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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.

Ode to Animal Farm by Mika-Stevens, Genevieve
Down On The Farm by Hauser , Mike
The farm gate by sharman, craig
Terror on the Aussie farm by Raynes, Lewis
Trump On A Funny Farm by Horn, James
Winter on a farm by Raynes, Lewis
A Small Country Farm by Marschall, R.A.
Farm life by Harvey, Aa
Funny Farm by James, Just
A farm scene by haakifa, ismath

View all new Farm Poems

The Best Farm Poems

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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 | Year Posted 2015

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MARY IN THE DAIRY

A curvaceous lady named Mary Just loved having sex in the dairy When smothered with whipped cream Her beau would lick her clean… His Calorie intake was scary!!! 14th June 2016


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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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 | Year Posted 2014

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Shadow to Shadow

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 | Year Posted 2015

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This Old Barn

It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.

What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.

Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.

Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!

Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.

Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.

It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.

It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.

(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016


Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2016

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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 | Year Posted 2015

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Outback Shearing Shed

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.

All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.

I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.

All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.


Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015

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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 | Year Posted 2014

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Farmers Wish

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 | Year Posted 2014

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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 | Year Posted 2014

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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"


Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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A Day on the Farm

"You really wanna know? Cause I'll tell ya if you really wanna know. You'll be thinkin' I'm crazy before I'm done, but I'll tell ya... ifn' you really wanna know." The day started like any other, up before dawn, breakfast and fuel for the combine. Outa' the window I saw the sun rise above the horizon, no clouds in the sky, waves of heat pulsing like slow heart beats above the drying wheat fields. Already the fields are half bare. The twenty two acres out past the barn were harvested last week before the weather started to change and the 40 acres at the bottom of Rocky Point was finished just yesterday, hell'uv-a-place to plant wheat, what with all them rocks that broke three disc blades and the boulders that we had to plant around, too late to dynamite 'em by the time the rain stopped last spring. The plow got stuck in the muck for a whole day before we got the seeds in. But we did it and reaped a good return on our efforts that first year, thank God. I remember that piece of land from when I was young. We used to have an old green barn out there where we kept the live stock. Paw said it wasn't much good for nothin' else, said you couldn't grow anything out there. I think he was just scared to. There'd always been rumors 'bout that place. Some folks said that Indians had buried their Chiefs under the big boulders, and prayed to their heathen gods up on the hill that looked over the valley, said that some day they was gonna come back and reclaim this land for themselves, at least that is, that sacred part below the hill. Every morning around 6 o'clock me and Johnny would run out to that barn to feed the chickens and slop the hogs. He was always faster 'n me so he got to choose whatever he wanted to do. He liked slopping the pigs even though they smelled to high heaven. He liked ride'n on there backs. I'd laugh my head off when they threw him in the mud and he'd have to hide from Paw so he wouldn't know. Paw would wack him good if he found out. I can hear him now, "Boy I'll burn your hide if'n you don't keep off of them pigs. Your gonna break their backs. Your gonna wind up kill'n one of 'em, one of these days." Johnny would always be quick to reply, "But paw we're just gonna eat 'em anyways." Hard to believe I always like them hams so good at Easter after smell'n 'em for so many years. "I know, I know, I'm git'n to it. Give me a minute. I wanna get it straight. It ain't easy to talk about and you weren't there." I saw the clouds rollin' in long before I got out to the good fields on the other side of the creek. This was where our best grain was grown. We bought this land the year that Paw passed. I remember the tears Maw cryed when we got it. It'd been a dream Paw had for a long time. He was gonna put a road through it to the main highway so's to cut our drive to town by five miles. I've always felt bad that he never got to see it. I went on watchin' them clouds wonderin' if we might just have us a late fall twister brew'n. They was nasty look'n and it's been nasty hot for this time of year. I pulled the choke on the old combine and it coughed to a stop. Didn't see any rain fall'n as I neared the creek from the Rocky Point side but it was get'n aweful dark, and the clouds were startin' to swirl and boil way up in the sky. As I watched I swear on my Paws grave that I saw a horse runnin' across the sky. It was like the ones you see when your layin' on your back in the grass on a hot summer day lookin' up at the sky and pickin' out shapes in the clouds,... but it wasn't. It was breathin' and glarin' at me with fiery demon eyes. Then out of the darkness I saw another shape. It was a face, all white with dark puffy round cheeks. It looked like the pictures of Santa Claus we used to take with the kids after the Thanks Givin' day parade downtown. He'd huff and he'd puff and his cheeks would billow out and all-a-sudden he'd let out this big bellow, "Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas," but when the face in the cloud bellowed no sound came out, just ice cold wind. It near 'bout froze me to my seat in that old combine. The windows glazed over with frost and my hand got stuck to the steerin' wheel for a second, pulled some skin off get'n em free. I turned on the headlights and wipers and as the Window cleared I could see ice twinkling like jewels on all of the wheat stalks. Down by the bridge I could see the weeds reflected in a thin layer of ice covering the water. Then all Hell broke loose. Thunder so loud I couldn't think clear, and lightnin' everywhere striking every rock and boulder. Mist rose up after each hit like ghost risen' out of the grave. I forgot about the cold cause the storm froze me solid. A bolt of lightnin' hit the top of the combine and the thunder shook the cab so bad I hit my head on the back of the seat. For a few minutes I was in a daze but as my head cleared I could see fires all over Rocky Point. I didn't have time to do anything but start the engine of the combine and move it over the bridge to the next field so it wouldn't burn up too. I watched as all the grain left at Rocky Point burned to cinders. Funny thing is all the other fields around that one were OK. Not one never burned. It was like someone drew a line around the place, strangest thing. The weather guy on TV tried to explain it. What'd he call it? Oh, a micro... something, blow, burst, something like that. He didn't explain what I saw, but that don't matter no more. It's over and done. Lost all that good grain, though. Had some scientist from the college down in Lawton come by and do some lookin'. They kept scratchin' their heads and mumblin', looked kinda befuddled to me. We talked and they said something about the soil ph was wrong and there seemed to be salt all through the dirt, maybe all the way down to the bedrock. Well, All I know is I'm guessin' nothin'll ever grow in that field again. Can't rightly say for sure though, never plan on findn' out.
11/20


Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015

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THE SWAINS

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 | Year Posted 2014

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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 | Year Posted 2015

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Zakaria

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 | Year Posted 2015

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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. © Nadiya (13 Feb '15) Inspired by the Robert Butler paintings, especially “Farmers’ Harvest”.


Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015

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Suicidal Humanity

Our supposed modern scientific genius
May in fact just be our last fatal weakness.
This technological house of cards we've made
Left humanity walking along the edge of a razor blade.

How much could you buy or sell using debit or credit
If someone or something wiped out the internet.
A computer virus, terrorists, hackers, or an E.M.P.--
Will wipe out our hard-earned wealth eventually.

Killing beneficial insects is almost like fratricide.
Think really hard again about ever using insecticide.
How many fields of vegetable plants and fruit trees
Will ever bear fruit if there are no more bees.

Rather than organically producing more living topsoil,
We're killing what remains with chemicals derived from oil.
As chemical contaminants follows their downward motions,
Choral reefs and plankton are dying in the oceans.

As a species, we've all become germ-o-phobic neurotics,
Religiously trying to kill all microbes with antibiotics.
But pharmaceutical medicine will never defeat every bug,
So one of these days there's certain to be a super plague.

So will we all starve because we cannot buy or sell,
Or because the oceans and farmlands have all gone to Hell?
Will we be extinguished by some invincible virus?
What ever it be, the fault will probably lie in us!

I wish I could offer some brilliant inspired solution,
But remember that extinction is also a part of evolution.
You may write me off as some kind of nutty alarmist,
But people that know me consider me to be an optimist.


Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2016

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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 | Year Posted 2014

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Lambs


    fattened lambs no longer
    laze in sun -
    market day dawns


Copyright © LINDA JACKSON | Year Posted 2013

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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 | Year Posted 2015

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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 | Year Posted 2015

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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: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y

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



Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014

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Broken Conch

.



                           between us — 
                           a broken conch
                           empty of waves




.


Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2016

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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 | Year Posted 2014

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Tiddles

“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 | Year Posted 2015