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Best Farmer Poems

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

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See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Farmer Poem | |

POOR PETER PUMPKIN

Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.

The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.

Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!

I think it’s time for you to finally go and face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!

“My,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”

Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.

They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.

The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”

Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.

We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat."

Peter trembled with a chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”

He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As  he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!

“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you guys help me!”

Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.

For he ran across a man named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!

10~12~14
Contest: Halloween Co-Writes
Sponsor: Diane Locksley
Written By Jan Allison & Andrea Dietrich
~awarded 1st place~

Details | Farmer Poem | |

I want your SEEDS

**"And his name was Jack"**

No one perceives what abides above the clouds. 
A giant, a harp, maybe golden eggs. 
I demand to see and feel, before I believe. 
A castle, a dream…. I want the magic beans!!!
~~~


I'm the daughter of a farmer. 
I have a donkey to ride, a story to tell.
“Jack and the Beanstalk”; my favorite tale. 
 
Once upon, a morbid dawn. 
I inhale a tiny simple yawn~ I levitate like the sun. 
I head out the door, towards the markets shore.
I grabbed my ass to stroll along the open path. 
My shoes aim out to the nearest creek. 
My ass and I desired a drink. 
There I saw an old Englishman, sitting on a log. 
It looked as if time was approaching his brink. 
In his hand, he had a sack.
A bag, a bag, embroil of ivory and black. 
His eyes were not from this ground. 
His body fragile, he uttered a moaning sound.
He was of dirt. 
I was pure. 
He pledged his life to me. 
I debated.... with many thoughts, 
Although his eyes... 
My eyes... Will never meet again.
I want what is in the bag!
He said, "I'll give you anything for that ass.
My legs and bones can’t hold up on their own, no more!”
I knelt down to where he sat. 
Smelling his essence of rot. 
I reached forward and grabbed his only baggage. 
He said, "This bag is all I got!" 
 
I answered, "And this sir is a fine ass." 
He replied, "I have no cash." 
Scowling at him, “No I want your demon seeds!" 
How my blood grew thin... 
Inhaling and exhaling out his sin... 
The old man all shriveled and timeworn, 
Propose the birthright of the seeds. 
Yes, plant them! Plant them... 
I cried excitedly! 
He pats the field. 
Said there I am done. 
Now clock as it expands. 
 
To breed this story short... 
He dispense his seeds. 
AND, I GAVE HIM MY ASS. 
 
 
Lol...  BY;PD    (for seed contest)

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Poor Peter Pumpkin

Poor Peter Pumpkin had a very itty bitty head.
So the farmer made him stay inside the garden bed.

The farmer said that he was going to keep him warm with hay.
And there the itty bitty pumpkin stayed for many a day.

Finally, the farmer came to check upon poor Peter,
measured him and then exclaimed, “You’ve grown an extra meter!

I think it’s time for you to finally go face the world.”
Peter got up from his bed. He twirled and twirled and twirled!

“Oh my,” the farmer shouted, “You’ve grown two legs with feet!
You’re a special pumpkin. My daughters you must meet!”

Poor Peter heaved his hefty bulk, waddling away,
following behind the farmer so he would not stray.

They traveled rather quickly, and soon they reached the house.
The daughters saw the pumpkin and grew quiet as a mouse.

The silence lasted just until at last one daughter spoke,
“A pumpkin with two legs? Is this some kind of joke?”

Her father knelt beside her and whispered in her ear,
“Do not be afraid, my child. You’ve not a thing to fear.

We can carve a lantern. It will be your Halloween treat.
Then we can make lots of pumpkin pies for us to eat.

Peter trembled and grew chill to hear their horrid plan.
Jumping out the door, he yelled, “Catch me if you can!”

He ran into the pastures. Then he tumbled down a hill.
As  he rolled he bumped into the couple, Jack and Jill!

“Oh dear me,” cried Peter, “I do not wish to be
a lantern for this Halloween. Please, can you both help me!”

Jack and Jill then led him to the land of Nursery Rhymes.
His sad fate has now been told to children many times.

For he ran across a guy named Peter Pumpkin EATER.
Maybe you can guess now what became of our poor Peter!


Written by Andrea Dietrich and Jan Allison, for the 
Halloween Co-Writes Poetry Contest of  Diane Locksley

Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Farmer and His Corn

The Farmer and his Corn


Snug and warm beneath the earth
The field awaits the coming birth
It holds the richness that they need
Provides the anchor for the seed

The farmer by his hand did sow
Soon he knows his seed will grow
When length of day and rain is right
And sun above shines warm and bright

The rain has come the soil is moist
New life burst forth, it has no choice
With a sudden wondrous surge
A field of green does emerge

The farmer feels it in the air
He comes to see his field so fair
Quietly, just after dawn
His brand new field of corn is born

Quickly grow those humble shoots
Drawing goodness through their roots
All hot and hazy summer long
The shoots thrust upward, straight and strong

Golden now as flaxen hair
New seeds upon them they do bear
The farmer picks an ear to eat
To check then that, his corn is sweet

The farmer comes to field one morn
Another with him that day drawn
No face had he and yet was grim
The corn all knew that it was him

A shrouded hood, his face to hide
He follows just two steps behind
The mice who’s nests the stalks had borne
Know soon there will be no more corn

Not daring now to take a peep
They know for them they’ve come to reap
Both the men they carried scythes
They know they’ve come to end their lives

The farmer lifts the implement
To cut them down is his intent
A shadow fell, with mighty stroke
The farmers gone, with man in cloak.






Details | Farmer Poem | |

Clerihew Soup

I tell you I like, that Wayland a bunch
He'd be the guy, to be there in a crunch
Not afraid of humor, he paves the way
With clerihew words, he loves to play

Let's talk of Eileen, the Queen of passion
Her verses of pleasure, will not be rationed
She causes men to rise, women to weep
Many a farmer, have stopped counting sheep

Then there is Shadow, who is a bright light
Her name suggests darkness, but that isn't right
With a pen and paper, she loves to play
Out of the Shadow, poems brighten our day

There is the woman Donna, she is filled with charm
For her animals, she'd give her left arm
Still here in the soup, she adds her own spice
She's a little bit hot and a whole lot of nice

When it comes to Eagles Montery's the last word
She's not in a flock she's a solitary bird
With her strong wings creating a breeze
Verses dance on the wind with the greatest of ease

I can't forget about Richard, now there's a man
He teases Eileen, just because he can
Yet within the humor, his clever exists
His poetic talents, impossible to miss.

My friend Vicky T, has brought me to tears
She possesses insight well beyond her years
A voice from the wilderness, please take heed
Wisdom resides in her poems that we read

When it comes to nature, our Nette is the girl
She makes mountains quiver and pretty leaves twirl
To angelic worlds she causes us to travel
Brooks are helpless she makes them all babble

Our Andrea she is well beyond great
Her words are profound they carry such weight
Regardless of form, many contests she wins
She's top of the heap, before she begins

Becca's a doll, with a sensitive pen
She writes of the now and also the then
Her words magical, a muse guides her pen
Capturing my mind again and again

This place amazing, a Mystical Rose
A unique handle my creative friend chose
Perfect for her that woman has style
A perfect seven at the top of the pile

My buddy Drake he has really mad skills
With words like honey the airways he fills
If you are lucky he'll let you co-host
To him I raise a glass to happily toast

Others must wait I'm running out of Rymes
I will write of them some other time
Until then I must wish you all goodbye
Have a sip of my soup, give it a try.




Inspired to try my first Clerihew by 
Wayland Bunch. Hopefully I have got it right.


Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Fable of the Fox and Goose

 There once was a fox, as wise as can be,
 He lived in the hollow of an old oak tree.
 Not so very far from an ol’ Farmer’s Farm;
 A farmer he knew would do him great harm.

 Also, on that farm lived a lively young goose,
 And he caused the fox’s dry mouth to juice.
 Without a care, the goose gandered about,
 Causing the fox great apprehension, no doubt.

 One day they met at the edge of the farm:
 The goose knew, for sure, the fox meant him harm.
 Mr. Fox, I know you can eat me, he said,
 But, I know a better way you can be fed.

 The farmer has many an egg you can eat,
 and they are more juicy than feathery meat.
 I’ll tell you just how to gain your supply;
 as quick as a wink, or the blink of an eye.

 The farmer is rich and he doesn’t have need
 for all of his wealth, and all of his greed.
 We poor of the earth, he cares not about:
 We should take eggs from the lecherous lout.

 Sure, he feeds us, and quite well in fact,
 But he profits from the sweat of our back.
 We animals are brothers, and should take heed
 About each others wants and each others need.

 You can sneak around by the ol’ mill gate,
 while I distract the hound, down by the lake.
 His threat to you I shall circumvent,
 and you can then eat to your hearts content.

 The sly ol’ fox, he surmised this odd tale:
 Hen’s eggs were delicious, he knew quite well.
 Oh, this we will do, he quickly agreed:
 Eggs, he knew, were quite delicious indeed.

 So, the goose set off, the hound to distract,
 And also the fox, to the mill gate out back.
 But, the goose had another plan in his mind;
 A problem solution of a far different kind.

 He enlisted the hound in his subversive trick,
 To solve the fox dilemma finally and quick.
 He sent the hound round to the ol’ mill gate,
 Leaving himself to just piddle and wait.

 Then suddenly upon him with claw and tooth
 Pounced the fox, ‘fore he could honk or hoot.
 In this moral lesson we all can deduce,
 Why no-one says: “he’s as sly as a goose”.

The SLY fox knew: “If the goose would betray 
 the farmer that feeds him, he will betray me too.”
Lionel

Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Tale of Billy Bob Bunny

When Billy Bob Bunny turned one, his mama said, “Listen up, son. I’m sure you could get away from a net, but beware the guy bearing a gun! If a gun-toting farmer you see, you must hip hop away instantly. If he has good aim, you might end up lame or worse yet, rabbit stew you will be. So do please, Billy Bob, take good care that you don’t end up being the hare that loses his life so Farmer Jack’s wife has a soft rabbit stole she can wear!” But it wasn’t Billy Bob’s habit to listen to his Mama Rabbit. Without using good sense, he hopped over the fence, saw a carrot and started to grab it. Farmer Jack spied that rascal. Oh, my! From a gun, bullets started to fly. When a shot nicked his ear, Billy fell down from fear. Then he heard a small sound like a cry. “Please don’t shoot at the bunny again,” cried the farmer’s sweet daughter, and then Billy could feel her stroking his soft fur, and at night he was placed in a pen. Mama came to the pen and she said, “You are trapped. I’m just glad you’re not dead.” Though no freedom he had, Billy Bob was not sad. “I’m a loved pet,” he said, “and well fed!” The moral of this story is: You can tolerate any condition as long as you are loved and well fed!

Details | Farmer Poem | |

elegant giraffes


He wondered if his verse was made for fools
and cretins that splish-splash alongside whales
composing dull sonnets was chased by bulls 
- by elegant giraffes and racing snails.

Amid the chickens in his country cot,
while gulping bourbon the pig-farmer writes
his scribble verse turns to an artless blot
and straight he gulps one more for his insights

Oh, detrimental muse of his confused,
absconding inspiration that evades
his talent which was alcohol-abused,
and like the content of each bottle, fades:

......Inspiring advent of a healthy burp
made pigs and chickens to comment "superb"!

© G. V. 06-27-2013 All rights reserved

Sponsor: Judy Konos
Contest Name: The Lazy Contest

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Dandelions, Daisies and Golden Buttercups

Dandelions, daisies and golden buttercups
Carpet the fields, below a tree they look up

This colossus of wood with arms so spread
Capturing the sunlight, photosynthesis fed

Its reach out for life to the heavenly skies
Another marvel of nature in her portfolio surprise

The plough of the farmer and his sowing of the seeds
Turns this bright carpet to soil to feed our needs

When we have harvested the sown, and reaped natures rewards
The soil of life allows the carpet restored

Dandelions, daisies and golden buttercups
Like the colossus of wood, its their right to look up




http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature-8.php

Details | Farmer Poem | |

So High

....so        high

        on 
                    life


Went on a vision quest,
never coming down
never coming back down.

Spirits follow me through supermarkets,
pointing out the ones with dark auras
as I handle stale produce bound in abomination.
The spirits say to stay away from the bad ones,
for these cannibals handle packages of flesh buried in shallow graves.
Oh! I know the look of cannibals
who carry around an extra Y chromosome,
serving delusional missions of a false god.
Yes, stay away!
Stay away from my family!

They are preaching from the highest mountain top-
doesn't matter,
as I am already 

    so        high

        on 
                    life


Went on a vision quest,
climbing up higher,
never coming down
never coming back down.

One gigantic interconnected lifeform,
but the sacrificial ram cannot see

    anymore.

Farmer Jim drops by with his special tin cup,
filling it up with fresh blood____crimson rivulets pour from a cut throat.
Steam rising in the crisp morning air,
he tips back his wide face taking deep draughts,

    and I

pretend to be a man
even though I am merely a boy,
stopping myself from throwing up curdled breakfast
as farmer Jim wipes lips with a rust coloured sleeve-
a self-medicated sleeve of selfish memories.

They cannot move,
impaled upon a white picket fence,
laughing at me,
but I simply keep moving on,
a dreamwalker switching the tracks
towards a sunrise of futuristic endeavors.

7 deaths and 7 births
trying to fit through the needle's eye-

     I am                  so high

               on     
                       life


Was told to never say never,
but I am flying above the boundaries now,
swimming across the borders of dreams,
coming apart at the seams
so that I may be put back together again.


Going on another vision quest,
climbing ever higher,
tearing open my third eye
with the drums of our Earth,
with the drums of dreamwalkers,
never coming down
never coming down.

                                                 

                                              March 1st, 2011

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Crazy Thoughts No 1

Why do they call it 'tourist season'
If you're not allowed to shoot 'em
Seems like a great opportunity
To end the over crowding problem

If a house fly loses both of its wings
Would we have to call them 'walks'
Is it possible to have a civil war
Of course not that's just silly talk

Any idea what the best thing was
That came before sliced bread
If a turtle somehow loses its shell
Is it homeless, naked, or dead

I find this saying quite unnerving
“Practice” is what doctors do
And braille on drive-through windows
Find that kinda scary don't you

If a parsley farmer ever gets sued
Can they legally garnish his wages
Well that's enough of this silly talk
At times I go through these phases

© Jack Ellison 2012

Details | Farmer Poem | |

I Touched The Wall Today (The Vietnam Memorial Wall)

Emotions flooded my very soul as I viewed that Sacred Wall.
Etched for all eternity are hero's names who sacrificed their all.
I sensed that I was on hallowed soil as I knelt on bended knee.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

I offered a silent prayer for each of the names that I caressed.
Tho' their time here was brief, by them we were truly blessed.
They placed national destiny above their own defending liberty.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

They were ordinary Americans who performed extraordinary things,
Such grand and noble acts to ensure that freedom's bell yet rings!
They gave their full measure that humankind might live free.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

What might they have become, I muse, had fate not dealt them so,
A teacher, doctor, a farmer?  Alas, we shall never know.
To teach nations The Golden Rule, I suspect would be their plea.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

Tho' grander monuments have been built for those of greater fame,
This simple yet powerful memorial will keep alive the flame,
Of humanity's quest for brotherhood, peace and dignity.
I touched The Wall today, but more than that, The Wall touched me.

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)

Placed 7th in "The Best Day Of Your Life" Contest
Placed 3d in the "Your Best Poem" Contest" June 2010
Featured Poem Of The Week 2-9 May 2010
lst Place in Security Public Library (Colorado) Poetry Contest - May 2006
Published in Poet Bob Casey's Book, "An Oasis In A Cluttered World" - 2006


Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Honey Diet


Anytime I feel hungry instead of eating a full meal I eat Honey. The best part is that Honey doesn't mind, she's a sweetheart. Maurice Yvonne 20~11~2014 The Refrain I bought a box of Animal Crackers. On the box it said "Do not eat if seal is broken" So I opened the box. I looked inside and sure enough... The Encore If a parsley farmer doesn't pay his bills can they garnish his wages? Closing Remarks There is a new virus. It has no symptoms and no consequences. I am terrified. It turns out I have been diagnosed with it. I am not a hypochondriac. I really do have it. If you don't believe me ask my Gynecologist! Maurice Yvonne 11~20~2014

Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Dog Days of Summer

We let down the top to soak in the sun
Now that the harshness of winter is done

As you let back the seat and put your feet on the dash
Saying, “keep your eyes on the road I don’t want to crash”

I truly must admit that I’m torn completely in two 
The coast has its beauty, then again so do you

As the beauty of the Sun is absorbed by your skin
Like a kid at the candy store I simply want to dig in

If life is a candy store sweetheart you are the treat
All the other candy I tasted, never tasted so sweet

The reason I love summer is because of the heat
The skimpier the bikini, the greater the treat 

I can’t begin to express how wonderful you are
Saying, “hey take a look at her I’ll steer the car”

At first I truly had no idea what I should say?
Though now it’s, “ok sweetheart, have it your way”

I think that is because you know these words are true
I may take look at her but I shall forever belong to you

Summer is a time that is as bright as the sun
Out goes the cold as it’s replaced by the fun

We have our barbecues and sit under the stars
Let down the tops and go for rides in our cars

Go tend to our gardens in farmer John clothes
Truly amazed at how fast everything grows

Go hang out at the river as well as the lake
Cover ourselves in oil than let our skin bake

Embrace the moments because these words are true
The days last much longer and the sky is so blue

The dog days of summer I reckon that’s so
We bark and howl at folk we don’t even know

If life is banquet then summer is the feast
I think we should gobble it up, to say the least


Written for john's Summer contest.

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

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


Details | Farmer Poem | |

On Names

I once met a farmer,
Who showed me the plains.
“What is this beauty?”
And he told me her name.

I once met a shaman,
He lived in forests of rain.
“What is this beauty?”
And he told me her name.

I once met a sailor,
Who showed me the waves.
“What is this beauty?”
And he told me her name.

So when I met you,
I was struck by your face.
“Who are you?”
And you told me your name.

Details | Farmer 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 | Farmer Poem | |

in the farmer's song

so, i got to thinking
about all those words
planted in my language
where fertility grew them
to leave and stalk and pod

the farmer's words scatter
my fields like seed on clod
watered by thundering flashes
awash, fertilized and germinating

progeny seedlings, my own growth
in some time-lapse photography
writhing their creamy roots
into earthy loam and droning
on through a summer daze

into fruits of sweaty labors 
on humid chlorophylled days
silks sultry green, stalking me
through rows and rows as far
as i can see, if i squint

the farmer, suspended in time
stands with his hands in pocket
or on some implement toed to soil
and surveys life's prospects 
for this season, before the

days bake the green back into 
the humus and the cornucopia 
spills the field and orchard
this verse of the farmer's song
picked and stowed away cool

eyes closed now, ears gently
strain to hear, worldly phrasing
come from where? my larder
or some ancestor gleaning meaning
and dropping it into her apron

to carry home to hungry minds
to feed them something of today
and sustain them through a fallow
solstice and the chilled breeze

any cultivation harvested over
picked clean and harrowed flat
nearly time to plow it under again
while the farmer gazes the horizon
and sips something in his cup

© Goode Guy 2011-08-22

Details | Farmer Poem | |

YESTERYEAR'S MELODY

A melody from yesteryear 
Plays softly on the wind--
A mix of myrrh and honey,
A wistful sweet and bitter blend.

Fond memories of bygone days,
Of long departed friends.
Of hollyhocks and lilacs,
A reverie that never ends.

A vision of a one-room school
Set in a woodland glade--
Of children playing joyfully
There in a spreading oak tree's shade.

A farmer toiling in his field
Behind a horse and plow.
No air conditioned tractors
As modern farmers do it now.

A rustic, weathered, country church,
A Sunday morning bright
Glows fondly now in memory,
Bathed in nostalgia's hallowed light.

A barefoot boy with fishing pole
Beside a lazy stream.
A song in perfect harmony 
Played in that golden summer dream.

Oh memories, sweet memories
Locked in my soul to stay.
Oh melody, sweet melody,
A haunting song of yesterday. 

Details | Farmer Poem | |

I Don't Need To Be

I don’t need to be a farmer 
To know life is hard work and sacrifice
I don’t need to be Gandhi 
To know peace is the only way 
I don’t need to Martin Luther King Jr. 
To have a dream of unity 
I don’t need to be a samurai 
To know that honor is expressed daily
By meeting ones responsibilities 
With determination and care 
I don’t need to be Mother Teresa 
To Know it is our responsibility to lift up others
I don’t need to be Jesus 
To Know right from wrong 
And always do the right thing 
I don’t need to be Buddha 
To know one should always strive 
To be logical and emotionally sound 
I don’t need to be the devil 
To know the weakness of men 
I don’t need to be the Anti-Christ 
To see our future 

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Parable of the Seed

Parable of the Seed “10 He said, “The knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of God has been given to you, but to others I speak in parables, so that, “‘though seeing, they may not see; though hearing, they may not understand.’11 “This is the meaning of the parable: The seed is the word of God. 12 Those along the path are the ones who hear, and then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved.” Luke 8:10-12 NIV We are the soil, and God’s Word the seed— God is the farmer of the field. The birds of the air is Satan and his host, To whom the wicked yield. When the seed falls on stony ground, It withers in the sun and dies. But when it falls on healthy soil, On the Lord, it continually relies. Good seeds are the Children of the Kingdom; Weeds belong to the wicked one. God’s seed represents His words of truth; The weeds God’s truth have shun. Let’s be like the soil of the mustard seed And produce a tree of might. When the birds lodge in its shadows, They cannot destroy with blight. The Word of God is a mighty seed, When spoken and when read; Mightier than many tall trees, Where the ‘birds of the air’ have bed. When we submit to the ‘farmer’, And devour His precious truth seed; Allow Him to tend and water us, With heaven we’ll be agreed. So when the Word of God is spoken And truth absorbed with great delight, The soil [saints] will prosper and flourish— Of wickedness lose sight. But when seed falls on the pathway, That’s trodden down by time, The heart is not receptive; Has no desire for truth divine. © Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue www.maureenlefanue.com

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Back for Good

Absense makes the heart grow fonder
Did you miss me? A question for you to ponder
Even if you said you did not you are a liar
The bad ones back and its you that I am after

Before you jump through some hoops to look better
Paint your nose red to end all illusions of laughter
Drive in your little car that shoots water from the bumber
And crash in the fire pit created by me the helter skelter

Did you miss the way I used to play with your mind
Ask you pointless questions in ever setting rhyme
Makes you wonder how can I be so good at telling lies
What rhymes with stupid? Look in the mirror see your demise

As you get tattoos of pointless things on your body
Waisting the talent of art you scream for a lobby
Except noone can hear you cry as the ink bleeds
Into your skin you are marked like a farmer does to his pig

Branded from life is this what you meant to do
Pointless ink cant hide what its covering in you
Just as the numbers on the arms of all those harmless Jews
Marked to die your day will come as you kneel on the pue

Die for him for he died for us they said
Bunch of bullsht he committed suicide for what? the dead?
Gimme a break take the good book back to Disneyland
Tell Mickey Mouse to keep it locked up with the Pirates of Carribean

For he is much more a God to me
I can see his lies and deciet unlike the hero of creed
Glad you know whos boss in this underworld
Better get a clue before you brand yourself again in swirl

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Farmer Joe

On the banks of the mighty Skagit,
where the rushing waters flow,
sat a fisherman of merit,
the one known as Farmer Joe.
Long he sat there, long he fished there,
always waiting for the day
he would catch a mighty salmon
and it wouldn't get away.
He had lived upon the prairies
where crop farming was his life,
working hard to care for family,
seven children and a wife.
Times were hard and for this farmer
it was toil and toil some more.
If good crops the price was lower,
if good prices, crops were poor.

He worked hard, did this poor farmer
and he fed his family well,
for he raised this big truck garden,
pigs to eat and milk to sell.
He thought often of his childhood
on the banks of the Wabash,
where he spent his youth just fishing,
some to eat and some for cash.
Rationed waters on the prairies,
in the years when it was dry,
made him long so for the rivers.
Even tough old farmers cry.
Family raised he quit his farming,
and he headed for the West,
where he'd heard of powerful rivers
and of fishing at its best.

Once he saw the Skagit River
in the State of Washington,
said he then, "We'll go no further
for I know this is the one."
Stayed he there by that big river,
never straying far away;
stayed he there and fished it daily.
It was now his time to play.
Grown old he had at farming,
he had just a few years left
for to catch that wary salmon,
the great one of mighty heft.
When the fishing season opened,
he'd get up at break of day,
fix his breafast, fix his lunch sack.
He'd be on that bank to stay.

There he met his fishing cronies,
all retired with leisure time.
Sat they fishing by the river,
all these fellows past their prime.
Then one day at last it happened.
He pulled out that fishing prize.
Then they weighed and then they measured
and declared it super size.
And the fisherman of merit,
the one known as Farmer Joe,
grinned and said, " I'm glad I did it,
before it was my time to go."
God in heaven must have noticed
how he longed for that big fish.
Said He then,  "I'll let him stay there
long enough to get his wish".

On the wall there hangs a picture 
of that farmer and his prize,
for that farmer was my daddy
who a few weeks later dies.
Called he then to old St. Peter,
standing guard at the Golden Gate.
"Welcome Joe",  said that old fisherman.
"Come on in, the fishing's great".



Won 3rd place
For Mac's Best poem contest.  (It may not be my best but it is the one of which I am most 
proud.  It hangs on the wall beside my daddy and his big fish.

Details | Farmer Poem | |

We Must Pay the Price

Everything in life has a price
Someone must always pay 
Life begins and ends with a price
If someone don't, you must somehow pay
If you don't, who must pay?

You're earning income because you had to pay
You're enjoying because you had to pay
You're being punished because you had to pay
You're called a lover because you had to pay
You're seen a friend because you had to pay

You're on earth because a man and a woman had to pay
you're secured because the police had to pay 
You're eating because the farmer had to pay
You're hopeful after death because God had to pay 
You're reading this poem because the poet had to pay

We enjoy free lunch now because someone before us paid the price
We are independent now because someone before us paid the price
We are healthy now because  someone before us paid the price
We are here now paying still because someone before us paid the price
We can't afford not to pay because someone before us paid the price

Details | Farmer Poem | |

Momerick

There once was a lady named "Mom"
Who had a hard time keeping calm.
But she knows how to sew
And garden and mow
And she's a farmer on facebook.com

She's a grandma to Mel and Harmony
She's a young wife for "Gramps" who's 70! 
She calms the waters
Of her four lovely daughters
And best of all she puts up with me.