As I Reap The Dreams That I Have Sown – A Harvest Song


There’s thunder in the sky,
the sickle flashes by.
As I hurry to cut down the corn.

I reap with a happy sigh,
as swift swallows fly.
The field must be done by Sunday morn.

I’ve struggled and hoped,
clinging to a frayed rope.
Until roots took hold, new futures were born.
Now I’ve got to be bold, leave behind what I’ve been told.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

The harvest moon glow,
when I life changes sow.
As I sing beneath the sickle moon.

I’ll rise above my woes,
when the change of seasons blows.
As I dance scy-clad to her freeing tune.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

I’ve sown the seeds,
that my soul will free.
Time to harvest them just like the corn.

I’ve learnt to know my needs,
to my muses feed.
Now let creativity my life adorn.

I’ve struggled and hoped,
clinging to a frayed rope.
Until roots took hold, new futures were born.
Now I’ve got to be bold, leave behind what I’ve been told.

Forget about the lonely tears I weeped.
As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

As I reap the dreams that I have sown.

©RedCat


Written for earthweal’s weekly challenge: LAMMAS. I was so inspired by the song in the prompt, a 14th century song about the death and rebirth of the barley crop (video below), that I had to write one of my own.

Of sowing and reaping, growing and weeping, of dreams becoming reality.


Steve Winwood singing “John Barleycorn must die” – a 14th century song about the death and rebirth of the barley crop

Photo credits:

Sickle moon – Photo by Mitchell Bowser on Unsplash

Corn Field – Photo by Nadine Redlich on Unsplash


Ballad of the Lost Poet

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

The muses looked over the lost child
Had heard her forlorn song
Seen her survive, learning to hide
Pretend like she belonged

Tuck away all the light inside
Pretend you’re not moon wild

She’d read every odd arcane book
Yet, failed to somewhere find
Searched every dusty archive nook
A way out of her mind

Tuck away all the light inside
Pretend you’re not moon wild

Finally the muses decided
She must learn how to shine
Encouraged to spread her wings wide
Shock her out of line

Tuck away all the light inside
Pretend you’re not moon wild

So they sent shock and death fright
Mixed with love and kindness
To allow for insights
Divine starlight in inky blackness

Trust, release all the light inside
You’re one of the  moon wild

Now she’s crafting a new word way
Daring to freely share
Growing bolder and lighter each day
Poetry from midair

Trust, release all the light inside
You’re one of the  moon wild

The muses looked over the poet found
Heard her soul bright joy song
Saw her thrive, hold readers spellbound
See trauma made her strong

Trust, release all the light inside
You’re one of the  moon wild

© REDCAT

Lately my childhood, with books and pets as only friends, have been shoving up in my writing – What did you think would happen to a child left on my doorstep?.
So today, thinking both about all the writers (and there are many) who inspires me, and my relationship with order (NOUN not verb), especially poetic order in form of feet’s and meters. I got it into my head to write using the Ballad metre.

Posted in response to Poetics: Order, Order! at dVerse and on prompt today for GloPoWriMo 2020.

Photo by Daria Shevtsova on Pexels.com

GloPoWriMo 2020

DAY 1 – Build a New Start
DAY 2 – Beloved Bookstore
DAY 3 – Sunshine and Hail
DAY 4 – Isolation Dating
DAY 5 –Staring out a Windowpane
DAY 6 – Casanova Comes Closer
DAY 7 – Swirling Colors of my Mind
DAY 8 – White – Red – Black
DAY 9 – Different World After
DAY 10 – Spring Hay(na)ku
DAY 11 – Love – Hay(na)ku
DAY 12 – Make Art – Triolet inspired
by Neil Gaiman and Chris Riddell
DAY 13 – What did you think would happen
to a child left on my doorstep?
DAY 14 – Ballad of the Lost Poet
DAY 15 – Writer’s class – Hay(na)ku
DAY 16 – What is a Nomad without a Tribe?
DAY 17 – Pale Spring, Here Again, Nature Awake
DAY 18 – Spring Day in the Garden
DAY 19 – Close Couplets
DAY 20 – Lost in Love’s First Flush
DAY 21 – She Tasted Like Memory
DAY 22 – Struggling Mind
DAY 23 – Written in the book of dust
DAY 24 – At the end of every week, Friday-Cozy!
DAY 25 – Slip, Crack, Shatter
DAY 26 – Humans Really Don’t Know
DAY 27 – April Rain
DAY 28 – Greeting the Watch Horse
DAY 29 – Letter of Hope
DAY 30 – Witches Walpurgis Night Preparation

Writing feels clunky

Michael Coghlan from Adelaide, Australia [CC BY-SA 2.0]

Tried to write a story for Friday Fictioneers
But it feels like cotton wool between the ears
Probably toothache painkillers far-off
Beginning fever, sneezes and cough
With a quiet sob
Gave it up as a bad job


Writing feels clunky
Gears that almost fit
Every stanza balky
Resisting every wit
Words seems achy
Forced to flit
Between fevered sickly
And jawbone unknit
Mind rages stormy
Jumping from tidbit to tidbit
Muse all dizzy
Lost and unfit
Can’t find a story
Might as well quit

© REDCAT

Cogs tumble

Tangopaso [Public domain]

Sometimes words flow rapidly, orderly, freely
Other-times words needs pondering, searching, needling

Anytime the monster Pain shows up to lurk
A wrench is thrown into the work

Cogs start to cough and tumble 
Poetic works crumble

Words no longer fit the mold 
Sentences won’t do what told 

Stanzas end rather abrupt
Pain-shacked muses corrupt

© REDCAT

Also posted to Writers’ Pantry #4: Let Poetry and Prose Be Our Break from Catastrophe at Poets and Storyteller United.

And to to Promote Yourself Monday, January 27, 2020 at Go Dog Go Café.

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