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Love On the Farm

Mucking out and milking we are curds in the churn. Our house is a blooming belly brimful and snuffling, feet planted in the green rubber of muddy dawns. A fox rapturously cherished a hen last night; brown feathers speckled red fly now on the wind. The patchy cat watches; it knows that we share a dream guzzling tractor, with its rhythmus purr. The tangy beasts are fed, the turkey and goose fatted. Our meat squeals in the marketplace and struts to auction. What is not eaten, wallows. We live thigh deep, grub and plow; partake in the love of it.

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Eric Ashford

Date: 7/31/2019 11:20:00 AM

Free verse for me is my usual poetic expression. I find it natural to my 'voice', if that doesn't sound too pretentious! When writing I try to be sensitive to the internal rhythms, and the inner ( slanting) rhymes. Anyway thanks a lot for all your close reads.

Eric Ashford

Date: 7/31/2019 11:19:00 AM

Despite living for most of my life in semi-rural areas, I have never lived or worked on a farm. I wanted to write a no nonsense (not idyllic), poem about what it is to be a farmer. In this case a married family. There is much love in the often dirty and raw life of farmers. I also wanted to show the relationship of the beasts to the humans. A kind of blunt love also. Thanks!

Caren Krutsinger

Date: 7/31/2019 4:34:00 AM

This has the "feel" of free verse. I am always trying for this, but usually end up in a narrative. I may study this one!