Best Barley Poems
Five thousand people gathered at the Sea of Galilee
Following Jesus, miracles hoping to see
Jesus asked His disciples"Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?"
although He already knew how to accomplish this feat
One of His Disciples, Andrew, saw a young lad
Five barley loaves and 2 small fish is all he had
But how can so little feed so many
Jesus took the loaves and gave thanks and then there was plenty
After seeing this sign, the men knew the Prophet
This Jesus, who God sent into the world they had met
He took the fish and bread the little the boy had and made it grow
To feed the five thousand, the Bible tells us so
When you think you have little to offer,no talent or skill
Remember the little boy who offered his meager meal
Jesus gave thanks for the loaves did He not
In this story, Jesus shows He can use our little and bless a lot
go, Hesekiah
i couldn't give a truckload
of bean barley soup
Copyright © Mike Martin 2015
derelict gypsies in the shade
speak with crows across the way.
through the barley field and the corn
spread the tenacles that were forlorned.
telephone wires that have no shape
stretching out so none escape.
some said that it was the cross,
some followed the lines and were lost.
Like a patchwork quilt
Congregation of golden
Yellows and ochres
My entry into Brian's " Hymn Of Harvest " contest
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature4.php
Poor kid on my block by the name of Harley
Every day he ate bean soup with barley
He'd poop 'til he bled
The kid was half-dead
No wonder his back end was all gnarly
standing in the crowd
studying them
some pretty
most of them rich
some not so pretty
but all they have is rich
going for them
and not surprising
that will be enough
wondering is it
filling them to do this
every weekend
casually conversing
sipping a drink
taking a drag
from their prestigious cigarettes
being where they think
it is
whatever it is to them
most not knowing how
to go past
their own picket fences
to get something
on their own
to snag a dream
without daddy's pocketbook
or connections
and not surprising
that for them
will somehow be enough
Rejection floated over her head like a cartoon bubble
Repeating her broken heart moments
Resolutely she pushed on toward the library
She'd hide awhile between the covers of a book
She'd wipe her tears with words and wisdom
She'd striaghten her spine while carefully turning friendly pages
A voice called her name
A face smiled bright
A pair of arms stood wide open in front of her
Her soul sister
Her friend
Her fellow poet and a favorite confidant
Come share some soup with me
Come share some peace
Come share some warmth and renew your spirit
Soul Sister said all this, but not in so many words
Soul Sister knew the unspoken language of love
Soul Sister reminded her to hear the whisper of another friend
While eating from two steaming bowls
Burly Farley Foley bought a field at Brawley,
On Southern California's sunny soil.
There, farmer Farley Foley grew a crop of barley,
And bought a boiler just to make the barley boil.
A hare scampers away
Frighten by a reaping machine
We harvest the barley field,
Not prey
Come quick, come quiet, come yet my dear. To the place and days where all you fear,
will be waiting for you on the moss of the old bark.
I - Barley Pettigrew
I'll tell you a story, outstandingly true,
of the young lad called Barley Pettigrew.
He was born with nine fingers on his hands.
For how high he could count, it met his demands.
You see, the townsfolk all say the doctor said
he was born without anything in his head.
It's not surprising that he dropped out of school.
The teachers who taught him said he was a fool.
I admit, the boy hadn't a lick of sense,
but he threw a good frisbee, in his defense.
He would always unscrew a jar for its lid.
He threw anything round. That's what he did.
II - Daisy Purvis
Not far away, grew a young lass named Daisy.
The townspeople said that she must be crazy.
She had eleven fingers, by cursory count,
The Lord thought for Daisy, 'twas a good amount.
She spoke to nobody, never came to town.
Her mysterious poetry was upside down.
Conversing, as she did, only with the breeze,
she would make exceptions for birds and bees.
III - The National Frisbee Championship
The frisbee championship in County Cork -
the suspense was palpable, edible with a fork.
There is a concept known as failure, it seems,
but Barley showed up, not knowing what it means.
He threw the platter in the air so high,
passing birds remarked, "oh, how that thing does fly".
The wind seemed to grab it. How it did float!
It drifted 'til it landed in a field, remote.
Then and only then, the townspeople knew,
no one can toss frisbee like Barley Pettigrew.
How they did it, nobody understands,
Barley and Daisy, in a field, holding hands.
If this tale ain't true, you could hear a squirrel sneeze.
a sound I once heard, floating on the breeze.
Lopsy Dopsy Corn and Barley Kitty wanted to see
What an upside down look at the daisy field would be
Could you please turn me topsy turvey? He asked a tiny bee.
The bee rolled his eyes and said “Stop looking at me!”
Lopsy Dopsy Corn and Barley Kitty was tiny, but smart.
He thought with his brain, his paws, his tail and his heart.
I can probably turn myself upside he thought with a start.
He stared into the field and saw a mouse named Old Art.
Hey Art! Lopsy Dopsy Corn and Barley Kitty yelled pretty big.
How do you turn upside down? Old Art said “I haven’t a fig.”
Who could I ask? Lopsy Dopsy queried. Then he thought of the pig.
Winnie was intelligent, but she was busy, on the dig.
Have you done your work out today? Lopsy’s mother asked.
She began to do cartwheels. Upside down was part of that task.
How could she keep upside down? She saw her opportunity.
She flopped over a fence railing and stuck her tongue out at the bee.
sweet tooth pig Charley Barley had cupcakes on her head.
tied into an oversized crystal goblet, full of sugarplums all red.
there were lollypops and m and m’s, so she would be well fed.
we followed her all over hoping she would drop a few my cousin said.
Remote from the sea
strong winds across the barley
roll it like the waves.
Tiny Terry Titmouse peeks at me from a wee stalk of barley.
Is he consuming this plant?
Is this his home or his slumbering place?
I watch his eyes flicker open.
He does not appear to be afraid.
He makes no moves.
A country mouse for sure.
Slow and steady, not wasting any energy.
I admire him.
No hurry.
No scurry.
No hustle or bustle.
Does he have any idea how lucky he is?
I think of my city life, and I shudder.
Wishing I had my own stalk of barley.