Best Baled Poems
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
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.
In November when frost was on the punkin and corn was stacked in shocks,
And the snows began to fall and geese flew southward in V-shaped flocks,
'Twas time to gather in the corn for a huskin' bee on the old barn floor,
Where neighbors gathered to have some fun and fulfill a vital chore!
Ma slaved over her wood-burnin' stove to provide fixin's for the event.
Pa and the boys squeezed apples makin' cider, hopin' it would soon ferment.
Lanterns were hung from beams and baled hay was there for seatin',
And Ma confiscated Pa's saw-horse table to spread the vittles for eatin'.
Folks arrived in scores by horse and buggy, some by open sleigh,
Tetherin' their steeds to hitchin' posts after feedin' them oats and hay.
The bee began with the belles and swains huskin' corn by the bushel.
Findin' a red ear of corn among the yellow was deemed so very crucial,
Since that person rated a kiss whether a lovely belle or the local cad!
The huskin' done and corn scooped away, there was more fun to be had.
The floor was swept for dancin' to the music of a fiddle and mandolin.
Good grub, fun and fellowship reigned til the wee hours of morn, therein!
Even grandpa and grandma were seen squar' dancin' which was neat.
The rafters of the old barn shook to the beat of dancin' and shufflin' feet!
Ain't no fun anymore since corn is husked and shelled in one fell-swoop,
By a dude and his corn-pickin' rig even without the aid of a scoop!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Take these beans the vendor said
They are the best that ever grew
A marvelous crop they’ll bring
The best beans I ever knew
How much for them? A dollar
He put them in my hand
Do you think they will do well?
They are just right for your land
So off I went to plant them
In my finest fertile ground
There, fertilized and watered
They rested without sound
When will they come up, I thought
I’ll check on them real soon
I planted them on Sunday night
Now it’s Tuesday afternoon
I’ll go see if they are coming up
I sure hope that they are good
I was astounded as I came ‘round the barn
And looked out toward the wood
Bean vines covered everything
Grown into the fields far and wide
Growing onward swiftly on they went
Should I dream of beans or should I hide
Would they cover all the fields
How far will these things go
Will they reach my house down there
Should I let these things grow
Questions, questions puzzle me
Over those beans that I had bought
Now it’s almost like a war
That hasn’t yet been fought
Would they take my neighbor’s farm
And crowd out all his sheep
Would they make good feed for them
I don’t know if I can sleep
I decided I would mow them
Every day to cut them back
So I dried them and I baled them
And I put bales into a stack
Every day I had to harvest vines
And put them in them up in store
I had food for many winters
And then I had some more
Then in Fall I picked the beans
Twenty tons, I picked each pod
I think that I was blessed by God
YOU ARE IN A CAR WITH CHARCOAL BLAZING IN THE BOOT....DID IT EXPLODE :)
Bernie Kinnear was a blacksmith who needed charcoal
so they brought some by car to the smithy...trouble was it came to life and set fire to
the boot of the car
Bernie Kinnear
Dirranbandi Blacksmith 1900 +
Mark said it was smoking and Harold laughed with glee (Harold was a bit slow)
Bernies charcoal was a blazing so much smoke you couldn't see
Bernie Kinnear wanted charcoal for his forge at the smithy shop
So he burnt a tree and waited for the fire and smoke to stop
Harolds flivver it was loaded Harold drove and Bernie talked
Poor Mark was worried, he'd really wished he'd walked
The spare tyre was a blazing and the paint was burning too
So they baled out at Bernie's from this fire ball ooh..
Some time later...
Bernie went to meet a client at the café Pippos...(local Greek cafe)
Bern tapped him on the shoulder and said Ill see you out side boss
Nervous habit of Bernie's was a rolling up his sleeves
Stevens thought a fight was on, Bernie buckled at the knees
When the fight was over Bernie said to Stevens gees!
Here's the part I made you and only ten quid if you please.....(quid Aussie pound )
Mark Johnson at about 17 worked with these 2 characters
In Dirranbandi bridge building.
People who went outside to fight rolled their sleeves up and tapped you on the shoulder
first .fisticuffs imminent ....back in the 50s
These old Blacksmiths kept things going and were good value in the bush country towns
Don Johnson
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.
Sun is rising, birds are cooing,
and I am up, up and doing,
the billy’s on, tea is brewing
in younger days waking.
So I’d grab my torn gloves to wear
as old man Walmsley’s truck I’d hear
in the warm morning summer air
on the road haymaking.
To load up the truck and pack her
I was a lifter and stacker -
it was hot, it was hard yakka
from field to shed taking.
But on every cut hill and dale
with each counted and lifted bale
at day’s end we all drank an ale
on the road haymaking.
From Kaukap’ home thru Dairy Flat
Percy’s charger purred like a cat
till Cock drops the clutch to the mat -
his hands guilty shaking.
Reckless doing a hundred clicks
it would be his ar-se Percy kicks,
the spider gears he had to fix
on the road haymaking.
And that day on collision course
with a load of baled hay and gorse
under the truck wheels fell a horse -
its last breath forsaking.
Sadly there was no place to hide
but in my shock I surely tried
when at my trembling feet it died
on the road haymaking.
We were fit and strong and mad keen,
young and foolhardly, just fifteen,
now with many years in between
those early dawns breaking.
But I remember long ago
summers in Paremoremo
when off on Walmsley’s truck I’d go
on the road haymaking.
Written: July 2016
Pictured above: Valiant RT Charger
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
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
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_
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
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)
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.