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Best Farm Poems

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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

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

Details | Farm Poem | |

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!

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.



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.

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

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

Details | Farm Poem | |

The Loss of a Farmer of Man

The rivers of life are most dear to those with young.
These rivers supply life, ensuring the survival of what is most precious.
It is when the river runs dry; the last drops of liquid are tears...
Tears of all that is lost.

The fertile soil soon dries and becomes barren.
The efforts of man are unable to save the farm.
This farmer... a farmer for man... lost what is most dear.
His vision for the future has died.

The farm itself screams in pain as the river flows away.
Her life is leaving and she is unable to save what grows beneath.
What is most dear to the farm is dying.
Her life, everything she wanted... now stripped from her.

Such farms all have a gate that closes them to the rest of the world.
As the farmer stands staring at the sign above the farm... remembering that night.
He came from no where with no reason... stabbing his wife in her stomach and 
heart.
His memory, while staring at the sign..."Here lies both a loving wife and future 
mother."

Details | Farm Poem | |

Farm Life at Dawn

As dawn starts to streak across the sky
heralding in the new born day
feisty rooster already perched on the wall
giving forth with all his might, he crows

Sleepy hens, ducks and geese scat for worms
low moos emitting from the milking parlour
mingling with the sucking sounds of machines
as they gather the rich creamy milk in containers

Banging of impatient hooves from the shire horses
hungry for their grain, tossing heads and stamping 
loud neighs and whinnies fill the early dawn
so they will be at work ploughing and farrowing fields

Farmhouse door opens smell of eggs and bacon wafting
farmer's wife emerges carrying pails heavy with slops
as she nears the pigsty the grunts and squeals grow
barging, pushing as they search for tasty scraps 

A caterwaul of noise from the rookery deafening
as they wheel and spin around the yard thieving
slowly as the animals return to the sweet meadows
life settles back to normal, until tomorrows dawn

written 09/15/2013

contest Nature

Details | Farm Poem | |

Life on the Farm

Life is fun down on the farm
Though the work is often hard
Folks know how to turn on the charm
They raise their food in their yard!
Farmers feed the people on the boulevard
They never do anybody any harm
Farmers hold others in high regard
Your worries they will quickly disarm
You will quickly let down your guard
As they fill up your arm
With the food they raise in their own yard.

Details | Farm Poem | |

The Farm

The Farm  ©

Fields of mustard
sway in a light breeze
off the river
farm dogs return 
dusted in yellow

the clapboard gray of
the farmhouse
weeps old memories
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen and cooks

heady fragrance of cooking food
saturate the senses as
the screen door slaps shut

the matriarch sings out
‘tea party!
and the city folk sit ‘round a table
laden with baked chicken that was
pecking out a meal in the yard that day
fried venison steak and mashed potato
green beans and corn hanging from the vine
just minutes ago
her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff 
dreams are made of

Later they sit on the warped porch steps
listening as the geese honk their way in 
to the seed rich fields and
 their nightly respite

bats fly across the moon, 
frogs call out their secrets,
a loon wails its loneliness
old stories are told

Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machetes  

Details | Farm Poem | |

Country Life

Fields filled with stalks of corn
A plow that is dirty and worn
Jars of milk and eggs from chickens
For breakfast cooking in your kitchen

Cows are mooing-- Roosters crowing
Planting seeds for veggie growing
Muddy pigs are such a fright
Goats eat everything in sight

Horses neighing in the barn
For a carrot to munch on
Dogs are rounding up some sheep
Hay is stacked in big tall heaps

Porch swings used most every night
To see stars shining oh so bright
Country songs are playing loud
To attract a dancing crowd

Neighbors waving and say hi
Every time that you pass by
Country life is hard and fun
Lots of work is getting done
Good times start and never end
Until the sun wakes up again

Details | Farm Poem | |

A Farmer Named Brock

There once was a farmer named Brock
Who was proud of his timely cock.
‘Cept it rose too early
Surprising his Shirley
On the day we turned back the clock.

Details | Farm Poem | |

HARVEST TIME

Golden yellows, mixed by rum reds,
Plum lavenders spice, these are the 
Colors of Autumn.
Textures layers blown across the lawn,
Leave it lay, rake it not, this variations
Of decorations variety.
Rarities design by mistake, and 
Happenstance, but with such beauty's
Detail, one must stop and wonder,
At it's awesome natural splendor.
Even the evergreens fall silent, to
A hushed whisper, to marvel at
The canvas, spread out before them. 
Rustling not a quivers motion,
As a crisp, chilling, October wind
Brushes against their thorny pine
Needles.
Nature does rest at a paused stillness,
Soon she'll slumber, beneath the winters
Blanket of ice and snow.
Nay, not to the last leaf falls, in a twilight
Sleep, than to dream, once more of spring
Eternal.
Now it is harvest time, men pick the
Final ripened fruit from their orchards,
Glen the fields of hay and straw to the
Last roots foundation.
Family members gather, from far and
Near, to give thanks for a bountiful
Harvest.
A season of thanksgiving, good will
And cheer, with warm apple cider, and 
Pumpkin pie.
In mystery's dexterity, the maiden
Does sigh softy, with a peaceful
Good night, to the world of men.
Than ever so slowly closes her
Eyes gently, til the warmth of
Spring time reawakens,  mother
Nature once again.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

Details | Farm Poem | |

young American days


              
                   To be in a young America ~
           visions of a ship upcoming statue of Liberty
               the young lad holding tightly to his Mothers leg
             in all excitement of a new Land to call their own
      celebrations of apple pie and fireworks on the 4th of July 
          
             thoughts of the old Hollywood on screen 
                films without 3-D costing less then a dollar
        Greta , Monroe , Betty Davis eyes tantalizing blue glare
       The Wizard of Oz or books written by Steinbach, Capote, Mark Twain

             exciting new visions of creating new concepts 
                 before Capitalism bought all little ones to bigger
           songs came from the hills of Virginia to the black Mountains
               surfacing in Tennessee for all to hear and wish to see  

          The day when one travelled by car on the road travelled
             every town a story told , learning history we once shed blood 
         American Indian tears to the British man whom choose freedom of taxes
            Boston held a tea party , now wishing they threw out marmite instead
 
         The day when we knew our neighbors and bought homes with a paystub
             Everyone had a chance to make their own with pride , even through wars
        When Martin Luther King stood proudly as did President Lincoln for Freedom 
             How many streets have been named after the man whom had a dream ?

             When milk was delivered on doorsteps in Glass bottles 
                 Babies wanting the very first of the top being cream 
             leaving doors open , watching news with your family at 6pm
                cartoons were shut down and it was now grown up time 

                      Cereal being a cheap snack for after school 
                         school supplies costing twenty dollars 
                      Grandma school clothes shopping for fifty 
                   before the internet , cell phones , and text for hello ~

                         2 week Vacations not afraid to put up Camp 
                Christmas sold in December with the sentiment of Love not money
        a day when if one were sick , you could actually get penicillin without question 
         The Doctor treated everything calling it General Practice no fear of Malpractice 

               Never forgetting our Motor city  
                 Old Ford Trucks Chevrolets and Dodge
                  The city that brought Ottis Reding and Marvin Gaye 
               

                     What happened to us ?  Where did America Go ? 

                   

         
  


Details | Farm Poem | |

Booger Red

Rest in peace Booger Red;
the dang old rooster’s dead.
He wasn’t near big enough to eat;
and he sort of wobbled on his little feet.
He squeaked whenever he tried to crow;
and his wee short legs were kind of bowed.
But my baby girls loved him anyway;
now he’s lying out back in a shallow grave.
Some doggone fool ran over him with his car;
I guess he got drunk down the road at Bubba Ray’s Bar.
What else could I as a father do;
I couldn’t add him to the stew.
I hammered a tiny wooden cross into the ground;
and said a brief prayer as the girls gathered around.
Rest in peace Booger Red;
the dang old rooster’s dead.

Details | Farm Poem | |

The Life of A Field

The spring was on the way
time for the farmer to plough
straight lines running parallel
gleaming in the rich red loam

It had laid all winter waiting
now it was time to sow and seed
yellow mustard glinting in the sun
so pretty as it grows in leaps and bounds 

Little animals made their home
borrows in between the roots
even a dormouse always sleepy
soon they scurry off as harvest begins

Harvesters hard at work birds feasting
on those that were far too slow
crops are now gathered in and stored
the horses fallow the field now it rests

This spring the field will remain fallow
all part of the master plan of rotation
it's life is simple following a four year plan
to maximize each year's yield without stress

Following being fallow potatoes go in
these help clear the land of weeds
while adding goodness to the soil
then the golden wheat which the land depletes

Last to go in will be turnips for feed
completing a long term cycle of crops
If it could talk many tales it would tell
of all of the goings on within it's boundaries

Details | Farm Poem | |

Farmer's Daughter

The Breezes flowed through bright verdant meadows
the sky alight in blazing glory of azure and violet
the farmer on his tractor ploughs the field in farrows
pauses to watch the pretty maiden dressed all in scarlet 

Golden ribbon in her hair, she brings him his lunch
they sit together in the sun chatting about this and that 
as she collects the basket her father points out bunches
of multi coloured flowers down by the river near the muskrat

Her father back at work, she wanders down to the waters edge
picking a lovely posy of the wild flowers to give to her mother
trailing her fingers in the cool waters she lifts her skirt in a wedge
paddles in to cool her feet as it deepens she holds her skirt higher 

What bliss to take some time to enjoy the scent of fresh turned earth
to drink in her surrounds and thinks how lucky she is living out here
keeping the age old traditions going, each season a time of rebirth
she heads off back to the farm liking that it is part of the final frontier

Details | Farm Poem | |

Wooden window , traditional 5-7-5

Wooden window creaks -
Tree branch swing hanging lowly 
Peeking sun thaws snow

Details | Farm Poem | |

Farmer's Seed

You are the salt of the earth;
Farmer, we say that to you;
You are hardworking and true;
We recognize your worth.
To the crop you give birth,
The soil, you subdue,
Cornstalks break through,
to avert famine and dearth.

But where is your son?
He’s not learning how.
He won’t be outdone—
living the life of high brow,
He forfeits work in the sun,
renounces his seed and the plow.

Details | Farm Poem | |

Mother nature's son

The world is a factory farm
And no one can save nature's charm
The harm from this binge
Makes ecologists cringe
And stinks like a raw underarm

Author's note: Let the games begin and hold your nose.  The scale of exploitation is unparalleled in human history.  But don't worry because more industry and technology will save us.

Details | Farm Poem | |

You can Lead a Horse to Water

Toasty mornings with teakettles whistling bring to mind Danish days on Marata’s 
horse farm, ponies prancing in the unusually warm sunlight, and new fangled 
sparkling silver water fountains. Mirada, Karen and Laura’s Mom hosted Bob, Jamie 
and I for a summer vacation. We had just settled into the whitewashed kitchen 
when the problem was presented to us. For years the housed herd of guest horses 
had been watered by filling lovely old white porcelain cast iron tubs which had been 
scattered all over the rolling green fields of the farm in Faum. 

Mirada had the forward thinking idea of saving farm hand time [and her the hourly 
wage] of piping water to these beautiful horses with new fountains! Yes, my 
lovelies, all you have to do is push your nose right here. Out bubbles crisp cool clean 
water, minus the dead flies, which often drowned in the old tub! Seems horses are 
very suspicious. Nope the herd was having none of it. Soon, if not cajoled, they 
would be passing out from lack of water in the Danish summer’s heat. What foreign 
creature had replaced their friendly old white tub of water? Where was their water? 
They saw no water. Sure there was a scent of it from that pole but “What the 
heck?” snorted the black stallion shaking his head at the girls.

We were told there would be no breakfast, lunch or dinner for us until we helped 
get those horses watered. So off we went, shuffling our feet to a meet and greet 
with the herd.  Marata and the girls knew the horses. We almost knew a horse from 
a cow. I went right up to this large black beauty, pet his nose and rubbed my cheek 
on his face, love at first sight! Blackie started following me and we walked toward 
the fountain. Then the sun glanced off the dreaded thing and he shied. I pushed the 
control, filled my hands with water and brought him some. Lordy, lordy he drank 
from my hands! The herd behind him whinnied. I tried to get him nearer the fountain 
but it was a no, go. He’d drink from my hands but not the fountain. It just goes to 
show you, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, is really 
TRUE! 

*The next morning Laura begged her own pony AGAIN to drink. He finally did the rest did too then ;)