le fin de toutes les ciecles
Weltschmertz too shallow for those
Who went abysses too high
Who went insanity too nigh
Go up
Super-modern stuck in
Heideggerian states of minds
Without even knowing that
New health be named after you
Carry the name the peace of glory
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future
Gather together
Powers of the world
Light up little girls’ golden matches
Re-collect little boys lost in no man’s host
Gather together and strike
Dancing light on fragility
Delicate wire walkers
Scar lit star dust dancers
Spinning ashes spread
Spread beyond the waters
You sub-modern undercurrent
Talking to its future
Re-collect
Memories of Earth risen grown up
In knife edges shortcuts torn apart
Dying a Nietzche strength in
‘they’ll call me a sickness’ testament
Michael Angelo mocking
Bartholomeus’s skin
The Moses horns bone bricked
Into the creation of Earth
Re-collect
Re-ligio
The high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence
This is an unknown passion
A torment passion tearing to nothing
Torn to nothing brought
Torn out of nothing born
Reborn
Unmasking darkness and light
Un-dividing
A new health may carry its name
To say
To re-collect
Gather together and strike
Light steps of the paths
Stamps in sounds star bathed blessed
Sub-modern last choice manifest
Re-collect
Re-ligio
The high tide of returning faith
For the age of innocence.
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Where No Bells Toll
There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow
When you came home
after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the killing fields of Iraq
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the poppy fields of Afghanistan
we picked bluebells
When you came home
telling of monks beaten in Tibet
we picked bluebells
When you came home
from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip
it was in a coffin
There is a wood
where history plays tricks on us
and bluebells grow
poem by Roger Taber
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Alfred Nobel's discoveries are characteristic; powerful explosives can help men perform admirable tasks. They are also a means to terrible destruction in the hands of the great criminals who lead peoples to war.
quote by Pierre Curie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hymm to the Winds
To you, troop so fleet,
That with winged wandering feet,
Through the wide world pass,
And with soft murmuring
Toss the green shades of spring
In woods and grass,
Lily and violet
I give, and blossoms wet,
Roses and dew;
This branch of blushing roses,
Whose fresh bud uncloses,
Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
Winnow the holt and heath,
Round this retreat;
Where all the golden morn
We fan the gold o’ the corn,
In the sun’s heat.
poem by Joachim du Bellay
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