Sundays On the Farm
Today, I was musin', peerin' back thro' the mists of time,
Recallin' Sundays when I was young and times were more sublime.
For Sunday School and Church, Mom would roust us out of bed,
Then, fix the usual breakfast of ham, eggs and gravy bread.
The preacher would rant against the devil and fatal damnation,
And expound upon the Lord's forgiveness and eternal salvation!
When they sang, "Just As I Am", I became very weak in the shins,
And make my periodic trek to the altar to be forgiven of my sins!
Mom would fix her famous chicken, dumplin's and apple pie.
(Strange that hordes of beggarly kin folk would usually happen by!)
They would dig in with gusto, grabbin' the meaty chicken parts,
And us kids ended up with livers, gizzards and hearts!
After dinner (so-called on the farm) the men, boys and hounds,
Would leisurely stroll about the fields, woods and grounds.
The women folk would tidy up the kitchen and lounge around and chat,
About the boys in the war, coffee and sugar rationin' and this and that.
Along towards evenin' when all the farmin' chores was done,
We'd listen to the radio as Bergen and McCarthy poked their fun!
Then it was off to evenin' Church again around about seven.
(Since I got "saved" (again) I wanted to assure a place in heaven!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
