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Best Farm Poems

Below are the all-time best Farm poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of farm poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Farm Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Farm poems are below this new poems list.

Sunday Dinner On the Farm by Bdosa, Vee
A Day on the Farm-Epic Contest-Pic 2 by Inman, James
Tormented Clown 2 - Buying The Farm by Boy, Tommy
body farm by campbell, mal
TURKEY FARM by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Kids' Funny Farm by horne, jack
Early Winter Farm Chores by Lindley, Robert
My Old Farm House by Muzzey, Caryl
Grandpa's Farm by Wings, Broken
Tonight I farm by Raynes, Lewis

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The Best Farm Poems

Details | Farm Poem | |

Haiku 19 Barn Life

                                                    Haiku Form

                                              hay, manure, cows
                                         a low long bellow --  ancient
                                      birthing call,  s w o o s h . . . life


                                                   Tanka Form

                                         barn filled with hay, cows
                                    moist heat, the smell of manure 
                                     wet nose, brown eyes --- time
                                        a hard bellow, the birth cry
                                     final push . . . s w o o s h, miracle

dedicated to Mary Jo, you rock country girl!

David Meade

Copyright © David Meade

More great poems below...

Details | Farm Poem | |

Chapter and Verse a live poetry recital

Good evening Ladies 
May I say, I am honored and privileged
As this is the first ever time
I have read in front of a woman’s only group
And a fine group of bovine beauties you are

I truly hope you have enjoyed dinner
The poetry portion of your evening is about to begin
First I wish to thank Betsy for inviting me
She mooooed me over from day one
I must also offer my sincere apologies
If I have eaten any of your relatives
A simple but tasty misunderstanding at beast, ops best

This evening’s poetry reading will have background music
Lyrcial Jazz music is like the spice to my gourmet poetry
Richard here is on Sax, and Dave will play the guitar
So feel free to sit or stand, rain or shine
Graze upon this artistic feast of cultural poetry

I shall recite four movements here, thus to allow you
Breaks for your own movements so to speak
I wish you an udderly fantastic evening

This piece is called “Chapter and Verse”

Part 1)

Borrowed words

Overdue loans
On faded words
Tears melting ink
Wisdom's die 
Collection time
Bankrupt soul
With no words to share

Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooo

You gals are sooooo  Mooovarlous

Now for Part 2)

Overdue books

Wine splashes the pages
Of my mind
Melancholy whispers to me
Here, here 
The past sings me a song
Withered books 
Our collective memories
Buried in the pages of history

Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos

Oh My God really stop it
You Gals are udderly amazing
Thank you so much

I really appreciate your Cowcil

On to Part 3 Ladies

Sad Chapters

I danced 
I drank
Love and wine
Penelope Sosa
Stole heart and mind
Debts paid
Her beauty refined
Lonely betrayal
I dine on sad chapters

Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos

You gals really are overdoing it
However I do have a part 4, you are such a great audience
For fans like you, I am willing to milk this poem to the end

The last Verse

Mathematical potions
Equations that dream
A soft kiss lade upon my sleeping heart
Is it you? Is it you that lightens my soul?
Spread your wings for me
I shall smell the sweet scent
Of your poetic juices
As we lay entwined
Inside the last verse

Standing Mooooooooovations
Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos

Well I must thank you dearly
I confess I was somewhat Cowardly to perform
However you gals where just great
I will be signing autographs back at the barn!!!!!!

Note: This poem was sponsored by Dr Doo Little

Copyright © arthur vaso

Details | Farm Poem | |

Shadow to Shadow - Shadows Contest

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
In youth the Eden where you played
was left bereft, destroyed, decayed,
by trusts malignant masquerade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Sweet grass dies in your fallow glade
as opportunist needs invade
and bleed the life from every blade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
First, victims surging song is brayed,
then dirges of the helpless fade
and urges pant their serenade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Agendas you've arranged cascade
to keep your motives undisplayed
and cover cracks in your charade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
You've planted with your soiled spade
slick seeds of doubt in hopes that they'd
conceal the putrid plots you've laid

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Your blighted past will be replayed
and every bloom on whom you've preyed
must lie now in the beds you've made

Copyright © Lycia Harding

Details | Farm Poem | |


THE SWAINS Under cumulus clouds, grew cauliflowers. He planted them with love because I adorn them when they were harvested to the table of healthy man, my husband; sons; and brothers. All were vegetable farmers of California. We woman loved cooking for them. They say there never was a better meal than this one every time we cooked. That was each day of the yield. Spirits were high as hell. The profits were insurmountable. They increased each year. The sunshine brightly and this eased our fears. We became wealthy and retired well. Our children went off into the world. Both sons became Attorneys of Law. _____________________________| Penned on October 30, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker

Details | Farm Poem | |

Comin' Hame - Coming Home -Scottish Dialect

A angry sky, as cauld as Loch Lomon'
fair drew me out from cot o' peat, an' bed.
The wolves wus wailin', an' thund'r respond'd
Ah gather'd tam, me tartan, an' dug Red.
To  'orse ah took an' found the 'erd sam 'urt. 
The 'ungry wolves 'ad already fed. 
Inta the bi'er blaw, the rill ah skirt 
thro braes a white, t'ward ham an' fire burnin'
the bleatin' sheep, the 'orse an' ah alert.
We wud mak it hame, stomaches churnin'
O smell the peat fire on the wild wind now,
'ear the cows faint distant ca', a lowin'
'erself wud know, we'r near ta the brow.
Noo, we 'ad beat the storm hame, an' kep' me vow.

Dedicated to Jimbo Goff & James Fraser
and the spirit of Robin Burns

See About the Poem

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Farm Poem | |

Surprise Factor

    (Why I'm Still Breathing)

When the cow was dry, she was compliant.
When she calved, she turned vicious
and no fence could hold her,
but she gave milk in abundance,
and Dad refused to sell her.

She chased Mother 'round and 'round the barn
until Mom panicked, climbed the corner logs,
and perched under the roof,
clinging like a cicada shell on a weed-pod.
Beasty pawed and bellowed until Dad came home.
"I could gain on her on the corners,"
Mother said, "because I could turn faster,
but she gained on me on the straightaway."

Plug-ugly tore through the fence,
into the garden, where Mom and I worked.
"Run, Cona Faye, run," my mother shouted.
How did she know? The cow passed Mother
and thundered straight for me. I ran.

At the fence, snorts filled my ears. Hot breath
steamed my back. I saw myself stomped,
pulverized into the dirt. I turned, screaming 
at full volume, and flailed my arms
like a windmill in a strong wind.
That old red cow locked her front legs
and skidded like a freight train on full brake.

I seized the moment, and scaled that rail fence.

Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Farm Poem | |

Florida Nature

The sun emerge from its hide, smiling bright and it glide Promising a fine stay, for those who toil by the day Oaks surround the landscape, as ferns add in to the grandeur A heron’s displaying majestic pose, the farmers toil with ardor The placid stream that flow, bearing success into the future A land that God has blessed, with serenity he suture The grassland spreading far and wide, down the country line we trod Wheels turning and a group so old, no place we haven’t rode Of sunshine state I speak to thee, its heritage and splendor bold As we turn a bend in road, of beauty that my eyes behold. We arrive at the marketplace, with stalls lining the street It’s the day of harvest, where a merry crowd will meet The stalls full and brimming, with the fresh produce Homemade things in display, of those the villagers use. Cheese, honey and pastas, that makes our mouth water Pickles, meats and soaps, are also things they cater. At night the moon peeps out, of promised passion sought And a few but lingers, to feel the cool breeze float From the cottages flow the sound of mellow laughter of happy wives and kids, who are well looked after. © (13 Feb '15) Inspired by the Robert Butler paintings, especially “Farmers’ Harvest”.
* Placed 4th in the contest 'Simply Beautiful' by Kelly Deschler on 5 April 2015.

Copyright © poesy relish

Details | Farm Poem | |

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Boys, don't gripe, somebody got to do it
 so hurry up and get right on to it
Winter is coming on and lickety-split
 we need that firewoood before it hits

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

A boy of fourteen truly does not care
 to pull a damn crosscut saw anywhere
If his washing dishes wasn't bad enough
 now this job, it was sho' nuff tough

Working two hours before school was bad
 four more after school made one really mad
Curse this damn wood and this damn life
 hickory ain't butter, this saw aint a knife!

Someday, I'll get a real fine job then
 get myself rich like so many other men
Fancy myself with riches and a beautiful wife
 curse this damn wood and this damn life

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Stop yelling, we sawing to beat the band
 want any better, get another slaving hand
We cut and stack this crap all the time
 pay is lousy, not even one thin dime

Big bro' pulling on the saw's other end
 laughing at me , with that damn silly grin
"Little bro', stop bitching you're wasting spit
 nothing to change so lets get on with it."

Another one, urging me to be a working fool
 when grown man I'll be nobody's damn tool
Gonna get me that money and a life of ease
 lay about, do just as I damn well please!

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

Robert J. Lindley, 11-09-2014

note: Special thanks to my friend Sara Kendrick for this concept
 and inspiration. Inspired by her new contest theme.... 
Written about my young life and some of its hardships.
Usually writing a sonnet comes so easily to me but when starting 
this write this blew right on out of me. Definitely not
 a sonnet as was her contest requirement , so its not an entry in 
that competition.

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Farm Poem | |

Natural Instinct

         Three Sonnets tell a story, in sequence.
[From the narrative poem, "Don't Go to Wyoming Alone"]

         I. Natural Instinct  (Chivalric Sonnet)

He saves a wad of cash and designates
the stash to finance trek in far-off land
in hunting boots and custom gun he built 
for me with love and hope for trophy grand.

"Is this a trip I've dreamed about?" I ask.
"Can I enjoy the hunt, savor the kill?"
I contemplate the danger in that land -
will heat, dry thirst and bugs defeat my will?

Might this be atmosphere I cannot stand?
Excitement builds as I heft gun with ease
and find the answer soon on target range
as my bull's eye displays my expertise.

Though I have no inborn instinct to kill,
my reason tells me not to waste this skill.

               II. Lost Vacation  

Our trip is planned, we'll soon be on our way,
he's called and found the perfect spot to stay.
The husband leads you out to hunt the wild
as room is cleaned, clothes pressed, wife cooks gourmet.

Alas, things change, his current bent is new.
While Mom and I go west without a clue
he flies the skies to satisfy desire
from Air Force days where first the hunger grew.

But circumstance forced him to stay aground,
our funds were tight and kept him budget bound.
Since children now are wed and off the corn
he's free to choose to play or bum around.

When we return from trek out west by train,
he's spent vacation cash to buy a plane.

              III. New Dimension (Couplet Sonnet)

What fun we've had in years of golden age
as we, in freedom's row, our thirsts assuage.

We climb above the ground in utter glee
and view the earth below from Cherokee.

We join a pilot's group and meet new friends.
We travel now as time and space portends.

Each time we fly we bring two more because
two empty seats invite our friend's' applause.

But soon we build a smaller home down south.
I close my ears as words come out his mouth,

"The plane's for sale, I need a tractor now
to plow off snow and grade the road."  It's how

our trip to Africa, in quickened time,
became a tractor.  Surely, that's a crime.

Copyright © Cona Adams

Details | Farm Poem | |

Rain on the Scarecrow

We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.

Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.

We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.

Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.

Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.”  An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms.  The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers.  I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.

Song is at:

*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Farm Poem | |


Hot barn days
Dogs abound...idling
Lazing... farmyard ways
Train away
Idyllic Texan Days
Feed n Fodder
Stallions Whinny
Mare`s in season
A slinking
Hay dust settlin
May a Farm boy
I might be 
Texan Homestead`s
Got me i`m 

big thank you for insight 
you know who you are !

Copyright © Ian Guyler

Details | Farm Poem | |

Early Winter Farm Chores

Early Winter Farm Chores

Shall I muse at midnight on the morning sun
now hiding very far beyond the pale.
Dread farmyard chores needing to be done
as morn sun rises over hill and dale.

Warm in bed, staying would be a disgrace
when winter marches in far too soon.
Tarry late and hot glowing embers embrace
to rise late only in a lazy afternoon!

Or instead jump from this warm , soft bed
racing on out when red rooster crows.
Quickly getting pigs and chickens well fed
all long before the cold winter snows!

Up early before morning's sweet sunlight.
Another farming day, another long fight.

Robert J. Lindley, 10-01-2015

Note-- Edited an older poem from back in the 80's.
Shortened into a sonnet..

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Farm Poem | |

Big Red Bellied Black Snake

Dad had threatened for some time, to reclaim the land behind the shed,
where rubbish over many years, had stockpiled but now instead
of being easy to be shifted, blackberries, docks and thistles grow,
entwining history of ours… and you know we didn’t know.

Mum cracked the whip one Sunday, handing out the different tools
for us to shovel, fork, pick and slash; of course she made the rules.
We weren’t to stop until the rubbish, had been cleared and left to show
a barren space to be landscaped… and you know we didn’t know.

Johnny parked the truck close to where we’d easily load the tray.
First we had to slash blackberries, to open up a pathway.
Old fencing wire and bent droppers, we pulled and tugged. The work was slow.
Plus bits of motors, old oil filters… and still we didn’t know.

The ‘Old Man’ knocked a stump out I can’t remember being a tree,
it disintegrated into pieces; white ant workings I could see.
Plastic pots and old fuel drums, onto the tray we heave and throw.
Just on half the plots been cleaned up now… and still we didn’t know.

A concrete trough and a mattress spring, mesh from an old birdcage.
A kitchen sink broken in two and a pushbike at some stage.
Sardine tins, a barrow bowl, and a seized up mower that won’t mow,
now there’s just one corner left to clean… and still we didn’t know.

A stack of roofing iron near the fence; the last that had to go.
One by one we dragged the rusting sheets… and still we didn’t know.
Dad picked up the final sheet, and then he quickly threw it down again.
His face was white and ‘cripes’ he shook… we ‘bloody-well’ knew then.

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Farm Poem | |

Farmers Wish


Woke up this morning with the sun in my eyes
Wishing for rain in the clear blue skies
We’re faced with a problem every single day 
Our stocks are all dying right were they lay

Tanks are all empty once again, bore’s all dead & dry
Banks want more money, but lord how I try
Year after year praying for rain
Hail Mary, my prayers are in vein

I can remember when I was a boy 
My dad and his dad too, had so much green
Had so much green green grass

We used to play and swim in the creek 
But all that I’m left with is barren ground
More dead sheep, stacked ten deep

I can’t give up not while I breath
Cause I’m a fair dinkum Aussie guy,
Who never ever gives up
Too much to live for before I say goodbye

So while there is food on the table and a beer in hand
I’ll keep on fighting for my home on the land
With my wife standing tall along my side
We’ll keep on fighting till the day we say goodbye

Copyright © Roger Hawes

Details | Farm Poem | |

Just Down The Road


              Just down the road there is a golden field of hay
              where there once stood a home where my sister
              and I did play. The moss covered trees and yellow
              daffodils bloomed, and the smell of Mother's
              clothes drying as the hot, summer sun fumed.

              The air was filled with the June bug's song and
              the tractor tilling along the farm. 
              My sister's hair was honey blond and how she 
              laughed when I would tag along . Eyes of blue as
              the sky above but just being her sister, brought
              to my heart so much love.

              Day would pass and night appeared, and the moon
              brought fireflies to enchant the way to the raspberry
              patch where we believed fairies did stay. It's time to
              come in Pa would say, oh just let us have one more
              minute, Pa and we'll be on our way.

              Time has passed and childhood is gone but for me
              Just down the road, these memories will forever
              live on.

Copyright © Sharon Gulley

Details | Farm Poem | |

My Molly May

My Molly May

I had a little pony
I called her Molly May
So often I would venture out
And feed her bales of hay.

So then she’d frolic
Kick her heels up high
Round and round she would run
Looking sweet as she passed by.

She’d run until she was worn out
Then to the stable she would go
I’d bed her down then for the night
My love for her each day would grow

She was my, cutest Molly may
This pony always made my day.

25 September 2014

Copyright © Vera Duggan

Details | Farm Poem | |


We are known for our football, bratwurst, and beer,
Iridescent blue lakes with fresh waters, crystal clear,
Summer's sun blazes hot enough to make skin burn,
Cheese producing dairy farms are around every turn,
Our bright autumn leaves change their colors with ease,
Near spring, the scent of lilac floats upon the breeze,
Snowy winters, with temperatures below zero degrees,
In our green forests, raccoons and deer have a home,
Near the roadside, wildflowers grow wherever you roam.

Harley-Davidson was born, where the eagles fly free,
Wisconsin is as close to heaven, as home can be.

Kim Merryman's contest - "Tell Me About Where You're From"

Copyright © Kelly Deschler

Details | Farm Poem | |


    fattened lambs no longer
    laze in sun -
    market day dawns


Details | Farm Poem | |

The Goat That Lives Next Door

Hello my friend, good day to you; I see you got my note
It's time we had a face to face about that crazy goat!

He made a mess, broke in my barn; ate up my buds and cans
And when I tried to chase him out, he kicked my bloomin' fan

Now see here Mr. Farmin' Man, I know you from way back
But if you don't restrain that goat - I'll stretch his scrawny neck!

Me and that goat been fightin' long; he thinks he won this time
So I'll show him today for sure that I'm still in my prime

That goat won't get the better of me; I'll trap him with some hay
I'll lay a path straight to the barn and lead him in that way

Oh darn! He's smarter than I thought, he ate up to the door
He stopped and turned then shook his tail like he don't want no more

Aww shucks - there's got to be a way to trap that crazy goat
He's found new ways into my barn - I'll send another note

This time though Mr. Farmin' Man, I will not shout and wail
I'm goin to git the sheriff now and throw that goat in jail!

Copyright © Neva Romaine

Details | Farm Poem | |


He stands against the old barn door
relaxed not a confrontational bone,
thin      as a pitchfork's tine.

Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter,
the lens flatters him.
A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse
halo to his lantern-jaw.
Loose fitting pants rumple
just right atop his     kick ass boots.

He stands against an old barn door
who held up who 	the real question—
a bit of James Dean   in pocket pressed hands,
Paul Newman in his eyes.

Flannel hugs him. 	(When the woman aren’t.)
Capped by a bent brimmed hat,
he's rolled to perfection.
I’m sure the name tag on his shirt
didn’t do him justice—

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Farm Poem | |

Border Fence

The flush of spring has bought new life to romp in greening feed,
along the border with the forest where domestic flocks do breed.
Managed through the daylight by the fear of being seen,
the sentinels of death await for night when they are keen.

Though distant lights may glow as beacons for the lost,
guerrilla’s stream out silently in pack form to accost,
and satisfy their lust for blood without no grace or fear,
frustrating yet the hand of man. By dawn they disappear.

Far reaching eyes in anger lies where wilderness is dense,
I know my soul is being watched beyond the border fence,
locked into disappointment where flies gather at my feet;
There’s blood-stained wool on rotting flesh, with no thought to eat.

Immediate is my judgment for no trial is needed here,
I am the executor of the guilty, who dare to wander near.
Survival is the wisdom tho’ for the wily streetwise cur,
the frenzy’s not in pattern! It’s too late for where they were.

The night is cold and lonely with the urge for needed sleep,
but as the shepherd of my flock I must protect my sheep.
A pack will form again when blood is dry and lost its scent;
Until the last sheep drops their guard, no dog shall here repent.

The lead appeared Alsatian bounding surprised in its flight,
for its escape back to the bush in my sudden cheating light.
The echo of my three-o-three thundered through the hills,
with-in the change of retrospect. ‘Tis I who wants the kills.

Death took a holiday tonight where death was meant to be,
my shot was high or wide or low, ‘twas more shadow I could see.
Silence returned and in my light that scanned the field and scrub,
I knew that I was being watched, beyond a woodland shrub.

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Farm Poem | |


“Can you smell something burning,” Dad frowned and I said “Yeah.”
It had the smell of cooking meat, as well as burning hair,
Dad stopped the truck, lifted the bonnet… “Blimey look at that!”
Something was mangled by the fan, looking like Mum’s cat.

“Strike me pink” Dad shook his head, “Mum’s cat’s been on the motor.
It’s been killed by the fan”; and we knew that Mum did dote her.
Dad looked at me with steely eyes, “Get the spade and dig a hole,
I’ll tell you now and only once… don’t tell a living soul”…

… I was halfway through my tea, staying quieter than a mouse.
Mum asked “Has anyone seen Tiddles? She’s not around the house.”
All Mum got was puzzled looks, and the shaking of each head…
Dad glared to remind me, ‘don’t tell a soul the cat is dead.’

Mum loved her cat so much; she’d have Tiddles on her lap
out on the porch at evening time. Contented she would nap.
I hated seeing Mum distressed, but Dad just acted bored,
when Mum said, “I’ll write a note, with an offer of reward.”

‘Ten pounds for her return’; I thought that Mum would smell a rat,
when Dad said “Make it twenty, if you really love your cat.”
The Ad’s printed in the paper, in the column ‘lost and found.’
Dad said to me “I’m feeling guilty now, with Tiddles underground.”

Dad let me drive the tractor while he spread the ragwort spray,
and then blackberries copped a dose before they shoot away,
he emptied out the tank and we went home to wash the gear.
The Evans’ car’s parked in our drive… “What are they doing here?”

Laughter’s in the kitchen; a joyous Mother’s voice did say
“Young Misty here found Tiddles; she was hiding in their hay,
no wonder she would not come home.” I watched Dad’s eyes and jaw.
… Twenty quid, the cat is back… a box of kittens on the floor.

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Farm Poem | |

Season After Season

I still remember, when we first met 
The day your parents bought this farm
So small, you hardly could walk at all 
as your Father held both your arms

But for some reason, I could not fathom
You made your way straight to me
And I alone in all this land
became your favorite maple tree

When your were six, you picked up sticks
That fell from limbs of mine
And like a sword to thrash the hoards 
you raised them to the sky

At nine years old, you made a swing
with a length of rope and tire
and swung from my biggest bow
as I bid you each time "Higher"

When you turned twelve, your Father built
your dream house, on my limbs
and for the first time, I did envy
the daughter given him

At eighteen years, another came
with ring in hand to wed
and take you far away from me
A day I new I'd dread

Now years went by and seasons past
Then one day what'd I see
You all grown up and walking
with Your baby, straight to ME !

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis

Details | Farm Poem | |


She was great with sheep or cattle, and would bound beside the horse,
always full of energy… a border collies best of course.
We’ve never owned another breed, but these collies we address,
we’ve had a few upon the farm… but none as good as Jess.

Two of her pups still work for us, and both bear her working trait,
Jess always kept them both in line, and ruled the dinner plate.
When de-horning, crutching, shearing, or the time of need to press,
one whistle from our Father… and first on the job was Jess.

And when her time came for motherhood, Dad never feared the worst,
because he knew that top security, for her pups came first.
If us kids were out of order, one growl would have us guess,
pat her pups then move away… leave the mothering to Jess.

Jess never was the playful type; she preferred her working life,
a stranger walking to the door would often feel the strife.
Not that she bit to leave a scar she just needed to assess
the territory that they stood on… did all belong to Jess.

Oh yes she would protect us, and front position she would take.
Once stood between both Ron and I, and a big red-bellied snake.
But that’s just one of many times, for our Mum to say, “God bless,
we could have lost one of you boys… if it hadn’t been for Jess.”

But time became her master, her sight got dim her legs wore out.
Instinct made her struggle, in the only life she knew about.
The pups were leaving her behind; she was coping less and less.
Many evenings Dad sat on the porch… looking down at Jess.

Dad took the gun and slowly walked. Jess followed down the track.
Mum, Ron and I cried at the table, when only Dad came back.
What broke our hearts most of all, and left an anguish inside me,
was little Brucey asking, “Why won’t Jess come and eat her tea?”

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Farm Poem | |

Five Senses in Spring

The wood smoke is rising,
there’s a chill in the air,
the valley’s in shadow,
with the pear tree still bare,
but I know by morning,
what the new day will bring...
It’s the last day of winter;
yes, here comes the spring.

I feel the warmth growing, 
with winter veggies to share.
The sweet smell of jasmine,
now wafts through the air.
The call of a currawong,
does melodically ring,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.

The last hawthorn berries,
have dropped to the ground,
a scavenging blackbird,
and they’re quickly found.
On cherry plum blossom,
I hear bees on the wing,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.

I taste a warm cup of milk, 
close to the milking machine.
See the grasses all flourish,
lush in their greenest of green.
I feel a thunderstorm coming,
and smell the rain it will bring,
with my five senses acute,
as days warm up in the spring.

Bird song is now rising,
‘long the course of the creek.
Twin lambs in the meadow, 
and a new calf next week.
Hens are back on the lay,
the rooster is crowing.
I am so pleased to have, 
my five senses in spring.

Scarlet red is a sunset,
now a day’s work is done.
As frogs chorus the air,
say goodbye to the sun.
Farm life is rewarding,
with the challenges faced.
Each day I test my senses...
Sight hearing smell touch and taste.

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie