In Ripe Due Season
wisdom fruit is birthed
in ripe due season
why belie blessed harvest?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Related quotes
Least Harvest Ungathered Be Lost
gather thee unto thyself
wisdom fruit due each season
least harvest ungathered be lost
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Simple Way To Enjoy Guilt Free Gift of Beer and Pizza
Blessed be the workers laborers of the field
harvesters of the hops and barley
Blessed be the brewers bottlers truck drivers
distributors liquor store proprietors
Blessed be the hands that the kneaded the dough
the oven and pickers of the onions
the Sun the plump ripe fruit of the vine
pickers waters of the growing grain
the cow the cheese maker
Blessed be the sacrificed pig
Blessed be the driver
All hands and life responsible for delivering
the simple joy
of Beer and Pizza
poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Harvest and Autumn
Harvest, harvest
all you need,
is food and drink
and fruit indeed.
Harvest friend is harvest moon,
of course.
Autumn, Autumn
Harvest is in Autumn,
oh, what a great time to celebrate! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
poem by Karolina Gosztyla
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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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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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Untitled 25
morning wakes us up
with the gusts of the
winds from its
whispers,
loneliness creeps again
inside our bones
we quiver to this
we like to harvest reasons
the grains of wisdom are ripe
we take the chaff and
let them go
we are here with the purity
of what is left
and on the table now my love
we share
this grace.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In the Fruit and Veg
Knocking you listen
to the sound
that a watermelon makes
to test if it is ripe
and I wipe the smile form my face,
trying to look sincere
and the whole of Fruit and Veg is filled
with shoppers, adoring ripe fruit and vegetables
crowding around some places with special offers
like a great vast congregation
gathered in the temple of a god
and tonight you will again
make your great fruit salad
with chopped and sliced mangoes,
papaw, sweet melon, some squeezed orange juice
and grapes
and maybe this afternoon
we will eat the watermelon
in the shade next to the swimming pool.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Holiday Debate
Happy holiday they say with a smile, even though they’re in denial,
All around man’s legitimate reason, why we even have this season,
When men and women all about earth, reflect on The Savior’s birth,
Through celebration and praise, as men lift up the Ancient of Days.
There are people on each side, who in Christ, do and do not abide,
Who do refuse to even celebrate, the season some may even hate,
Those, who truly love The Lord, say this season should be ignored,
While those with no religious belief, fill the season with undue grief.
Some peoples dispute the date, adding the calendar to the debate,
Using the harvest time as a reason, to discredit the holiday season;
There’re some who could care less, about a time many call blessed,
While they go on about their way; as for them, it is just another day.
No matter what the debate may be, another holiday all men will see,
Most men, again will participate, while others, continue their debate,
Friend, if you indeed participate, just how will your family celebrate?
Will your holiday be a secular kind, or a season with Christ in mind?
Whatever your view of this holiday, God’s Word has so little to say,
But, much to say about The Son, Who came that day, for everyone,
God’s Son, Who came with Salvation, for all men from every nation,
Is coming again, as King to receive, all those, who sincerely believe.
(Copyright ©07/2010)
Inner Healer
Time is ripe, for all to look inside
At precious soul, the truth revealer
Body, mind and heart shall coincide
Birthed once more our inner healer
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Sans shyness is sans grace
Shy fruit tastes sweetest.
It breeds unobtrusiveness.
Thus, shy fruit never repels.
Aging brings in wisdom.
Wisdom plucks away the shyness.
Shy-less, a woman grows graceless.
29.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Tree And The Branch
the tree looks
upon a branch
where a ripe
fruit is hanging
the tree says
it is mine
the branch say
i am holding it
the tree says
the branch too
belongs to it
angry about the
tree's greed
the branch lets go off
the ripe fruit
a hungry child
picks it up
and goes home
with a happy heart
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Like The Jackfruit
like the jackfruit you wait for the season
when you become ripe
and when it comes you exude the scent
of the sweet one
and then you are removed from your stalk
and then they tap with their hands your body
and smell you with their noses
kissing you and hugging you and then
they cut you to slices and then they eat every chunk of you
meanwhile some saps flow from the stalk where you were taken
they fall dropp by drop
they do not stop until the night is over
each dropp is a poem coming from your hands
on that ripe season, your own time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ripe Fruit
Through eyelet holes I watched the crowd
Rain of confetti fling;
Their joy is lush, their laughter loud,
For Carnival is King.
Behind his chariot I pace
To ean my petty pay;
They laugh to see my monster face:
"Ripe Fruit," I hear them say.
I do not laugh: my shoulders sag;
No heart have I for glee,
Because I hold aloft a hag
Who grins enough for me;
A hideous harridan who bears
In crapulous display,
Like two grub-eaten mouldy pears
Her bubbies on a tray.
Ripe Fruit! Oh, God! It's hell to think
How I have drifted down
Through vice and dice and dope and drink
To play the sordid clown;
That I who held the golden key
To operatic fame,
Should gnaw the crust of misery
And drain the dregs of shame.
What matter! I'll get soused to-night,
And happy I will be,
To sit within a tavern bright,
A trollop on my knee. . . .
So let the crazy pipers pipe,
And let the rapture ring:
Ripe fruit am I - yea, rotten ripe,
And Carnival is King.
poem by Robert William Service
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A farmer does not boast that he has had a good harvest until his stock of yams lasts till the following harvest season.
The Point That You Are Driving At
of all inanimate
you say you want to be a fruit
a mango
luscious, sweet, and
ripe
i know, your point is that
you are ready,
ripe for everything, an end
for itself,
and of all animate,
you say you simply want to be this
mosquito
of the female variety, one that sings
one that tells you
that life sucks
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The harvest for the parents
I shall not be ignored;
I shall not be abandoned;
I shall be remembered in grave.
With these as harvest in mind
Each parent sows a child.
Must the child belie the parents?
27.03.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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How Blessed Am I
How blessed am I for being born
Of parents good and God-fearing!
How blessed am I for siblings nine
Who made my childhood truly great!
How blessed am I for being made
Handsome and healthy, fair and hale!
How blessed am I for gaining ken
And virtues, wisdom, fortitude!
How blessed am I for being reared
So well by parents dutiful!
How blessed am I for achievements
Quite praiseworthy in life on earth!
How blessed am I for having fared
So well in life in every field!
How blessed am I for talents, gifts
That most men cannot dream to have!
How blessed am I for miracles
That gave my life a newer lease!
How blessed am I for finding time
To thank and praise the Almighty!
How blessed am I for grace of God
That goads me on in heaven’s road!
How blessed am I for everything
God gave me amply in His time!
How blessed am I for love of God
That chose me to be Christian!
How blessed am I for hope and faith
That help me follow Jesus’ steps!
How blessed am I for poesy
That made my life stress-free, worthwhile!
How blessed am I for God’s with me
And I’m with Him in earthly life!
poem by John Celes
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Our Marriage Is Our Garden
Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Threatening May Produce Bad Fruit
Is threat
the best
recourse
in each all
situations?
Definitely not.
A kind word
a little wisdom
a face saving
gesture
positive
alternatives
will season
produce
eventually
more beautiful
bountiful fruit.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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0097 The vintage of a lifetime
As some sun-ripened vineyard-owner, rich
in slow maturing wisdom gained through time,
before that noble rot of trodden grape
yields untold harvest of a well lived life-
and proud that with his daily-tended skills
he'll win a vintage he will never taste -
so I, who seek to daily tend life's yield,
distil a vintage I shall never taste.
Mayhap some pencilled notes from wisdom's root
shall grow new generation's richer fruit.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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