Photo by Keith R. Good

Can we be in the midst of autumn without thinking of fall harvest?   For Prompt #25, write a “Reaping a Harvest” poem.  Of course, you do not have to hold fast to the combine image in the photo.  Perhaps your muse will turn to gathering thoughts, garnering evidence, harvesting energy, or even organ harvesting.  One thing Walt and I know with certainty is that we will feast on whatever you produce.

Marie Elena’s Effort

Sow benevolence.
Weed petty self-interest.
Reap the benefits.

Walt’s Wealth of Words:


Time to reap.
Keeping what we’ll use,
giving away what others need.
Either way, we’re helping each other to stay alive.

41 thoughts on “REAPING A HARVEST – PROMPT #25

  1. Late Yielding Heirloom

    This concept, Harvest,
    this one-and-done word
    seems too big for single
    apples, roasting-ears,
    late tomatoes gathered
    …now for now.

  2. One Friend

    There were never enough
    of my ‘atta boys’
    to lift the head bending
    of one verbal jab,
    one snicker,
    the one after another taunt
    that landed heavily
    on his shoulders,
    so sadness cut
    his wrists,
    his ties to his family,
    his hope.

    One friend
    left his mark
    on me,
    a deep thorn scratch,
    while adding roses
    to his casket.

  3. Harvesting Muse

    Ideas accumulate
    pile in my brain
    and wait

    for the just right time
    to be plucked out
    and flow

    through my fingers
    and onto the

    Of course,
    those are on
    the good days

    when my muse
    decides to

  4. “Ordinary”

    Harvesting the ordinary magic
    of a moonless night.
    Foot falls on concrete,
    creating the illusion
    that my path
    runs counter
    to the rotation
    of the Earth
    and, somehow,
    my small movements
    extend the moment
    so I may notice
    the wind, blowing through
    autumn leaves,
    hits many of the notes
    of a spring breeze
    but hidden in its song

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    Into the garden He planted
    Man and Woman

    With one rule to follow
    One tree to avoid

    The choice was theirs
    And is still ours

    To love One with obedience
    Or to love self more

    The first chose the latter
    Reaping a harvest of pain and suffering

    But to choose the former
    We reap the Spirit’s sweet fruit

    P. Wanken

    But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things! Galatians 5:22-23 (NLT)

  7. Life is Your Harvest

    Life is your harvest,
    she told him.
    Sample it.
    Each year brought scarcity, as
    he failed to enrich

    the soil of himself,
    prime crops, there for the reaping.
    His fields lie fallow.

  8. Reap What You Sow

    Each new day keep harvesting
    all the joys the world can bring.
    Changing seasons yield new fruit.
    Everything grows from the root.

    Plant with love on fertile ground.
    Spread a caring word around.
    Nurture those whose hearts are true.
    Great bounties will then come to you.

    An act of kindness is a start.
    Give with passion from your heart.
    Harvest goodness that will grow.
    You’ll find that you reap what you sow.

    By Michael Grove

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  10. Leaving

    I cannot find my feet today,
    off-kilter in this stand of trees.
    These muted stars piled to my knees

    are wayward souls who will not stay
    within the fold as they are told.
    I cannot jail them, so I say

    You’re on your own, do as you please –
    I cannot find my feet today.

  11. Harvest

    The kudzu, sent home in Dixie cups
    with boys in ag class, planted
    with apparent unconcern
    on the hillside, back in ’41,
    took root then took over,
    and like the wild oats planted
    by those same boys, the vines
    sent tentacles far and wide, roots
    so deep that crop failure
    was their only hope, their mother’s
    constant prayer. What do boys know
    of sowing and reaping? Only old men
    know the vigilance required to win
    that lonely battle, having long ago
    sown their own wild oats, tending
    the harvest even as memory fades.

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  13. Hope this isn’t too “adult” for the site, but I think it’s within limits. Anyway, it’s real! Amy
    On my blog at:


    Years upon years
    of mistakes and teary-eyed
    talks over black coffee or
    beer from the bottle,
    swearing the air blue.

    Dancing at Fiesta…
    I don’t really dance
    but if I smile and
    show a little leg, todo esta bien.

    Staring blankly out the window
    in a small town
    rain punishing my petunias
    (parched, anyway),
    wondering if the library
    has any books I haven’t read yet.

    Watching the baby emerge
    from within Massive Me;
    everyone is crying. She
    latches on. I call her Little Bee.

    Seeing Carnegie Hall for the first time…
    from the stage at sound check.

    Teaching fellow Psych Ward inmates
    how to practice yoga
    instead of watching
    the big-ass TV all day.

    All these memories are stored
    in a quiet room within.

    Open the door, grab a random handful.
    Toss onto the fertile loam and see them sprout.
    I gather the ripest fruits and
    squeeze ink from their juices.

    © Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

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  15. Collection

    My eyes feast
    on the autumnal hues
    blanketing my world,
    on the migrating birds,
    on the final bloom,
    on the harvest moon,
    on the pumpkins on the vine,
    on the laughter of girls
    carving jack-o-lanterns,
    my eyes harvest each memory.

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