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Long Farm Poems | Long Farm Poetry

Long Farm Poems. Below are the most popular long Farm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Farm poems by poem length and keyword.

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Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Enduring Spinning: Agriculture, Culture and War

You can feel it spinning
                                fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                                  punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                            overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                         I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                    where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexico's greatest and most beloved leader.

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                                         shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                                                   chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, children's games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                                                  inertia.
                                                                                                                
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                   While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                      Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                      daily meditation.
                                             The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                  who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                          The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                      together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                                 versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                  And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments.






Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/lifes_midway_668462' st_title='Life's Midway'>

Life's Midway

Our body is only a cloak;
seek the one who has dressed you,
heed not the dress.
Midway means nothing to infinity.

When totally immersed in pursuits that you love,
illness and pain won't distract you.
Midway means nothing to infinity.

I wonder why when a bird 
clearly sees the trap laid out for her,
she's still drawn to fly straight in!
Midway means nothing to infinity.
Rumi (M Mafi translation)

Midway means nothing (0) to binomial time,
captured between a polynomial past and  not-so-unpredictably resolving,
resonantly revolutionary,
mutually redemptive future,
where science religions polycultural metrics of infinitely wise and lovely bodies
discovering Interior Landscape's analogical ecology of evolution v. revolution,
diastatic compost mirroring and absorbing Earth's nutrient streams and flows,
functions and (0)-core frequencies 
of energy and life,
development and design,
decomposition and regenesis,
organically fertilized farming
Prime Relationships of loving peace-filled fairness
in Beloved Climax Communities.

Space means nothing to Time, as
Midway means nothing to Infinity,
as Midway equals Polynomial +Left-Deductive
reiteratively dancing with(-)(-)Polynomial (-)Right-Inductive,
as Yang-convex + Yin-concave = [(0)logic Tao]
balances Infinity's Prime Relationship
between Here and Now  cooperative economic ecologic,
meeting Economic Design CQI,
Globally Synergetic Optimization,
Natural System Development Standards
of ecotherapeutic orthopraxis
thermodynamic balance
and electromagnetic 4-equivalent dimensional spacetime Commons function.

Adults grow from children
deep learning prime relationship
between isolating comedic ridicule
and mutually humored information
emerging from both self and other,
confluently sometimes,
while other times only through sustained cognitive dissonance,
hard birthing events,
yet both confluent Yang/Yin harmony
and dissonant Yang-dominance
unveil redemptive merit
for polyparadigmatic comprehension of other complex
chaotic
stressful
discontented love relationships.

Shared joy and beauty and goodness and wisdom
multisystemically regenerate
when polyculturally analyzed and decomposed
discussed and discerned
remembered and reconnected and religioned
reflected and redeemed
with karmic grace intent,
grateful noticing as-is here and now,
cooperatively redemptive practice,
mutually mentoring synergetic design,
incarnating Boddhisatva Messiahs and Prophets,
Teachers who are first EcoTherapeutic Listeners,
thus permaculturing orthopractors.

Zero Space is Infinite Time
at Her best
wisely resonant Beauty
YangBeing what we are YinBecoming-Balanced
diastatically enculturing internal Climax Communities,
both YangJustStrength and YinOrganicBeauty EcoTherapists
enjoying our ride,
avoiding "I am Ego-Special" feelings
if only because catastrophic paranoia and megalomania both grow contagiously sad and angry,
slowly
transitioning
returning to a self-regenerating dream of
Beloved Community Teleology and Orthopraxis
of active peace absorbing issues of lack-of-time fears
such as mortality and death and climatic survival
as something darker than a shadow chasing Infinite Light
and Midway as something other than this revolving ride between
our SuperEco One,
our Love,
our Contentment,
our being and belonging
where Here greets Now greets Here
eternal cooperative economic ecotherapeutic information
redundantly  and inclusively unfolding
enculturing
binomial/binary un-double-knotting systemic QBit string
of prime fractal-telecometric Beloved Community.

Midway is nothing to Infinity
as (-)(-) balancing information-bits grow everytimely
ecotherapeutic (+) prime Eulerian relationship function,
(0) Core Vector/Vortex Fullerian crystal-fractal spacetime.

Id is nothing to SuperEco
as ego-centrism confluently optimizes resonance
with Right-brained eco-natural systemic encoded DNA/RNA
SuperEco Metric Regenerative Optimization Systems,
both thermodynamic and electromagnetic.

Here is nothing to Now
as Now is Comprehensive Coincident Intelligence
regenerating SuperEco Tao.

Fear is nothing to Love
as Love loses everything to Fear of Time's Unresolved Absence,
as Absence of Fear enculturates Beloved Communities,
Exterior/Interior Prime (0)-sum Balancing Cooperative Landscapes.

Here means everything to Now
as Midway means nothing to Infinity
unfolding permaculturing past
enfolding polycultural future promise.


Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details |

Communicating the Bird

How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for what makes
      them special
How we express our love and gratitude.

Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome of
      meetings.
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been longing for.

Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn or to hide a
      plover
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the opposing team
      scored.

What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food, local jobs.
      Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel, less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change and global
      warming will be within man's adaptive capacity. On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a job for every
      grackle, crow.

The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children although my
      children are not so poisoned. They're bald. Unusually bald. Good
      looking bald. Future of man bald. Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a conservationist,
      philanthropist, on the river, whose husband recently died. During
      romantic dinner on a second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't that
      great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
-I'm gonna kill that bitch.

Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One
      Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's) body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could not be
      considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better than that.
      Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower mandibles meeting.
      From hunger, or it just does. Crows clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also involving
      communicating birds, in what is initially an embarrassingly emotional
      display. All that italicized moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into your eyes.
      Suddenly you realize you should have taken him seriously, been
      paying attention.

In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for money, save
      farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it will be
      quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more fucking." I mean really . . . I was
      moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane dying and I
      guess fucking can be music to someone's melody, stand for living,
      but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather bird than
      fuck. No more fucking, no more worry, no more war.

Which is why I'm gonna kill that bitch is so funny, such a life-affirming
      comeback.
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her husband. Maybe
      she does,
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to know.






Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |

Why Life

Why does dawn dress morning,
while dusk undresses sight?
Each dawn incarnates another Earth Day
as Easter morning's redemptive revolution,
another day of gift-it-forward light,
some longer,
some shorter before naked covered night.

Why life?
To uncover love's invitation,
synergy's self-optimizing mindful meaning.
To discover love sustained 
as vastly interdependent belonging.
To cover love's self-perpetuating pilot light,
balancing fire's decomposing fuel source
burn rate 
and flow toward self-identity's
nurturing heated health and eternal sight.

Why rehabilitation,
repurposing of people, places,
property and planet?
Regeneration unfolds a coincidentally redemptive event,
dawning/darkening new each moment and day and life and species,
paradigm and meme,
language and information,
each loving act of synergetic practice.
Therapeutic intent to rehabilitate and repurpose
grows coincidentally nutritious spiritual roots,
explicating natural branches,
ecologically and economically healing cooperative Paradise Lost
within and without,
comprehensive coincident landscapes
of Id and SuperEco natural Earth systems.

Language both fertilizes and farms.
produces and consumes,
grows and harvests vision
sight
sound
feelings.
Speech and thought both rehabilitate and repurpose understanding,
coincidentally comprehensive compassionate mindfulness.
Linguistic analysis decomposes and regenerates cultural memory, imagination, hope and faith,
despair predicting decay,
both dissonance and confluence,
double-negatives within positive,
longing within belonging.

Noticing coincidental prime dipolar relationship,
Id-yin and SuperEco-yang entities,
enriches comprehensive fields of analogical perception,
growing consciousness of interdependent paradigms,
love between my weeds and flowers,
dissonance and confluence,
brothers and sisters all over this organic farm
of deeply resonant ecology.

Id-entity rests simply silent
growing confidence in SuperEco's comprehensive revolution
resonant resolution
swelling discontented longing roots
to regenerate active-peacefilled leafing NOW.

SuperEco is to Yang/Yin synergetic optimizing power
as Id-entity is to Yang/Yin balancing voiceless listening discernment
to and of and in and by natural systems,
as non-violent loving intent is to regenerate peace and ecojustice orthopraxis,
as inclusive mindfulness grows co-passion's Beloved Community.

Decompositional function of polynomial language 
grows information's reverse hierarchy QByte octaved bicameral systems,
where not-polynomial discovers not-not polynomial spacetime,
in double-boundaried resolution of NOW greets infinite past and future.
Regenerate function of language creates inspiration,
joy,
insight,
dawning both ecologically wise and economically (0)-summed effective,
synergizing Earth's peaceful power with comprehensively mindful justice.
 
SuperEco comprehension both fuels and farms love,
organic ecotherapeutic synergy for all four seasons,
including advent's winterish purgation,
winnowing Id-entity weedy roots,
composting Earth Day's rehabilitating spring branches
stretching up with gratitude 
toward SuperEco's radiantly graceful light.


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/twos_magic_nose_538609' st_title='Two's Magic Nose'>

Two's Magic Nose

Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
 
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play. 
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
 
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
 
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted.  He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
 
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue.  Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious.  Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked.  Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”

So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.

“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
 
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
 
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it!  It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard.  “How’d you get back?  Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile.  “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
 
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
 
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”


Long poem by Shanity Rain | Details |

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 ? 

                   

         
  


Long poem by deb radke | Details |

Her Story of Why

These are her stories of why; the sad excuses of mother's life;
Her oft-honed chip, accented with her mother's old mink stole,
Tears most lovely in her eyes as she spoke of the beautiful farm;
Telling of the hundreds of acres owned by her mother’s father;
Land-granted, debt-free paradise; all they needed pay were quarterly taxes.

She told of the day the winds began to blow, that hot summer day;
Blowing away the moisture-filled clouds, drying the ground into cracked layers.
She told of bitter cold winter days, snow blown back into the clouds by the wind;
Pastures dry-freezing, blasted by cold winds from the west;
Kitchen gardens covered with old sheets in a futile effort to protect them.

She told of spring days with no rain, summer days with no rain;
Hot winds surging into bare, bleached pastures; cattle choking on thistles;
Government purchases of the remaining cow-shaped, walking skeletons;
Beloved horses loaded into rail cars bound for St. Paul stock yards,
Purchased by the army for $3 a head -- 75 cents per glue-filled hoof.

She told of morning rituals of scraping dirt from red, itching eyes;
Scraping grit from the butter dish; scraping melted mud from the ice box;
Lifting dusty scum from the milk bottles; rinsing dusty scum from mouth rags.
She told of the day the sky turned black, burying the farm in Colorado topsoil
And shovels were needed to dig open the doors of the barn and house.

She told of two years with no crops, two years of blowing dirt;
Two years with no rain, no snow, diffused sunlight, beautiful sunsets;
So much electricity in the air, in the ground, running from roof to wire,
Men would wrap their hands in pieces of cloth before they touched
The handles of their cars, lest they be thrown to the ground from the static.

She told of the day the wind finally began to falter, coming now in fits and starts;
And her grandfather stood on his once-proud porch, looking upon his lands,
Finally seeing through clean, clear air the farm he would soon no longer own.
Taxes unpaid, liens placed on farms, on equipment, on promises;
She told of how unable to pay the tax, he was forced to let it go.

She told of her birth in a migrant camp in Washington state; the one room shack.
Born with the eyes of desperation looking on; born into grief and sorrow.
Her legacy set before her as she drew her first breath; born into failure and futility.
She told us these stories, eyes shining with tears, pride in her fated failure.
She told us these stories with her head held high.  These suffering stories of why.


Long poem by Frederick Moore | Details |

Ode to a Missouri Mule

As a country boy, up in the hills,
Life was tough, not much for frills.
I remember it well, yes, even now,
When spring time came and it was time to plow.
Afore sun up came, I was out of bed,
And pull the harness down, in the shed.
Then to the barn, for that dreaded chore,
To battle that four legged man-of-war.

A Missouri mule named Jezebel,
A demonic fiend than was spawned in hell.
She was Lucifer?s daughter, to say the least.
(That?s a compliment for that retched beast.)
While I woke her up and got her fed,
She gave me a look that could spook the dead.
I knew right then there would be a fight,
Just to plow up Momma'?s garden site.

So I hitched her up, set a goodly pace,
When her tail whips out, right across my face.
You gotta watch out, as a general rule,
When you?re at the south end of a north bound mule.
Made a sharp left turn, and sank that plow,
Wondering what that monster was up to now.
When she lifts her tail, with a bestial flair,
And the field?s consumed by exploding air.

With a stench of hell and fermented hay,
I knew I?d kill that mule today.
I swear I saw that jackass smile,
While I choked on her  fumes, so vile.
So I turned my plow, got around the bend,
That?s when she started up again.
She let go a noxious blast,
Nearly thirty seconds, it seemed to last.
But you gotta be tough, as a general rule,
At the south end of a north bound mule.

Well, I had my fill of that horrid witch,
So I smacked her hard with a willow switch.
When I thought that took her down a peg,
She bit a chunk, clean outa my leg.
Spurtin'? blood, like a stupid fool.
At the south end of a northbound mule

It was living hell along that rout,
Trying to control that repugnant brute,
She would first give me a rearward glance,
Then a blast of old mule flatulence.
If I had an axe, I would have done her in.
I got stepped on, time and time again,
Got bit four times, left me bloody and hurt.
She even sprayed manure on my best plowing shirt.

It?s been sixty years, but I remember the fight,
With her wicked ways, and her nasty bite.
And I hope old Jezzy went to jackass hell
For what she dished out, she?ll do quite well.
As for me, I took a solemn vow,
That these hands would never again touch a plow.
So I joined the Army, but to my alarm,
I MET MORE JACKASSES THERE,
THAN DOWN ON THE FARM!!!

Yet plows and mules still give me the chills,
From that horrid event, up in them hills.
?Cause ya gotta to be a masochist, and a gol-darn fool,
To get behind an old Missouri plowing mule


Long poem by Robert Lindley | Details |

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

Sawing Firewood For My Dad, Again

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Boys, don't gripe, somebody got to do it
 so hurry up and get right on to it
Winter is coming on and lickety-split
 we need that firewoood before it hits

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

A boy of fourteen truly does not care
 to pull a damn crosscut saw anywhere
If his washing dishes wasn't bad enough
 now this job, it was sho' nuff tough

Working two hours before school was bad
 four more after school made one really mad
Curse this damn wood and this damn life
 hickory ain't butter, this saw aint a knife!

Someday, I'll get a real fine job then
 get myself rich like so many other men
Fancy myself with riches and a beautiful wife
 curse this damn wood and this damn life

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Stop yelling, we sawing to beat the band
 want any better, get another slaving hand
We cut and stack this crap all the time
 pay is lousy, not even one thin dime

Big bro' pulling on the saw's other end
 laughing at me , with that damn silly grin
"Little bro', stop bitching you're wasting spit
 nothing to change so lets get on with it."

Another one, urging me to be a working fool
 when grown man I'll be nobody's damn tool
Gonna get me that money and a life of ease
 lay about, do just as I damn well please!

"Saw them logs boys, saw them logs
 heat for the kitchen, heat for the halls
Winter is going to be so very cold,
 so get it done before we all grow old."

Early morning hours before going to school
 sawing damn firewood, sure wasn't cool
Getting tired and sweaty wasn't any fun
 stacking newly cut firewood by the ton!

Robert J. Lindley, 11-09-2014

note: Special thanks to my friend Sara Kendrick for this concept
 and inspiration. Inspired by her new contest theme.... 
Written about my young life and some of its hardships.
Usually writing a sonnet comes so easily to me but when starting 
this write this blew right on out of me. Definitely not
 a sonnet as was her contest requirement , so its not an entry in 
that competition.


Long poem by Suzanne Delaney | Details |

Secret Directions to Jilliby Farm



Enter beside the hollow log mailbox.
Here the road leads through a profusion of leafy damp shadows.
Wild ferns are the underbrush
where Fairy Wrens flit from the slightest presence.
This driveway winds by towering bush gums flanked
on the other side by a paddock
thick with Kikuyu and other mixed grasses.
A dam  that reflects the passing clouds
is the central focus.
Wild ducks veer away whenever cars approach.

Way down - as far as the vision stretches
is a copse with  mysterious shadows that beckon.
Walk now, along contours formed by the water rush of many rains.
Feel the stress of life melt from every cell.
Birdsong has already worked its magic on your being -as well
as sunlight on your skin, and earth scents inhald deeply to your lungs.
Your heartbeat has fallen into the rhythm of the elements around.

You’ve reached the shadows of the copse- 
you’ll look up to a brilliant sky 
through the branches of tiny, spiky melaluca leaves.
Imagine giant broccoli and you are Alice
 looking for a Cheshire Cat. 
Your hands will linger on the tree trunks woven
with a plimsol lines of grass left by many years of floods.

These melaluca trees are brother-twined, rising
 from spongy islands, formed by countless accumulations 
of their own dead leaves.
Placid waters  reflect them, Narcissus-like,
 as clouds hang in their branches.
Below, water  lilies hide black roots
 in squishy, clay mud. 

 Following along the small islands of land,
 jumping from bank to bank, 
you will see tiny wild flowers, trailing vines and wild maidenhair ferns.

Suddenly, you will happen upon,
 a huge, grey Charoloais Bull 
grazing on a giant clump of grass.
 He will ignore you as you pass,
 if you circle wide enough.

Look over now to the homestead on high ground. 
 It beckons with a fireplace for frosty mornings
 and a swimming pool for scorching summers.

You’re in the Dooralong Valley
 and a Golden eagle soars above, so large,
 it can take an unprotected lamb.

Someone saw a huge, red-bellied, deadly, black  snake
 here in a pile of rubble, left by some land clearers.

Overnight, humongous spiders will build webs
 between trees to catch you unaware.

But not all is scary here. 
It only heightens the beauty. 
In the pink dawn, grey wallabies, with a sun halo along their fur
 will graze on dew-laden grass. 
 Kookaburras will laugh their kookalaugh
 and fill the valley with their jollity.


Long Poems