Best Baling Poems
Sawing logs, one after another
Into two feet lengths
Just for the specific purpose
Of standing them up on the ground
Awaiting the iron axe
That will create a comforting
Roaring fire in the hearth
Come this winter’s cold
Canning fruits and vegetables
To store on the shelves
Awaiting the moment in time
When they’ll be lifted out
And opened slowly, carefully
With appreciation for the color
The scent and deliciousness
Of a homegrown and canned food
Cutting down hay in the field
Tractor moving slowly, assuredly
Taking the blade to the grass
Green and pungent scented
Covering the field with what will
Be racked up into piles for
Baling and creating a treasure
For the barn to store for cattle
Waters rise, engulf the land and other ruses
we devise to block their flow, to stem the tides.
Anxious, we are left to ride the waves
on fragile barques bereft of sails.
Such flimsy arks (mere barrel staves
and baling wire) float up the sides
of great sea-risers like defiant snails
awash in slime. In time, seabrine looses
collective holds on congealed excuses
and in salt solution we dissolve.
To silver fishes we soon devolve
while worlds and stars, giants and dwarfs,
fade from mind like boats from wharfs.
And when to darker depths we dive,
will fishes miss us? Shall we survive
apart from sky, from air, from dry?
If at last we gasp and die
will crabs cavort? Can fishes cry?
In the heat of July,
While bringing in the hay,
He gave her a baling wire ring,
And this is what he had to say...
“Someday I’ll put a diamond,
Here on your hand.
A diamond pure and perfect,
As sure as I’m your man.
But, you know, a diamond,
It won’t ever shine,
As long or as bright,
As this love of yours and mine.”
So they saved for her diamond,
By putting little bits away,
Money for the diamond,
He would buy for her one day.
But the money for her diamond,
Fixed the tractor and bought a plow,
And in the dead of winter,
Paid the vet. bill for the cow.
The money for her diamond,
Put the water to the barn,
And paid the increased taxes,
The county levied on the farm.
The money for her diamond,
Paid the doctor in town,
And when their daughters were all grown,
It bought the wedding gowns.
It paid for the new roof,
When the big wind came through.
Then it it paid off the mortgage,
Before it was due.
The money for her diamond,
Was always well spent,
She never even asked him,
Just where the money went.
The money for her diamond,
Helped them to survive,
The money for her diamond,
Kept their hopes and dreams alive.
Today it’s been sixty-three years,
And the diamond is on her hand.
But, as usual, in her pocket,
Lies her original wedding band.
A twist of baling wire,
Bent and covered up in rust,
A symbol of the greatest of loves,
His Promise and Her Trust.
Ponytails and blue jeans
Sat at Papaw's knee,
Watching as he whittled
On old branches from a tree.
And while he talked of cowboys
And big old Texas ranches,
He trimmed away the rough spots,
While I dreamed of pony dances.
A wild stick horse remuda
Began to run and play,
With every loving stroke,
As he peeled the bark away.
Using his "Old Timer"
And carving in my brand,
The best that he could find
And cut and shape with his own hand.
Now, each one of them was special,
And I felt I was too,
As they kicked up dust behind
This cowgirl buckaroo.
With reins of pink hair ribbon,
Shoe strings and baling twine,
There was "Buckin' Birch" and "Oakie,"
And "Ole Sticky" made of pine,
"Sassafras," and "Blackjack,"
"Willow," "Blaze," and "Scat,"
I never did corral 'em --
I just left 'em where they sat.
But next mornin', on the front porch,
'stead of roamin' wild and free,
They'd found their hitchin' rail,
‘cause Papaw lined 'em up for me.
Along our trails together
There were many lessons learned,
Like bein' a cowboy through and through
Is something that you earn
We'd partner up together,
And team up in cahoots,
Once he defied my Mama,
Bought me red cowboy boots.
And often, when I wondered
What to do on down the road,
He'd always tell me, "little girl,
When you get there you will know,"
Sometimes you have to let things go,
Sometimes you stand and fight,
And anything worth doin',
Is still worth doin' right.
With my wild stick horse remuda,
We rode the range for miles,
I knew I'd won my Papaw's heart
By the way he'd laugh and smile,
I still have his sweat-stained Stetson,
His boots, and his old knife,
Sometimes I take them out
Just to measure up my life.
And hold him closer to my heart,
And know I have to try,
To live up to the honor
Of the wonder-days gone by.
On my stick horse remuda,
I learned the cowboy way,
I’d give up everything I own
To ride with him today.
My wild stick horse remuda
Was quite the varied band,
Born and bred with me in mind
And trained by his own hand.
I’m longing for the legends,
And the way we used to roam,
With my wild stick horse remuda,
And the man that we called "Home."
He knew a world of lesser life,
"miles from here and everywhere," he'd often quip.
He sat in a swing hung from chains, soaking up nature
after the fence mending and baling of hay was done.
Time to untangle the worries, unburden the aches and
pains of the day- send them on down the creek.
He would scrape dirt from his boots, then whittle on a stick,
drawing in the thick evening air- overalls and shirtless.
And I on the porchstep, long rid of paint...barefoot,
watching the sun hemorrhage through the old oak leaves.
Nightfall would slowly sponge up the pale, honey-hued sky
while wildflowers would nod off in the cool autumn breeze.
He, sipping bourbon from a cup, would become the vainglory of tales,
and I with lemonade- the idolizer- paid homage with keen ears
while the choirs of bullfrogs lauded their serenade.
Then God would snap on His heavenly lights,
making the fireflies vie for attention as his stories overflowed
late into the night- each page of the scrapbook kept
inside his head, was dusted and narrated with pride.
And I listened with a reverent air.
The next morning I would find myself tucked into an old
feathered bed...never remembering how I got there.
Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie,
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie’s got a number—which one will you choose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in Nineteen and Thirty-Eight,
Down at the school house—you know you can’t be late;
Lemonade and coffee, wash that pie right down;
Your friends and your neighbors, from the hills and from the town.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite--you know you’re going to get your fill;
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer in the Ozark mountain hills:
You can shut your eyes…you can see that picture still.
Billy brings along his Gene Autry, Sears guitar,
He likes Tex Ritter, and those cowboy picture stars;
Bill buys a pie prepared by Becky Lou—
Look at all those young folks…sneaking off two-by-two!
Becky. She says “Now Billy, I think we’d better get hitched soon—
I can see Daddy’s shotgun reflecting the Ozark moon!”
So they get married down in Arkansas, late one Saturday—
Billy’s dropping out of school…now he’s baling hay.
Pearl Harbor comes along in December of Forty-One—
On an Okinawa Beach, Billy tests out his M-1 gun—
His mama gets a Gold Star—and he never got to know his kid,
And Becky, she don’t say nothing…she keeps those feelings hid.
And you know that Time, Time, Time has a way of adjusting
All your dreams,
And the years, keep right on flowing
Like an Ozark mountain stream.
Becky lives in Springfield in a high-rise all alone,
And her son performs in Branson, in a theater all his own;
On Decoration Day she puts a wreath on a hero’s grave,
And she shuts her eyes and looks at yesterday.
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills,
Mighty big appetite, you know you’re going to get your fill,
It’s a Pie-Supper Summer, in the Ozark mountain hills—
You can shut your eyes…you can see that picture still.
Blueberry and cherry, and home-made apple pie;
Country girls bake them, the apple of your eye;
Each pie’s got a number—which one will you chose?
Look at all those country girls, looking right at you.
What a confusing time that was, I had to grow up quick
Its was fun being a child, but we took a lot of stick.
There was no money, as most of us can say
But we did all sorts of things, and learnt lots of games to play.
There were no electronic games with colourful buttons to press
We were lucky to have a skipping rope, or maybe even less.
It was never a proper rope, with wooden handles on the end
It was usually a bit of baling string, and even that we would lend.
There was very little food and sometimes no roof over our heads
But we could all keep warm at night with six of us in a bed.
It could be fun getting up in the night
To run from the rent man, that always gave dad a fright.
Rent was due we had to run, who knew where, but it was fun.
I grew up poor but rich in love or that’s what I believed
But I promised myslef my kids, would never be that grieved.
We have worked hard, and given them all we didn’t have back then,
It’s seem to have worked because we find we have now turned out two men.
They love us and help in all the ways they know how,
They say "Mum and dad we thank you, we understand things now.
When we have children we want them to be
as happy as my brother and me."
Rubber bands
and baling twine
hold tight; taut
from the endless pull
of raw nerves
condemned
to a gilded cage
of emptiness.
Too much silly putty
daubed in the gaping holes
of this crumbling relationship
leave polka dots everywhere.
Send in the clowns.
Emotions spring a leak
and salty tears escape
their tiny boat
and slip down
to meet the Elmer's
which has no staying power
to keep this frozen smile from cracking.
Even wood glue,
carpenter's friend
hailed for cracks and splits,
has failed the broken heart
of this fragile puppet,
and only Crazy Glue,
the seven-second miracle,
keeps trembling lips sealed.
So much for holding things together
Base can enter my spirit voice
to come out from the feet of my legs.
My artillery may sloop and head may die.
The world is about to kill myself,
It has already crown myself.
A range that amour gurgling spizzle
and wet an aura of ridding suns.
Why not meditate, who measures fruit
of our quad,
and why not it an unnecessary good?
Or who tend for tepid things.
The spirit is dead
and the sun is lumped.
Touch of the universe from ultimate
fusion, bearing the blood who swears,
and fears that drops from the mouth..
The baling eye that see darkness in the
coast of the house of sight.
Raptors faith of tomorrow’s morrow
I need thermometer,
I want to know the temp of mars,
Earth and Jupiter must know.
Do you mars, still breath in blood?
For the stars counted, where two million
and half.
GGH 1917-1991
He worked so hard to provide
Baling hay and plowing
Hauling hay to the barn
Feeding cows or sowing
He never seemed to tire back then
He always found time to play
Hunting ‘coons or riding horses
He loved to do them both
Playing games on a winter’s eve
With the youngest pair of us
He loved to watch sports on tv
Or his kids in a high school game
Music was a special thing held dear
He played harmonica so sweetly by ear
He would often entertained us all
The sound of his music I can still hear
He was tall and thin and very fair
Which his farmer’s tan kept hidden
Blue gray eyes with a twinkle bright
A grin spread across his face
He loved his children and his wife
But nothing could compare
To when the grandkids came around
You should have seen him then
He took the time to know each one
Playing and talking with them
He was their Papa don’t you know
And Papa loved them so
In his later years he read God’s word
With the Bible across his lap
He worshiped every Sunday
With the church and sang God’s praise
The man I am writing about
Went home in ninety-one
My Daddy was quite a man
I wish you could have known him
You wouldn't believe what I've been thro' lately,
I'm supposed to be on holiday, okay
but not okay - recovering from an operation,
was not my idea of any decent elation.
Then there were other things if not enough,
sometimes I say that I'm not doing this again,
does that sound familiar - like baling out a boat,
it's one helluva job to just stay afloat.
However, look at the positives - shall we?
I'm holding back - could give you a bucketfull
of the other - so what do you want to do
mon ami - take action it seems to me.
Someone said you can cure anything with two beer,
I don't think so but anyway I'll wish you happy new year!
Baling hay
On the most hot day of the summer
Was when the hay fields were ready to cut
The smell of the fresh cut hay is something you never forget. As the tractor runs along the field
A rabbit runs out of the hay
Then a pheasant flys in front of the tractor
The hay is cut into rows of loosely long greens piles
The next day was to turn the hay so its dry before
we make the bales. The rake rolls the hay over.
The tractor runs fast. Later that day it is just right to start baling. The big red baler machine was pulled behind the tractor. Then a wagon was attached behind it.
One person drove the tractor, one on the wagon to pile
The bales into nice,high rows.
The machine was loud, with a distinctive sound.
Almost a song. 1-2-3 bump as it pushed the hay though
To make a perfect square bale ( which is actually rectangular)
The one on the wagon had to sway as the moving wagon
Tipped and rocked. Carrying each bale one by one to
The back of the wagon. Piling high as they could reach.
Dad made straight tall piles. They reached to the sky.
Us kids would help. But mostly riding high upon the load.
When the load was as full as could be it was time to head home. We sat high on top. The load swayed back and
Forth. Dad catching any that fell off. But turning into
The long gravel driveway, pulling in by the barn, was
The best feeling of a great harvest for the winter.
He was born in the Georgia clay
drank sweet tea everyday
It was rise and shine at the crack of dawn
as the rooster sang his song
Milk the cows and bale the hay
buttermilk was on the way
Fetch the eggs from the coop
look at that chicken poop
Tend the garden and shell the peas
on the porch, feel the breeze
he butter, wring the bird
headless chicken, have you heard
Pressure cooker’s blowing steam
it's taboo to touch that thing
Canning veggies was the norm
no TV in a storm
Dry the apples for the pies
slice the taters for the fries
Work all day till the sun went down
then pass the moonshine around
Kids today can't relate
think they'd ever pull their weight
Take their phones and watch them moan
think they've had home-grown
Simple days, baling hay
catching chickens is how they played
Once a week they would all get together
that of course depended on the weather
It's the big moments in life that most people remember,
But it's the moments in between which we should dwell upon.
Our lives are memories that can be very tender.
Thy only happen once and, in an instant, they're gone.
It's easy to think back to almost every birthday
Because they only came around that one time a year.
But what about the things that happened day after day,
The little things that brought so many smiles and tears?
We all remember, with pride, our graduation day
And we certainly remember the funerals and weddings.
But what about all the summers spent baling hay
And the many days on the farm we enjoyed spending?
Of course, we should remember the birth of our children
And every single anniversary celebration.
But what about when we were young and our hearts were open
Sleeping in the woods and staring at constellations?
In between the big moments is when life also happens,
So let's not remember the big moments alone.
Just remember that even the smallest of actions
Make us who we are and gives our hearts and minds a home.
I am tired
My heart stop beating
This game of life
Doesn't seem fun anymore
My eyes are weary
My pupils are closing
Silence is all around
The death angel stands at the door
He's calling I am trembling
My bones are crumbling
I am cracking
He's chuckling
The audience is waving
Children baling
Parents sobbing
Love ones nodding
The candle is lit
The light is off
The end is at hand