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Best Farm Poems

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| Details | Farm Poem | |

A Farm Yarn

When we were young boys on our farm.
A fish tale never meant any harm,
We oft were given a look,
When from such a tiny brook,
We claimed a fish as long as your arm.

But then our neighbor named Meg,
Beat the fib and put us down a peg,
By claiming from the same brook,
With not a worm on her hook,
She caught a fish as long as your leg!

Well that truth was quite hard to beat,
Then Summer beat a hasty retreat. 
Winter changed the fishing world,
Meg turned from tomboy to girl.
And now this fishing tale is complete!




For John Freeman's "Fishing Limericks"

| Details | Farm Poem | |

the farm boy

amidst the green field
behind grandpa’s old brick house
lies a broken fridge,
unmindful of time passing
until my mom calls me home.

Premium Member Poem | 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

Premium Member Poem | 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.



Premium Member Poem | Details | Farm Poem | |

The Farm Fields

The wind swept across the fields of wheat

The breeze curled around each head of grain

Waves would ripple through the fields

Looking like the waves of an ocean lapping to shore

As the sun beat upon these heads of grain

They turned from green to a golden color

They now have become prairie gold

The harvest in the fall has truck loads of wheat

Taken to the elevators for shipping to the coast

From the coast wheat goes  world wide

To feed the hungry and give man bread

From the wind swept prairie's

Where the farmer makes his bed.




| 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.
                                                                       
                                         Sharon Gulley

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farm Poem | |

WISCONSIN

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"

| Details | Farm Poem | |

Lambs


    fattened lambs no longer
    laze in sun -
    market day dawns

| Details | Farm Poem | |

Childhood Spirit

From the kitchen sink at the window sill,
I see a house on the distant hill,
When as a child I had time to kill,
Where now my spirit wanders still.
Then life changed on a day that’s dire,
We choked on smoke and could see the fire…
That hillside died from that burning pyre,
Now it’s uniform green, and squared by wire.
So childhood spirit of years gone by,
Stick to your guns and never die.
Take me beyond where the youngsters ply,
Where the woodlands grew, and so did I.

We fed our chooks on the table scraps,
Snared wild rabbits in rabbit traps,
Lemonade was brought with screwed in caps,
And our old farm dog just yaps and yaps
Till we let him off, “Way back!” was said,
And the cattle moved to the milking shed.
Cans were filled and the calves were fed,
Hay was stored for the months ahead.
So childhood spirit of years gone by,
Stick to your guns and never die,
Those years on the land got us by,
Where the farm was small and so was I.

Ti-tree’s gone where the swamp frogs sang,
No circle of fear from the black snake fang,
Hawthorn’s cleared so there’s no Gang-Gang,
It’s deathly quiet where the Bellbirds rang,
There’s no defence from the progress pack,
Now bitumen lies on the old dirt track,
The gums are cleared and they can’t grow back,
The red brick forest to me looks black.
So childhood spirit of years gone by,
Stick to your guns and never die,
Remember the bush and the filtered sky,
Where the world’s at peace and so was I.

The evening smell from the baker’s bread,
And two-up played in the old pub shed,
The hawker’s bell on his horse named Ned,
Sinkers made from the scraps of lead.
Then something died with the whistle shrill,
When no steam trains came down Red Hill,
Where I picked up their black coal spill,
For our old wood stove in the winter chill.
So childhood spirit of years gone by,
Stick to your guns and never die,
If your feeling lost and you don’t know why,
Please comfort me, for so do I.

To pioneer ghosts who led the way,
I followed you but I find today,
We’ve come too far, now I sadly say,
That the land will finally make us pay,
Our water’s gray that flows through here,
Top soil drains from the hills we clear,
But the young one’s vision now is to steer,
A warmer heart to this land so dear.
So childhood spirit of years gone by,
Stick to your guns and never die,
If you feel there’s a need to cry,
Shed your tears through my glistened eye.

| 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

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