En.Citatepedia^®.ro

All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
Sleep in their blue yoke,
The fields having been
Picked clean, the sheaves
Bound evenly and piled at the roadside
Among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
Of harvest or pestilence
And the wife leaning out the window
With her hand extended, as in payment,
And the seeds
Distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

poem by Louise Gluck
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The Harvest Moon

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes
And roofs of villages, on woodland crests
And their aerial neighborhoods of nests
Deserted, on the curtained window-panes
Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes
And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!
Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,
With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!
All things are symbols: the external shows
Of Nature have their image in the mind,
As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;
The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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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
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To A Nephew

it is upon my calling that you are here today.
i am very happy.

i am seeing a very tall man now
towering like a tree.

look at this place this island
the flowers no longer bloom
and the trees are shedding off their leaves
the corn seeds that i have sown a month ago
have not grown
and the river on the other side has dried up
the sun scorches this place
and the moon does not like to rest on the hills

let me take you to the window of this house
for you to see the rainbow connecting this island
to another island

this is the bridge between us
and i am giving you the power to cross the sea
of this rift

tonight in this harrowing darkness
we shall cross to the other side and leave this island for good

you shall own the island and sow the corn seeds again
the trees shall bow before you and the flowers shall bloom again
the rivers shall have their water and the hills are ready for the moon

and then i will be gone.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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
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The Harvest Moon

the yellow moon,
the colour that i could never get right
in my art class
well who can
it is never really yellow
and when you add white
it loses its luminosity
full moon
well when it is full
it is never round
if you look casually at it
it bulges at one side
with a tiny star twinkling at its side
a little child crying to be carried
but who cares except the round moon
poetic moon as poets would write
whether it is or not
the little child that would soften their poem
never given its recognition
lazy bones are always copycats
and they get the world messed up
with their inaccuracies, self conceitness
the moon,
the next door amateur witch
gives it a dose of evil
chanting archaic verses for a love charm, bag of luck
and a spirit in the wild
the moon that boosts my spirit
with its innocent roundness, a softness of a girl's buttock
maternal's light, and the ways it slims, fattens, slims, wanes
signs itself in and out of the sky

inspired by

The Harvest Moon
The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.
So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!
And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.
Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us! ' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.
Ted Hughes

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Busheled Together

See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.

Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
Although on that one tree,
One may declare...
Them to have similar identities.

Upon tasting from those apples picked,
One will come to a core...
With seeds inside of it.
And delicious is a sweetness,
When the juice is licked.
But when busheled together from that one tree,
Some may have blemishes.
While others upon inspection may be blemish free.
And all of them have been witnessed,
To be the product of the same tree.

See those apples hanging ripe,
All yet to fall...
From that one tree.

Even though they appear,
To look the same...
If one should examine closer,
Each would have a unique and distinct...
Quality.
And when busheled together,
They are all apples.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ploughing Time

What is the matter with the landscape?
Familiar landmarks are not there.
Ploughed fields, like squares upon a chessboard,
Today are scattered everywhere.

The newly-harrowed vast expanses
So evenly are spread about,
As though the valley had been spring-cleaned
Or else the mountains flattened out.

And that same day, in one endeavour,
Outside the furrows every tree
Bursts into leaf, light-green and downy,
And stretches skyward, tall and free.

No speck of dust on the new maples,
And colours nowhere are as clean
As is the light-grey of the ploughland
And as the silver-birch's green.

poem by Boris Pasternak
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Autumn

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Over The Hills

The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.

There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.

poem by George Meredith
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Those Who Sow In Tears

The rains that fall from Heaven
Fall down upon our face
And the dawn is surely coming
Yet in the darkness we embrace

Perhaps you've never seen the dawn
Yet in your heart you know its true
That beyond the edge of all you know
There is a sky that's ever blue

To plough the field of perpetual winter
For a harvest never seen before
Is to walk in darkness without stumbling
Is to open up the heavenly door

What lies beyond, no one can see
Yet through the door there is no fears
This is a place where seeds are found
They are for those who sow in tears

And with the seeds and with our tears
We'll plough the fields until the end
With weeping hearts the seeds are watered
And then the harvest God will send

Then all our tears are wiped away
Our hearts are filled with laughter
We now embrace perpetual dawn
And blue skies ever after!

poem by Frank McEleny
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I am sick of this road

Another horrid drive
300 miles, etched in my mind
Burnt into my eyes
Tree after tree, damn this monotony
Road staggers through the hills
Lost in woods
Eastern Ohio in fall
So uninteresting
Like an old photograph in a textbook
It never changes
Fields of wheat
Fields of grass
Fields of exhaustion in my life
I am not doing this for you anymore
It is sick
Disgusted driver loses his focus
No fairness in the visits
So unbalanced in quantity
Road ends in hell for me
I am here for a single sunflower among weeds
Cuts have been scribed on my arms by the thorns
Bright flower that cannot be picked
Must remain in the hills
I am sick of this road

poem by Casey Stewart
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Blue Moon

Blossoming from the rock
A soul of a desperate lock
Becomes one with the blue moon

Hues of blue and gray
A due of death today
A blue moon rises in the west

It seemed so long ago
When the moon was so-so
And never went to the side of the blue

Now life is happening
And flowers are dying
The moon so blue is in the middle of the night sky

A love is a death
With a beginning and end
Just like the blue moon

With the beginning of a new day
The moon is hidden
And a new life is born
Unlike the moon of blue

Copyright 2006 Dustin Bennefield

poem by Dustin Bennefield
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Moon, We Look to You.

Moon, you have a shade of blue tonight –
Is it something that you saw or heard?
Only yesterday, your tone was proud and bright,
Yellow silver, full, and so assured.

Moon, despite the clarity of sky,
Metaphors of cloud that fluff with grey
Drift across your rounded face to spy;
Feeding back, there's awfully much to say.

Moon, you have a role to play up there –
We below must bear the earthly pain.
Duty bound, we shoulder sorrows fair –
You are free from our grotesque disdain.

Moon, we depend on you to shine
When the sun retires down below.
Add to that your grandest role divine:
Tidal Lord, to keep the seas in tow!

Moon, I hope you take to heart our plea –
Needless is the reason for your blue.
Beaming, you should give the night its glee:
We're despairing – so we look to you.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

Moon moon, moon so blue, moon, moon so blue
Moon moon, moon so blue, moon, moon so blue
Moon moon, moon so blue, moon, moon so blue
Moon moon, moon so blue, moon, moon so blue
Moon moon, moon so blue, moon, moon so blue

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Interlude

When I have baked white cakes
And grated green almonds to spread on them;
When I have picked the green crowns from the strawberries
And piled them, cone-pointed, in a blue and yellow platter;
When I have smoothed the seam of the linen I have been working;
What then?
To-morrow it will be the same:
Cakes and strawberries,
And needles in and out of cloth
If the sun is beautiful on bricks and pewter,
How much more beautiful is the moon,
Slanting down the gauffered branches of a plum-tree;
The moon
Wavering across a bed of tulips;
The moon,
Still,
Upon your face.
You shine, Beloved,
You and the moon.
But which is the reflection?
The clock is striking eleven.
I think, when we have shut and barred the door,
The night will be dark
Outside.

poem by Amy Lowell
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Autumn

autumn
a bird's chirp deepens the chill
and loneliness

inspired by

Autumn

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Longing

The hills slope down to the valley, the streams run down to the sea,
And my heart, my heart, O far one! sets and strains towards thee.
But only the feet of the mountain are felt by the rim of the plain,
And the source and soul of the hurrying stream reach not the calling main.

The dawn is sick for the daylight, the morning yearns for the noon,
And the twilight sighs for the evening star and the rising of the moon.
But the dawn and the daylight never were seen in the self-same skies,
And the gloaming dies of its own desire when the moon and the stars arise.

The Springtime calls to the Summer, ``Oh, mingle your life with mine,''
And Summer to Autumn 'plaineth low, ``Must the harvest be only thine?''
But the nightingale goes when the swallow comes, ere the leaf is the blossom fled;
And when Autumn sits on her golden sheaves, then the reign of the rose is dead.

And hunger and thirst, and wail and want, are lost in the empty air,
And the heavenly spirit vainly pines for the touch of the earthly fair.
And the hills slope down to the valley, the streams run down to the sea,
And my heart, my heart, O far one! sets and strains towards thee.

poem by Alfred Austin
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Blue Moon

Blue moon is ‘a' rising
Shining so blue surprising
Is it me or is it you?
That makes your shade so blue?

Blue moon it's ‘a' crying
Why so sad, am I prying?
Blue moon weep not for me
Shine your glory for all to see

Blue moon full in ‘a' glory
So many shades you have tell your story
Silver and blood and now you are blue
What prey tell decides your hue?

Blue moon is ‘a' glow
Your blue face on show
Smile down on me now
For a smile from you will show me how

Blue moon is such ‘a' rarity
Your secrets kept within your entity
Locked away in your heart of hearts
Your magic never ends once it starts

Blue moon is ‘a' gone
How I admired you as you shone
You're off to sleep for another day
But in my dreams you will always stay…

poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Motorcycle Landscape

On a hanging garden ------
----------- [babylon seat]
------------- [baby batters]
----------------------- [weak]
---------- [hope you be great]
And the children have said their backbones
Will hurt you if you think
For there is a dolls arm
Floating in the scum
And its calling you over
While its calling you a bum
And it beckons you to frown
And it beckons you to brown
And it thinks its found a
Chance to build another real
Motorcycle landscape
The only thing that watches there
-----------[nails] are bloody red
On a -------------------------
[come to] ----------- are dead
All that we can read while
---------- are girlie magazines
For their [jest] theyre save your wrapper
Girls arent in their teens
[billions can sleep while hold to]
[fields of meanless wire]
Do the kids in----------------------
------------- on the fire]
[though ------ to marriage
[stabbed of broken bliss]
[shade ---------------------
[some them were] like this
For there is a dolls arm floating in the scum
And its calling you over while its calling you a bum
Motorcycle landscape

song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand Has Pass'd

On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd
Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,
My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind
And of such fineness as October airs,
There after harvest could I glean my life
A richer harvest reaping without toil,
And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will
In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

poem by Henry David Thoreau
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In the Moonlight

The moon is bright, and the winds are laid, and the river is roaring by;
Orion swings, with his belted lights low down in the western sky;
North and south from the mountain gorge to the heart of the silver plain
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night, from the centre down to the sea;
And I’m far from the men I used to know—and my love is far from me.

Where the broad flood eddies the dredge is moored to the beach of shingle white,
And the straining cable whips the stream in a spray of silver light;
The groaning buckets bear their load, and the engine throbs away,
And the wash pours red on the turning screen that knows not night or day;
For there’s many an ounce of gold to save, from the gorge to the shining sea—
And there’s many a league of the bare brown hills between my love and me.

Where the lines of gorse are parched and dry, and the sheaves are small and thin,
The engine beats and the combine sings to the drays that are leading in,
For they’re thrashing out of the stook to-night, and the plain is as bright as day,
And the fork-tines flash as the sheaves are turned on the frame of the one-horse dray;
For many a hand will toil to-night, from the mountains down to the sea;—
But I’m far from the lips of the girl I love, and the heart that beats for me.

The trappers are out on the hills to-night, and the sickly lantern-shine
Is mocking the gleam of the silver moon in the scrub on the long trap-line;
The tallies are big on the rock-strewn spur, and the rattling clink of the chain
Comes weirdly mixed from the moon-bright hill with the whistling shriek of pain;
For many a hand will toil to-night where the tussocks are waving free;—
But it’s over the hills and over the plain to the heart that beats for me.

The stars are bright, and the night is still, and the river is singing by,
And many a face is upward turned to gaze at the moon’s bright eye.
North and south, from the forest deeps to the heart of the silver plain,
There’s many an eye will see no sleep till the east grows bright again;
There’s many a hand will toil to-night by shining land and sea.
O moonlight, bear my message of love to the heart that beats for me.

poem by David McKee Wright
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