I am not made for these modern times
Missouri mud runs through my veins
unspoiled country air flows through my lungs.
my roots are intertwined in the bedrock
of culture, traditions and folklore
of a pioneer Midwest
My heart beats with the rhythm
of wind through oak trees
the sway of golden wheat
steady fall of summer rain
on metal porch roofs
My voice is the sound
of pickup trucks on gravel roads
tractors plowing through gumbo
hoot of owls from leaning red barns.
yip of foxes or the howl of coyotes from
across green pastures under full moon’s glow
trumpeting of roosters greeting the day
song of blue jays, cardinals,
red wing blackbirds
caw of crows pecking through early snow
on harvested corn fields
beat of horse hooves
lazy bawling of cows
My nostrils are filled
with the smell of
wildflower meadows,
fresh baled hay
alfalfa, soybeans,
and apple blossoms
I am lightning bugs on summer’s eve
coon hounds asleep on sunlit porches
family picnics on red checkered tablecloths
horseshoes, freeze tag and kick the can
I am unlocked doors and open windows
rocking chairs and back porch swings
I am outdated
Categories:
baled, poetry,
Form: Free verse
This is a seven minute write.
In seven minutes, I go to bed.
But first, I will continue.
When ghosts…
When roasts…
Go to bed.
Go away to the barn where hay is baled.
And trails of mud lead to the kitchen.
And the ramblings continue.
I have an eraser.
But to use it?
Would be destruction.
Gray matter.
Being shaved and marked.
I don’t know where I am.
In my journey of seven minutes.
I am not determined to do much except sleep after this.
I am not determined.
Just sleepy.
I have water by my bed.
I’m in pajamas.
They don’t care-
Carry me.
Like the way…
Like the way I don’t plan anything anymore.
Seven minutes is easy.
The end credits roll.
No one erases anything these days.
It’s not worth the time.
Seven minutes.
Eraser marks.
Where my car parks.
Everywhere.
Like lines.
That we draw.
And stand in.
Categories:
baled, write,
Form: Free verse
WINTER IN AN IOWA CORNFIELD
Why start nattering about lucky tracks
Neath a tarnished night of a waning storm?
Haystacks in a disciplined platoon wait
With hooded coats, caves of hibernation,
Standing in formation with watchfulness.
Six columns and six rows of perfection
Thirty-six baled soldiers in transition
Marching forward in a biting snow storm,
Blindly floundering in a final surge.
A good resistance fighter is lonely.*
Haystacks in the Snow, Grant Wood (1941)
* Winter in Wartime, Jan Terlouw (1972)
Categories:
baled, america, art, metaphor, poems,
Form: Ekphrasis
Ribbons of purple are splayed out in tractor rows of elegance
A foot off the ground, spreading lavender faerie fragrance
Oh, sweet lavender blue, dilly dilly, Lavender blue, Billy, Billy!
Great day to fall in love, silly silly. Where is sweetheart, Willy Willy?
Be it twilight or daybreak? Matters not on this attractive farm.
I take a whiff of sweet smelling country air; what can be the harm?
Puff belly sky swells up, pregnant with anticipation of a gorgeous day.
Willy, my sweetheart calls to me from a mound of freshly baled hay.
Oh, sweet lavender blue, dilly dilly, Lavender blue, Billy, Billy!
I sing myself into a joyful attitude; and feel neither weird nor silly.
For it is that kind of marvelous wonderful day.
And now I settle down next to my guy, in the hay.
Categories:
baled, farm,
Form: Rhyme
The ink on my diploma
still wet
I lived on my grandparent's farm
for the summer
Their day began with roosters crowing and
ended at sundown
In between those two bookends of the day
cows were milked
crops were tended
chickens were fed
hay was cut and baled
real people creating real food
for real people
[Imagist form]
Written 13 Dec 2020
Categories:
baled, farm, simple,
Form: Free verse
Rolling hills, verdant meadows
Acres lined in evergreens
Brightly coloured maples, flaunting
Clad in yellows, reds, tangerines
Farmer's fields, neat and freshly-cut
Straw sheaves, twined and baled
Hardy mums, tall grasses, purple cabbages and kale
Cornstalks, and sturdy, weathered mats
Dress and welcome entrance ways
Pumpkins, gourds and sunflowers adorn
Stacked upon rustic wooden crates
The beauty of the season is upon us
Happy Fall Y'all!
September 22, 2020
@katladyt_
Categories:
baled, beauty, seasons,
Form: Rhyme
Cold dark wind
Upon my face
The weathers
Turning bad
Black blizzard
On the horizon
The devils up
My sleeve
Starched memories
And fish hooks
I turned my back
On society
Bent upon a dream
Frozen bamboo
Across my legs
Toes that hardly
Scream.
Sleeting now
In this boat
Afloat upon a field
Left by O’Toole’s
Machinery and mill
Gobbling up arms
And legs
Baled all nice and neat
It’s so damn cold
I can’t feel my feet
Ankles, knees, and armory
A stinking IED
Crawling back to you
Schoolboy’s stupid schemes
A war that never killed
It just left me maimed
This desert storm
Left me all alone
Drunken and stoned.
Categories:
baled, war,
Form: Free verse
Lord, were is my blessing
Well, I now pick a lot of
cotton and baled a lot of hay
You keep a roof over my head, and
I just continue to pray
You know, after they freed
them slaves, they promised
us forty acres and a mule
You promised me a blessing
Well, I didn’t know I was sitting
on Mr. Gilmore’s property
Categories:
baled, faith, history, social,
Form: Free verse