Best Agrarian Poems
Sometimes I think the way we view the world is a little antiquarian
for instance we have words to label everyone…from Capricorn to Sagittarian…
Take Deborah and I…we don’t eat meat…we are proudly vegetarian
though occasionally we will eat fish…which makes us pescatarian.
and since we’ve been known to eat a burger…we are most assuredly hypocritarian.
however we do not care what you eat…because we’re not authoritarian.
And though we believe in eating food that is predominantly agrarian
we know it doesn’t matter what you eat…if you are humanitarian.
It doesn’t matter if you are straight or gay…black, white or Hungarian.
If you’re Democrat, Republican, Independent or Libertarian.
It doesn’t matter…if you’re Catholic, Muslim or Sectarian
If you’re a doctor, or a lawyer…a dentist…a Veterinarian…
It doesn’t matter the type of music you like…rap, pop or opera that’s Wagnerian
or how you like your donut cream…whipped…butter…or Bavarian.
I think it’s time to apologize and end this poem
for I have shamefully become aware…
I can’t remember where I was going with it…
and, I imagine you…no longer care.
But let me end with these two hopes…
that you are not a strict grammarian…
and that we all may someday live…
in a world…
egalitarian.
Just a small country farm,
On a small country road,
A sixteen hand draft horse,
A pullin' the loads.
With maize as its mainstay,
Lofty tassels to the wind,
Lowly swine in the barn yard,
Venerable dairy cows in their pens.
Agrarian life's never easy,
Seems there's never a break,
Family somehow surviving,
When their lives are at stake.
Rising together,
With the light of the day,
A symphony -
Like the rivulet, flowing into the bay.
Spouse, his constant companion
Of more than two score years,
Steadfast confidant,
Mid' pleasure and tears.
Preparing his repast,
For a long, grueling day,
Always aware,
Life's time, passing away.
A hearty warm feast,
Of buttered toast, ham and eggs,
Fore' he treks to the fields
On his old, worn-out, rickety legs.
Sunrise to dust,
Ne'er completing his chores,
Will be dark, fore' he comes home
To the wife he adores.
Sowing and planting,
Enriching the soil,
Intrepid old farmer,
No less for his toil.
Every day the cycle,
Of life doth repeat,
Farmer and plow,
In the soil and the heat.
A second-hand Deere
Relieving ole' Sal,
Modern, technology
Not as reliable somehow.
Days on the farm
Are long and they're tough;
Hours pass slowly,
And they're never enough.
Seldom rewarding,
Life rarely sublime;
Going through the motions,
Like the caricatured mime.
A day in the fields
The farmer's true bliss,
His old wife waiting for him
With his dinner and kiss.
The old rustic farmer,
Barely making his way,
On a small country farm;
Just another, routine, ordinary day.
September 14, 2014
The woman married at a young age
to the eldest son of a farmer-
my maternal uncle and neighbor.
Usually, she woke up early at the crow's caw
and swept the dirt floor of the house with a broom
often wiping it with water and a nura ( wet cloth )
After that she took a bath, changed her clothes
and wiped with water the surface before the holy Basil(Tulsi)
in the middle of the courtyard
as well as the surfaces at the portico and inside the house
where the family Deities traditionally reside.
After these tasks, she prayed the Deities and holy Basil
while burning mekruk(,an incense).
The prayer was once again repeated at dusk
lighting a lantern or candle.
As a routine she grinding,hand-pounding
and flapping paddy,(sometimes cutting firewood)
alone or with a sister- in -law,
cooking food( burning firewood) and serving the family members,
cleaning the kitchen and utensils after the food served.
After these she washed clothes for the family members.
And in the afternoon she wove clothes
at the fly scuttle loom in the outhouse.
Besides, she helped the neighbours in times of need.
She treated her father-in-law and mother-in-law with devotion,
regarded her husband's younger siblings
as if they were her own children.
Many children were born to her
but, she died prematurely at the age of seventy.
After her death I sometimes remember her
as one of the symbols of traditional housewives
of the old past .
.
(Fourth in the Poetry Contest entitled " Mother's Day" sponsored by Benjamin Bartley )
Bouquet in mansion
Furnish by the most priceless
Can't outweigh her love
Agrarian harvest
And all the nature's beauty
Can't surpass her heart
She's her children's spouse
A companion to her hobby
...Her caring tranquil
Right way sure her way
Her prayer is excellence
...Can't banish such soul.
Agrarian....agriculture
wet and dry affecting bolster
basic grain pre-market commodity
dispersal targets rift uncommonly
Feedstock fodder higher priced
milk,egg,cheese will future thrice
upkeep livestock feel the strain
lack of grain...we'll all feel the pain
Corn,wheat,rice and soybean
hot potato money machine
pass the buck absorb the cost
surcharge tacked as all not lost
8/12/16
Can't reverse any clock or the hands of time
Once in a blue moon, stars or planets align
Doing my best to be a stand-up guy
I'd be damned to lie
I'd rather take a chance and climb
Among so many plants and pines
Always tried to be a good samaritan
And grew up American
Lived an hours drive from the Monterey Bay Aquarium
Moms is a veterinarian
Neither one of us has ever been a vegetarian
I don't understand why so many people display arrogance
And continue making comparisons
In certain areas are traces of Barium
As well as pieces of carrion
Certain times called for the use of a clarion
Near and far away from places considered agrarian
During war, some rode on chariots
And conducted the first trials of their experiments
No time for foolishness
Wiser to always do my best
Anywhere not just from here to Budapest
Who'd have guessed?
There'd be soon success
If they'd only use some sense
While many snooze and rest
Underneath the moon and jets
Culture in Bean Town was part of the City bling, bling! They socialized and told about what was happening in their lives and party until sunrise. These extravaganzas [usually] happen on Thursday night and when all was tired; they slept until Saturday. When Sunday arrived, they rose and begin their weekly journey into meaningful lives. Some were Doctors of the Common Cold in which Bean People got quite often but never became severely ill because these doctors had magnificent skills. There were no other illness and/or physical maladies in this city; however, a child could be born with difficulty if the mother concealed her pregnancy. Since marriage was mandated but did not curtail sex, this occurs often enough to become a problem. The doctors then would provide the mother and child with a sanctuary and the father was mandated by elder law to marry her and that would bless the child. From there, whatever was the child’s malady it would become a strength in which it could be either medical or mental but it would be extended to another place in City of the Bean People. Meaning, that this malady would become a sacred beanstalk in which the child would gain spiritual guidance and religious definition because an element or elements would be missing from his or her soul and this was needed for completeness of his or her human life formed and no one knew of this but the Doctors and the Scribes.
Once a Bean person did die, burial ceremony was carried out by Scribes in which they were dressed in the leaves of their Beanstalk and was buried in The Field of Lost Lives, which extended miles and miles, which never ends until City of the Bean People expires.
The women of Bean Town usually were Cooks, Teachers, Nurses, and Weavers. The men were the Doctors, Scribes, and the Landscapers. However, these were not mandated occupations by gender and in rare occasions there would be indifference. Their economics was based on a trading system but this was established through industry and agrarian means in which their currency became the leaf (prosperose) from the Beanstalk of Prosperity, which only could be obtained by trading with the Scribes and the more affluent Doctors.
Ma issued a decree that Pa received with very little ardor:
"A vegetable garden is needed to supplement our meager larder!"
Pa would rather spend his leisure time snoozing on the couch,
But he allowed he'd better get to work to appease the dear old grouch!
Pa hadn't been an ardent granger when a young Hoosier lad,
Laboring under the demanding oversight of his agrarian Dad!
Since his options were rather slim, he set upon tilling a patch,
And with spade, shovel and rake cleared it of its thatch.
Ma said, "I want lettuce, radishes and sweet pertaters,
Carrots, cabbages, rhubarb and beefsteak termaters.
Onions, asparagus, sweet corn and blackeyed peas,
And celery, string beans and rutabagas if you please!"
Under Ma's constant cajoling his summer looked very bleak.
He knew he had a "long row to hoe," so to speak!
Pa spent the summer planting, weeding and ever wishing,
He'd be relieved of his plight so that he could go fishing!
For seeds, plants and such they'd spent a fortune in dough,
And all that hoeing and spading had'nt helped Pa's lumbago.
Muttering beneath his breath, "Things'll be different next year;
She can plant flowers - I'll sit in the shade and enjoy a frosty beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 4 in How Does Your Garden Grow Contest
I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.
My Daddy scuttles across the ocean floor,
Let tons of seawaters flow past him,
Over him,
As he makes subsonic noises
Protesting my sins.
The waters listen,
As do fish and sharks
And other predators of the sea,
The sea horse dances its traditional dance.
Seaweed’s weave and sway,
As if in chorus.
The villainous dragon from Monsters Inc.,
Changes color and does his disappearing,
Shrek awaits luncheon in his swamp,
Daddy is late, he has ‘diver’s’ cramp.
I patiently explain to him
The phraseology of Rap,
The mechanics of whoring
Just outside the Kremlin,
But with magnifying glass,
He still looks for gray in Lenin’s beard.
A thousand Pol Pots were David Copperfield,
No less, spinning agrarian dreams for Daddies like
him,
And other Daddies like Uncle Ho,
Paddy growing from the barrel of a gun.
Gorbachov had the world on his head,
But ultimately, the Drunk pointed cannon at the Duma,
And won.
‘Daddy, understand the dialectics
Of the spinning wheel in Atlantic City,
Otherwise as Donald Trump would say,
You’re fired!’
In a remote village I
recently visited,
houses with tin roofs
over wooden trusses,
ekra bamboo walls,
mud plastered
and humble.
At the roadside,
a community water
tab stands,
a lifeline for all.
Nature here,
untouched by the
relentless march
of humans,
whispers of a
simpler time.
I paused for a moment,
feeling myself drift back
to the era of tin-
roofed houses,
to the conventional
agrarian landscape
of my childhood
long ago.
16th Nov.2018
( The poem written after visiting the S.C village of Pheiyeng )
Early rising
Sparkling skies;
Sublime moment
Dearest and I
Get ready;
Tour group assemble
Tour coach speeding
Jerky vibes;
Highway pulsations
Chinese lady guide
Delivers tour highlights;
Foreign inspiration
Off we go
Profound talk;
Morning invocation
Lijiang Expressions
A theme park act;
Chinese folk drama
Expectations
Captive tour audience;
Lijiang story
Vast mountain range
Snow-capped peaks;
Silence speaks loud
Supersonic boom
Speech echoes wonder;
Our ears feel blast
Overpowering sonic
Lady tour guide drenches;
Too high decibels
So many words
Stressed and jarring;
Blazing this mountain road
Joy lives here
Spring lingers;
Awesome mountain side
This old village
By this mountain;
Agrarian dialect
Cotton candy clouds
Breeze the peaks;
Touch of heaven
Ancient village
Historical tribal culture;
Displaced by modernity
Theme park sojourn
By mountain side;
Photo snapshot collection
Leon Enriquez
Lijiang, China
Yunnan Province
22 May 2014
The Past
A pristine blue sky
Mirrored agrarian lives
Living with nature.
Their work was always difficult
But that never seemed to matter.
Their crops were all that counted most:
Enough to feed the family
In good times as well as the bad
Everyone loved their plot of land.
They knew it meant their survival
So the hard work was the trade-off.
What developed was mutual
Respect: an interconnection
Whereby one affects the other;
But then one day a cloud appeared:
A black, menacing, looming cloud
Foretelling future misfortune.
The Present
The industrial
Revolution dawned under
This foreboding cloud.
Machines began to do the work
That man and beasts for eons had
Performed with blood, sweat and tears.
His work was easier to do
But soon discovered that he had
Become an industrial slave.
A mere symbiotic creature:
His nature was parasitic.
He no longer had in himself
The oneness and independence
That he had always called his own.
He’d become fat and ignorant
Living by his own destructive
Philosophy: hedonism.
The future
The sky is poisoned
As well as the land and the seas.
The earth was dying.
Through Mans continuous neglect
The earth became terminally
Ill. It was no longer able
To sustain the needs of Mankind.
War broke out all over the globe
Millions killed, many more had starved
To death; billions soon will follow
Billions more after that. The stench
Of rotting flesh has overwhelmed
Those able to live another
Hopeless day, gasped the putrid air
Futile murmurings continued
Until silenced by the guns
The ultimate judicature.
An eerie silence
Prevailed and all that was heard
Was screeching vultures.
As a lad, agrarian affairs held for me very little charm.
I could hardly wait to escape that toilsome Hoosier farm!
From early dawn when my Dad would have me rouse,
There were always things to tend be it garden, hogs or cows!
Milkin' a herd of cows began the daily farm routine.
This was done by hand since we had no milkin' machine.
There were hordes of horses, goats and chickens to be fed,
And the onerous task of curryin' the mules, Clyde and Fred!
Tater bugs must be picked from acres of pertaters,
And weeds to hoe from never endin' rows of termaters!
The old John Deere was cranked to plow and harrow the fields,
To prepare to plant the corn and wheat for our annual yields!
In summer came the shockin' of sheaths of golden wheat,
Fightin' nettlesome sweatbees in the swelterin' Hoosier heat!
October brought no respite since we shucked the corn by hand,
Pluckin' rows upon rows of the stuff that never seemed to end!
Nowadays, I'm told that farmin' is done with relative ease,
By a new breed of sodbusters with agricultural degrees,
Ownin' air-conditioned tractors and fancy milkin' machines,
Sportin' Stetson hats, alligator boots and smart designer jeans!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
...she was ensnared within her prized gardens
There among a tempest of roses.
Entangled in the mournful whispers
of…
Weeping willows
From noon till night.
Within her bustling haven,
the envy of neighbors.
A source of joy and delight.
But her constant aching heart
desired so much more.
Her poor lonely husband
Once he was robust and
brimming and strong
with vitality...
Now his soul has withered
in the desolation
of his ongoing prison of solitude.
Like a leafless tree...
stripped bare by winter's icy grip…
His heart was shattered.
For upon the porch's creaking rocker /
...his soul dwindling...
...its motion faltering...
Stops...
She suddenly grasped the vastness...
of her loss?
Such an ache colossal.
Crying out to God!!
her tears flowing like a raging
roaring river:
"Restore my free!!!"
A glimmering thought emerged in her
a forbidden whisper:
"Conjure a deal, the deal, with nature...
and it will be granted."
An Epiphany as a glimmering thought
emerged:
His thumb... a sharp knife...
a cursed gift...
a grower’s unholy art...
A malevolent pact with nature /
rending her life asunder.
Then new life stirred within the
shadow's cryptic realm //
From fresh tilled dirt and top soil ground //
A sinister transformation...
...a harbinger,
sprout of chilling qualms.
On All Hallows Eve /
stirred by the relentless creaking...
of...
the...
chair.....
She rushed and she stumbled
for she was caught
in despair's whirlwind.
Her heart pulsated
rhythmically in tune.
The moon...
a spectral lantern /
Drenching the desolate landscape /
in silver light...
Casting ominous and writhing shadows...
that echoed with...
The dread of Walpurgisnacht.
A nightmare,
a beautiful grotesque masterpiece:
His form, hideous contorted,
agrarian exhorted,
A thumb oozing... with /
red and green blood...
Nature itself warping and ravenous.
"My Groom," as she spoke to this agrarian figure.
Now Love is ensnared in a sinister compact...
never to relinquish its grip.
Her Fervent devotion /
embodied in the...
Mandrake Sprout's insidious clasp.
Slowly rocking, miraculously...
...a dichotomy,
back and forth as the moon departed...
Entwined for eternity...
Bound in a loving unholy pact.