Farm Death Poems | Farm Poems About Death

These Farm Death poems are examples of Farm poems about Death. These are the best examples of Farm Death poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

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 
His memory, while staring at the sign..."Here lies both a loving wife and future 

Copyright © John Sine | Year Posted 2007

Details | Light Poetry |

Ode to My Chickens

Three of my chickens are dead and they have left a hole in my heart,
I want to mark their passing, prove that they were alive and very much loved by me,
They were real, breathing and full of life from the start,
Oh they made me laugh, so hilarious and quirky; such fun hidden away on our allotment, 
They did no great deeds, were not famous and hardly anyone knew they were there,
Alert and trusting, they followed my steps, looked at me with their heads to one side, wondering and seeing,
They slept in my arms and closed their tiny eyes when I stroked under their beaks,
Laid eggs and loved wholemeal bread, sometimes combining the two in to a healthy treat in their run, pecking and pinching whatever they could, 
Stood on my spade when I was trying to dig, and ate the biggest worms I ever did see,
Had me running in circles to catch them, jumped out of the hutch when I thought I’d put them in,
Kicked over their food tin so I’d give them more and always hid in the shed,
Rearranged their sleeping compartments when I had just cleaned them out, kicking the neat straw all over,
Ate all of my winter cabbages and nibbled at my sprouts, sat on the compost heap and looked around, Queens of the allotment!
Were brave in the face of danger, survived against the odds,
When poorly, they slept cozily in my basement, and understood when it was time to die,
They may have only been chickens to most, but to me they were my friends,
Always pleased to see me, they needed me, and greeted me loudly every day,
Three lives have been taken, but I will not forget them,
I will look back and smile, and talk kindly of Muriel, Edith and Ethel,
For they were the three hens that taught me that all life is precious, no matter how unnoticeable and small. 

Copyright © Fran Slimon | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |

Take me to the countryside

Take me to the countryside 
where all the daffodils grow
fresh perfume saturating the air
dispersing sensational aroma
in the atmosphere.
Take me to the countryside
to inhale the balmy fragrance
of mother earth,
to walk on grassy lands
and hold each other hands.
Take me to the countryside
to gaze at the swaying trees, 
and listen to them humming breathlessly 
 in the chilly breeze.
enchanting birds singing in the gusty afternoon,
dancing vigorously to their melodious  tune.
Take me to the countryside 
where all the natural things grow,
tangerine, oranges , banana and  kiwi fruit.
homemade yogurt ,sweet yam
and fresh milk from grandpa’s lamb.
Take me to the countryside
to coalesce with earthy peasants, 
to run up and down the cornfield 
and waddle through onion beds.
Soak me in nature, 
and replenish my aching soul
purge my agonizing wound,
and distill my sorrowful tune.
My soul yearns for spiritual fulfillment
to drown the chaos from the external environment,
mineral water and running streams,
strumming guitars and melodious flutes
are singing harmoniously,
and whispering the truth.
lead me to a place of comfort,
a place where I can breathe,
a place of beauty and incomparable dreams.
Take me to the countryside
to mingle with the animals,
to go horseback riding,
and camp on the mountain top.
Take me away from this hopelessness,
to a place of peace and quietness.
Take me away from this desolation
and find away to solve this confusion.
I want to be free,
free from this burden and misery,
so take me with you before you leave.
When I close my eyes and count to three
at the sound of the whistle
I charge you to set me free.

©2013 Christine Phillips

Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rondeau |

He was the one to stop me

Long time in the agricultural field , working under the rising sun ,
counting the amount of time , to lead a lax time with my wife and son ,
the time never came , but I passed a dozen of month ,
where my master stopped me , leering at me like a beast of hunt .

I heard the legato of my wife - flowing with the midnight winds ,   
working continuously with no rest , logging all the work of my master -    who is malign ,
he - such a maniac , who stopped me from having sufficient food ,
coming from the dark lands of Mombasa ,  never came to know their kind of manhood .

Oh my dearest wife and son , I wish you knew the worst state of mine ,
I cried and prayed to my almighty Lord , - "When would I get rid of this worst - twinge ! ,"
I cried and cried till it became dawn , where the soil cried too - for thirst on and on ,
my eyes began remembering of the majestic "Magpie" , crying for nights in the native land of mine .

I kept on thinking for you my love , but my sinew grew weedy and  frail ,
never think for your frailty , for I have left you with nothing - but personality ,
the world is a stage which is too callous , no place for us , but only  devilry ,
  say no to your failure , keep inviting your success - for there is no time for me to exhale .

Now, there is no time for me to seek success , for my body is completely useless ,
I have no pain, no fear, no joy , for I have left the stage fearless ,
I defeated my fiendish owner ,who kept me far from my wife and son ,
that comes the end of my life , the setting period of my sun ... .

Copyright © Mohammed Rakibul Hossain | Year Posted 2014

Details | Haiku |

death of a farm 5/7/5 haiku

broken barn in wind under rusted weathervane death song squeaks all day

Copyright © tom mcmurray | Year Posted 2010

Details | I do not know? |


For how long and for how many times 
Should I be battered and crushed, oh my God!
Tell them their labour  will be in vain 
As after being unconscious 
I suffer no pain 
I know they still can go further
But it does not worry me
For the fact that if I die 
The matter is finished
If I do not 
What should I worry in life?

In fighting battles 
Of injustice and falsehood 
Or to revolt against a war thrust upon 
Or to protest against tyranny
I fear not death  
As I know I lose nothing 
Neither my honour 
Nor my conscience
Moreover, they fail to win 
Neither my heart, nor my mind 
In exchange of my death 
They gain not 
Even an iota of my loyalty
Nor an inch of unsaleable soil of my soul 
Except my dead body. 

Copyright © wahab abdul | Year Posted 2013

Details | Limerick |

On The Southern Alligator Farm

Down south on the small alligator farm
Alligators grown to size to alarm
All the workers there too scared
Of young gators as they aired
Parachuted food to keep them from harm

(Inspired by Carolyn's picture but not entry.)

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |

The Death of a Horse, The Birth of Memory

The rain didn't fall 
last night so much
as it was thrown.

The wind didn't blow
last night so much
as it was whipped.

And a whip is
a thing which
lacerates, it cuts.

The day after
was the last day
and the next days
will be filled with
no more and no longer
until the next days
outnumber the 
here-with-us days
and the days after those
days will pile on, unmercifully
as well.  The whipwind cuts.

Whippy storm.
Shallow breath.
Dirtied coat.
Abraded eyes.
Right one swollen.
No bowel signs right,
and few on left.
Unwilling to move -
pressed rump-first into
a corner
facing southwest.
Signs of sweat.

"My other horse went this way."
she weakly offers
to the morning air,
to the isn't there,
foreshadowing shadows
and coming despair.

"I wish the doctor would
hurry up and get here."
though we knew he would,
he was, he would be...
How soon?  We didn't know.

     -     -     -

Shaving tummy,
seeking what's beneath,
what is deep.
Ultrasound inconclusive.
Which leads to a conclusion,
the conclusion.

Mommy cooing for hours.
She's brushing him now.

"He's toxic" says doc J.
"It's time." quietly said
to all who already know.
But the spokeness of it is
it's own gift.
The haunting guess brought into 
Life, into the moment
into Astro's stall.

     -     -     -

Outside, the crows cried.
The grey winds sucked

"You're gonna like where
you'll be." repeated Momma K.
A stroke.
A kiss.
A nuzzle.
A forelock felt.

He thumped down.
Momma started.
We four knelt down,
knowing that but
three would rise.

Syringe after syringe.
Twenty two years.

"His hearts's stopped now,"
says Doc
"That's just his diaphragm
tryin' to do its job."
Astro huffs heartily.

     -     -     -

Blankets cover him now,
in a damp paddock.
His bridle off.
At long last.

He is still.
She shakes.

Tears from both.

     -     -     -

The wind won't stop.

He seems to breathe.
It's just the wind
under the blankets.
He really seems to breathe.

     -     -     -

"I learned so much from this horse."

Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |

Beyond Death's Honor and Disgrace


To live beyond death
we must know life beyond honor and disgrace.

Not "must" in the injunctive sense of "thou shalt"
but a more dusty must of logical integrity.


Those who know do not speak
beyond communication as active listening.
Those who only speak, without listening, do not know.
Fill up knowing's silent apertures,
Close logic's open-systemic doors,
Dull awareness of smooth-structured double-boundaries,
Untie double-knotted tangles of conscience,
Soften comprehensive consciousness
to radiate co-encultural bleaching light--
This is co-arising with co-decaying unitarian mysticism.

Then love and hatred cannot change our ecoing egoselves,
Profit and loss cannot overwhelm polycultured Earth Tribe.
Honor and disgrace cannot effect and affect and defect us.
Therefore we eternally co-mentor power-optimizing regeneration.


How do permacultural farmers respond to bad environmental karma
arcing back across all four seasons
inviting devolution's sometimes too personal demise
of crops, nutrients, healthy wealth of resources,
seeds of hope?

Why do darkness and death stalk,
shadow us,
cast dusky gloom across culture's future expectations,
declaring each alien,
too egocentric for life's eternal repurposing
of economic probabilities,
rationally co-redeeming praxis?

What can we do,
how can we respond to sub-optimizing stimuli
advancing in our ego hearts,
private minds,
personal body-enculturation,
weeding our language?

Nutritional inflow and outflow streams
intentionally co-optimize economics,
willing systems of hopeful eccentric Win-Lose ecologies,
consumption of mortality dissonant from infinite production,
decomposition without active, yet peacefully contented, designs
for regenerative response,
ignoring co-redemptive resonance of co-arising universal intelligence.

Monocultural intentions and pretensions
seek total exponential supremacy
withour our self/other marginalizing boundary
where and when and why polycultural ecotherapy
seeks zero-summed integrity
of mutual mentoring primal relationships--
between id and supereco,
between yinyin and yang,
between right-inductive and left-deductive hemispheres,
between physical-human Self
and metaphysical-sacred synergizing Self/Other.

Death's monopolistic economic assumptions,
like monocultural ecological identity,
more fruitfully and forcefully revolutioned
as polycultural challenges
to re-ligion re-sonant balance
harmonic frequencies of non-dual revolutions
reconnect dissonant decay with confluent cay,
disformation with information
where we have already become
polyculturally found outside silos of over-specialized blind alleys,
with what remains of inductive integrity's co-analogical potential.

To live beyond death
we must know life as eco-logical integrity.
To regenerate as eco-identity
we must decompose, release, redeem ego-id-entity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Details | I do not know? |

To Farm A Sea

there once was a man who farm-a-sea
he was the king of all he give his seed
but there was no trust between us
because he was just a devil in
a winterized coat giving with a
power of degree to do harm
and no one will see... 

aka: lyricvixen
                               To Farm A Sea

there once was a man who farm-a-sea
he was the king of all he give his seed (pills)
but there was no trust between us
because he was just a devil in
a winterized coat 
giving with a power of degree 
to do harm
and no one will (could) see... 

aka: lyricvixen

(fixed? 5-5-2017 fri) 

Copyright © verlecia fields | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |

Dakota Skies Part 1

My brother and I walk the south pasture on an early spring day,
The warmth of spring slowly melting, the cold of winter away.
The golds of old growth are broken by the green of new,
And we are drifting in dreams, though we have work to do.
Gathering the cows for milking, we allow Father Time to pass by,
When a shadow in the barbed wire catches my brother’s eye.
We run through the stubble of last season allowing dreams to lead, 
Shaped by childhood stories which we had seen and read.
The cries draw us near where she hangs, limply as if half dead.
Each barb is cutting deeply. She slowly bleeds the earth red.
The life within her still pulsing its unbreakable bond
We make a solemn vow, a promise, to the crying, broken fawn.
Freeing her from her prison, we discover she is too weak,
She cannot stand or fight, has lost the force of her instinct.
My brother lifts her to his chest and orders me to go on.
For the chore of our cow gathering still must be done.

Miles between us and home, they trudge, a child with a child
Him dreaming of what will be when we tame the wild.
The weight of the burden breaks him and he falls to his knees.
Looks to the heavens for strength, but there is only me.
Her hooves drag along beside and I cradle her in my arms -
The weight of her pulling me downward, and yet I struggle on.
We entrust her to the dancing shadows of the oak tree in the yard,
And beg our mother for help but her motto is “Life is hard.
The veterinarian is more than we can spend. Milking still needs done.
Wild animals should be left to nature and the course which it will run.”
With a child’s gesture of love, we leave her and gather grain.
The labor of farm children - as essential as the rain.
(There is a Part 2 which can be found on my page.)

Copyright © Rosann Fode | Year Posted 2014

Details | Ballad |

Dakota Skies Part 2

Earlier than usual, for the pigs have broken free from their pen,
We are allowed to quit the milking because someone must get them.
The excitement of getting to be with her sets us to a run
But when we discover the pigs, we know that it is done. 
From the woodpile we gather two-by-fours with which we lay into 
The backs of the wild beasts because it is all we can think to do.
They had formed a circle around her, pushing and pulling her pain
Her hind legs were strings of blood and bone, little did remain.
With curses of Christian children we hurled into the wind 
We chased the beasts away from her, beating them for their sin.
Though her cries had quieted to whispers, she was crying still 
And this time we cried with her, for we knew the what will.
Mother, we asked for the gun, but father was not home.
Mother, we asked for the knife, but the good knives would not be won.
My brother made me wait inside so I ran to the kitchen window
And perched myself on the sink, pulling the curtain low.
He sat with her head curled in his lap in the shade of the old tree, 
Crying into the warmth of her neck and then to set her free
His small arms around her neck and his unanswered cries 
Echoing across the plains and through the cold Dakota skies.


Copyright © Rosann Fode | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |

To Farm A Sea Two

have you ever been in a battle
you could not winn (win)
where unruly Professor woman and Professor men
could murder you without
no one seeing there sin
to think there will be no trace
just your body laying on cold
none bending steely space
and your heart has quiver its last race
and your life has met its fate
and your doctored body
has fallen out of life's every running race
and those who are to blame
are protected
and will never even receive blame
for in winter white a coat of death
blinds us all...
and makes you dance
in the falling undeserving snowflakes of
its promises to do no harm... 

aka: lyricvixen

Copyright © verlecia fields | Year Posted 2013

Details | Dramatic monologue |

I'm Not the Scarecrow You See

My heart still holds the unused beats,
My shallow lungs long the stolen breaths, 
And the bones, cloaked and masked, run empty of flesh.
The eyes that dreamt the dreams,
Are now separated from the sockets,
Like sharply detached staccato tones,
Sinking into lonely depths,
Weaving evaporated future and moments with vacant gaze.
I still stand still like the way they had hung me,
Wearing the same wreath of barbed thorns,
The skull and skeleton fastened in the trellis,
And buried in the sod that holds the blood
The blood of my chest,
That somewhere still runs raw in rivulets.
"Come lay your head on my stretched shoulders.
Listen to my melancholic memories"
I am calling to you, can you perceive?
I'm not the scarecrow you see,
It lassoes my soul. The farmer's soul.
Here I stand still echoing out my torments in mummed shrieks,
The secrets and confessions,
The complots and conspiracies of my spurious sons,
Who killed me softly to meet the hunger of affluence,
In lucid illusion of benevolence.
One day the clouds with swelled wombs will moisten my parched gullet,
The empty spaces below my feet will be nourished,
And the breeze hitting the poincianas around,
Will finally lull me to eternal sleep,
When obstreperous sins will be cleansed,
When justice will be served,
And truth will be harvested at every silence's leap.

 Copyright: 1272017

Copyright © NAYANIKA DEY | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |

A Vermonters Demise

Four cord of wood
Sat down

Copyright © Thomas Kourkoulis | Year Posted 2015