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Best Farmer Poems

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| 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 | |

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

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

Folk Song of India Farmer, Clouds, Rains and Trees


A Folk Song of India My Video Song is also on You Tube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukRQxnYGQwQ&feature=plcp Background Note: Its a story of a worried Farmer as his fields were dry because of no rains & the season of planting Rice was passing fast. His eyes were full of tears while thinking, what he would eat & earn if he fails to plant the Rice saplings without good Rains in his fields. The song conveys feelings of an Indian farmer, who often face such situations due to lack of rains. Rains felt pity & flooded his fields or his love for Trees & Nature. Folk Song of India- Farmer, Clouds, Rains and Trees The Farmer was thinking, While sitting near his fields, How, he would plant, The saplings of Dhaan ( Rice). The clouds keep coming, But fly away and vanish soon, There are hardly few trees in the forest, Who can call and attract the clouds. To tell the clouds, The miseries of the farmer, As, clouds never overlook, The wishes of their beloved trees. But the trees could not convey and tell, The tortures and pains, they have suffered, One by one they have been cut and burned, By none other than their own nursing Man. Because of this only , The clouds often do not come, And run away without showering, When they see such humans. The Farmer was thinking, While sitting near his fields, How without rains he would plant, The saplings of Dhaan ( Rice). But that old farmer, Had planted many many trees, Thinking that the clouds, Came down on the ground. The eyes of the old farmer, Were wet and restless, Tears were appearing and were, Coming out, every now and then. The clouds hovering on the fields, Saw tears in his eyes, While wiping his tears, The clouds too began to weep. Then, it began to rain all over, And the fields got flooded soon, The old farmer raised his head, And saw towards the sky. After seeing all around, The fields flooded with water, The farmer with gratitude, Again & again touched the Rain clouds. Tears started flowing from his eyes, With happiness, And the clouds again showered more rains, To wipe the tears from the eyes of the old farmer. Then the time came to plant, The saplings of Dhaan (Rice), Without forests and their darling trees, Clouds hardly showers their love drops. The Farmer was thinking, While sitting near the fields, He would again plant, Many more and more tree this time. Kanpur India 24th July 2012center> Sub in Hon of LisaCooper for her Silver Tear contest

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

A Farmer by Trade

He worked on the land, a farmer by trade.
He never will know the impact he made.

When plowing the fields, his mind would be filled 
with lessons in life he taught and instilled. 
“Life’s pretty simple” my grandpa would claim, 
“The rules we should live by are always the same.” 
He delivered his thoughts in a wry kind of style. 
You’d think he was mad, but then he would smile. 

He was always profound, a man of his word. 
He would always look forward despite what occurred. 
“I’ve never reaped anything I didn’t first sow. 
The seeds that you plant is the crop that will grow. 
Fix your eyes on a spot, if you want to plow straight. 
If you need to start over, it’s never too late.” 

One thing I remember, he often would share, 
“Don’t tear down a fence, ‘til you know why it’s there. 
Some fences are built to keep danger away, 
some fences are built so we’ll know where to stay.” 
His philosophy in life was to, “Let people be.
I’m not here to judge, lest they should judge me.”

“Some things are better off left on the ground, 
manure doesn’t stink ‘til you stir it around.” 
The best thing he taught me was how I could find 
the answer to anything crossing my mind. 
Whatever I’d ask him, he’d get out the Book, 
saying, “God wrote it down, if you take time to look.”

He understood things that few understand.
A farmer by trade, he worked on the land.

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

A Farmer's Prayer

Make sunrise early and the sunset wait;
make summer early and the winter late!
Allow the crops to sprout and thrive
and give me hope to man the drive.

Please let the raindrops fall at night
and keep the ground firm in daylight.
Make all my callouses a bit more tough
when times are hard and life gets rough.

Please, bless the plow that parts the furrow
and earth in which our hopes shall burrow.
Supply enough of sweat and blood 
to drive on when bad luck should flood.

Dear Lord, I ask you bless the seeds
and spare them from the choke of weeds.
Help them arise from in the ground
and bear enough to go around.

But most of all...

Please keep my spirit in your palm
my will intact, my body strong,
my family close, my faith untaxed,
my heartbeats tight, my laughs relaxed! 

| Details | Farmer 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 | Farmer Poem | |

The Farmer's Pride

finery of sunset
orange colors sky
late afternoon
shadows land
subdued brown
field after harvest
resting
farmer’s pride
resting
harvest after field
brown subdued
land shadows
afternoon late
sky colors orange
sunset of finery

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

Every Farmer Knows

Gates and mouths,
Are alike in two respects,
Both require a hinge to operate,
And they're most often found open,
When they should be closed.




















| Details | Farmer Poem | |

A Farmer's Tale

pale silken strands sway
tickling the warm breezy air
honey wheat wands dance

prosperity flows
nourishing life on the farm
drought came and all died

TLH  ©  05-31-2012

Haiku/Senryu

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

Life in A Farmer's Day

.


                 Ploughs and pastures, furrows and frowns
                     Rows of seeds, for miles and miles
                  A crop, a harvest, to table, and smiles




_______________________________
Submitted for Brian Strand's contest
"Poetry of the Noun" Haiku

| Details | Farmer 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 | Farmer Poem | |

Ode to the farmer (#2)

Ode to the farmer
We depend on your livestock
We're very grateful

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

One Old Farmer-With No Name

.


He was maverick on a country lane
A bit peculiar, but not ashamed
He never said much to make us stare
But he lived with a certain air
His story, kept private, known by very few
He always said he had paid his dues

We are the neighbors who lived down the lane
We heard his stories again and again
Of knowing what the sun intended to do
With curly clouds, and why the blue
His talk of Nebraska, horses, hogs and grain
Discussed the crops, of frost, or lack of rain

We had seen him many a sun-drenched day
Standing in the field with the horizon in his gaze
Perhaps he dreamed of prairie skies
Yet there was a certain wisdom within his eyes
Lightly as leaves cling, the quick years clung
About his shoulders, till his songs were sung
Kept to himself for many a year
...but today, his story has ended here

Now there lies such sad disbelief...
Surprised, and unexpected,..so immense our grief
For what had begun over eighty years ago
There is still so much we will never, ever know
Who was the man who had no name?
He paid his dues, but no one knew

Exiled he was, but never his words
Words that "fell to the soul...
                                         like dew on the grain"....


--------------------------------------
For Paula's Contest: How Due You Dew

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

A Farmer’s Dream (Lai Verse)

Prancing through the fields
Golden sunrays yield;
Raindrops…
Fall from the grayed ceil,
Cloudy teardrops wield,
Pained crops…
Soon to be fulfilled,
Nourished and then tilled;
Good Marks!

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

If you want to be a farmer...

If you want to be a farmer...you've got to learn to hoe
   You've got to plow a straight row
If you want to be a farmer...you've got to know how to sow
   You've got to not care if you're po'
If you want to be a farmer...you need to pray for rain's flow
   You must your bounty bestow

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

A Farmer's Eyes and a Sailor's Shadow

A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast

Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds

Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are

Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs

Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens

#Poem by +Gokul Alex

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Farmer's Accord

The farmers sleep with
Third eyes open.
Ever watchful over their teenage daughters.
How the boys must beseech them desperately.
Uncomfortable, muggy fondlings
In the bed of a red rusted pickup
Parked by the creek dubbed Lovers Point.
At the breakfast table in the morning,
They glow with proximity
And their tired eyes hover dreamily
From the orange cranberry muffins
To the freshly squeezed orange juice
Filled at the half way mark of a mason jar.
When you ask why they don't eat
They simply smile
And say nothing.
Your curiosity will linger on your teeth
But still you will say nothing.
Bitter memories of your past regrets
To teach lessons of discretion
Are better left unsaid.
You will not douse them in the overwhelming
Blanket of your security
And the palms of your hands that
Once smiled in the womb like presence
Of handling your new born daughter
And naming her Jane or Virginia
Is suddenly missing the hold of her hand.
But you share a few natural harmonies
Like the silent agreement of pecking his cheek
Twice before bedtime
Or the precarious way you both sit at
The wobbling three legged milking stool
When your pulling on Betsy on Thursday
And she's tugging at Betty on Wednesday
As you shave the gray stubble of your throat.
But for now in the strangely comfortable
Peace of staring at the spots of jam
On the white and yellow checkered table cloth
You'll abruptly slide your chair back
And lean closely to her ear as you slightly whisper
Slightly inaudible notations.






| Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Farmer and The Cowboy / Deuteronomy 11:13

The Farmer woke, 
Before break of day, 
And for a little rain did pray. 
Then hitched his team, 
And plowed the land, 
Given him by the Master’s hand. 
 
The Cowboy awoke, 
And a prayer he sighed, 
“Please give us rain, for the prairie is dry.” 
Then in the heat, 
He did rope and brand, 
The cattle given him by the Master’s hand. 
 
At night, before sleep, 
The Farmer read, 
The words from the Bible that God had said, 
“If you’ll keep my Commandments, 
In it’s season I’ll make it rain, 
And you shall eat, 
And your land shall fill with grain.” 
 
The Cowboy fell asleep remembering, 
A verse his Ma had read, 
A promise God made and the words he said, 
“Love and serve the Lord God, 
And it shall come to pass, 
That I shall make it rain, 
And for the cattle, there shall be grass.” 
 
So each resolved, in his own way, 
To be a better man, 
And follow closely the Commandments, 
And there-fore save the land. 
 
And though they never met, 
They prayed for the same thing, 
And watched the sky for the clouds, 
And the rain that they would bring. 
 
And though it was long in coming, 
The drops fell upon the land, 
And revived and refreshed these special places, 
Given by the Master’s hand. 
 
The Farmer and the Cowboy, 
Each prayed for the land of which they were fond, 
And through their belief, they saved the Earth, 
Through the Lord’s Common Bond.

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

I Want A Farmer Boy

Many little girls dream about a prince coming to their tower to save them from trouble, 
Called their mother, 
Or a knight in shining armor to take away their bother, 
Called their father, 
But not I 
I dream about a farmer boy, 
One who bales hay from sun up to sun down, 
Feeds the pigs, even with a frown

I don’t want a prince with gold, 
A knight with armor, 
I want a farmer boy

I want a man who will treat me right, 
Not one who thinks he knows more than I, 
I do not want a prince who will buy me what I want and them leave me be, 
I do not want a knight, who will always leave me, 
I want a man who will hold me tight and tell me he loves me 
Before he says goodnight

I don’t want a prince with gold, 
A knight with armor, 
I want a farmer boy

I don’t want a man who will rule over me, 
Or one who will always leave me be, 
I want a man who will treat me right and hold me tight, 
A man who will hold me as his equal, 

I don’t want a prince with gold, 
A knight with armor, 
I want a farmer boy

A man who says I love you 
Every chance he gets

Many little girls dream about a prince coming to take them away from trouble, 
Called their mother, 
Or a knight coming to take away their bother, 
Called their father
I want a farmer boy.

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

Limerick: Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po

Limerick: Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po

Once an upset farmer in Xin Jia Po*
Built farms upwards in tiers: O! Vertigo!
Produce diminishing
UFOs pilfering
Now he sows wild oats in Infierno!

•	Chinese for Singapore
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

the Farmer’s field: dedicated to poet James Galvin

picking up his pen, cranking the motor
every grass-plot ready to develop a field
the Farmer jostles on, selecting fertile earth

dust lazing up behind his ink-sower
the sky a translucent tent over his head
the visions he plants
like coarse grain ready to sprout
in the onlooker’s mind

his machine treads parallel rows
each line behaving like another
his machine drops pale seeds
each plant-speck a potential thought-harvest
his machine turns at the earthy corners
each boundary concise and defined

his sowing done at this speckled dye-black field
the Farmer turns his pen to another
transforming the wild prairie
into orderly stalks
waving with whispered timbre

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

In Farmer Joe’s Garden

In Farmer Joe’s Garden

There once was a rabbit named Rosie.
She liked to eat carrots and posies.
While in farmer Joe’s garden,
She startled the yardmen.
So, they fled like big chickens, those three!


© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
March 7, 2010
Poetic form:  Limerick
(Practice, practice, practice)

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

The Farmer's Wife

It came into her mind, seeing how the clothes
Were dirty, and the water needed drawing again
How hard, how drear the work on the farm goes
And chickens needed feed'n, hogs needed water
Why women and not men were expected to tend
To all these hard chores, and not go to the shore
To explore, play, and stay, taking all day to get away
To relax not totally be tired out at the end of the day

He couldn't understand why she was so tired
Never felt like being the turtle dove
That he wanted at the end of the day to love
To hold for just a few minutes of consecrated 
Attention, to share what he felt and wanted;
Why he talked to the mule more dedicated
Words, than she talked to him at night
I'll just get me another life with another wife

Premium Member Poem | Details | Farmer Poem | |

MECCA TO A FARMER'S MARKET



A clatter of human hooves drums on through an after- dawn marketplace… the wide tunnel of mouths reel from the splintered chorus of jangled tunes bargaining and rattling papaya, arabica and sushi roll orders: a fiesta of succulent aroma whisks mid-air, talkative faces sampling potent crops on weaved baskets , hanging neatly before slurpy hands condemn them to boiling pots: the errant noise loose like gander and hogs. How much is this and that? The slithering, crumpled bills drop their tongues on purses scraped from one week’s abominable toil.. oh, darting fishes jerk their bellies while the array of chicken hunks glaze under lights, frozen and lumped from farmers’ harvest rites... morning so luscious with grapes colored velvet skin, lettuce tips pulped by shiny green: and the procession of lapping mouths reach head tone pitch, dishes, dishes for salivating tongues, taste buds for citrusy fruits, on one delirious mecca to a market, market day! ...................... Charlotte Puddifoot's Poem On Places 8/24/2014

| Details | Farmer Poem | |

Therefore beholding plays the farmer pale

Dried sand eclipsed over the Season’s fall, 
sullen rhyme sings singer-birds over scale,
the storm-dance sprays dust against broken wall,
To the hat-worn folks, sorrowed, narrates tale;
Done seasonal harvest with plaint-dried tears,
With diseased cattle shrunken skin to ribs,   
With cracked ground, hungry sad visage of fears,
With wasted limbs and pot-bellied in cribs.
keenly begs graceful charity for age,
Promising bags, from next seasons harvest,
To plough the ground below the lowered wage,
And to lock starving kids to empty breast.
Thus rewording he sows the seeds and play, 
Hoping golden grain’s harvest from his clay.
©Anees Rahman