Best Cornfields Poems
She runs in the cornfields
Got twigs in her hair
Playing with her dog tilly
Her only friend out there
She grew up on a farm
Fish by the water fall
Likes playing in the barn
Looking cute doing it all
Driving to Manhattan
Is a New York City boy
Going to a show on Broadway
He is self employed
He’s opening a disco
And a grand wedding hall
He collects from craigslist
And for charity he gives it all
He is a city boy
And she’s a country girl
Wouldn’t they be perfect?
In each other’s world
Just a lonely city jack
And a natural country chick
Bet if they both meet
True love will click
She listens to old country music
Likes to cook, read, and dance
Her nails are broken
She hems her father’s pants
She goes hunting
Down by the creek
Then runs in the cornfields
A little dirt on her cheeks
He’s in his kitchen
He’s baking a cake
His friends call him
Football today he’s running late
He goes for long drives
When he needs to clear his mind
Driving fast down the highway
Leaves his problems behind
He is a New York City boy
And she a Texas country girl
Wouldn’t they be perfect?
In each other’s world
Just a New York City jack
And a pretty country chick
Will they ever meet one day?
For True love to click
They are people who belong together
But they will never meet in life
Sometimes faith and destiny
Are cut in half by a two edge knife
He sits on his jeep Cherokee
Looking up at the night
She sits in her gallery
Looking at a star so bright
She runs to the cornfields
Long hair like gold
He drives to Manhattan
Let the future unfold
Faded murmurs soothe new twilight
as a gentle smoke blows around the wind,
mild circles hushed by Virginia maize
along a dampened lane, rainy lane
bringing me back home with comfort,
after a calm storm light and breezy
with the falling of wrinkled branches,
ruffling the threads of sky with corn husks
and a tender whisper cradles the farm
rising like bread of morning,
when all else lays quiet in the twang of sunrise.
They look down from their penthouse and turn up their nose.
They see us all as a murder of crows. Bunch of pests and foul nuisances trying to eat of their crops.
Not sons and daughters and mommas and pops.
They don't want to hear of our lower class rambling.
Why shan't we continue our financial gambling?
Their scarecrow is the media which deems us all decadent.
We shall not yield the cornfield, For we are the 99 percent!
Mother warned
Never make love in a cornfield
For the corn-- has ears
And they just may tell...
Upon hearing this
I laughed and replied mom
They might have ears
But they do not have lips
With which to speak...
Not so fast, Careful daughter said she with a smile
They have husks that are tough
And when shucked the silk and shucks will make you tell
Yeah, I've ran through the fields
Playing hide and seek
The itch form those husks --
Sure did make me shriek...
Ahh… Shucks... I guess you're right Mama
You don't have to worry about me
With great bliss--I promise you this...
I'll never make love in a cornfield.
Comments: The lesson was corny but true to form as I will never make love nor hide in a
field of corn -- ears and all 0;-)
Late summer clouds
Over golden countryside
Fields of corn and barley
Our mother nature provides
Along a country path
The sheepdog guides the flock
A young boy stops to drink
Before the grazing gates are unlocked
The farmer boys father
Aside his field of corn
Shaping up to harvest
Another crop reborn
This picture of late summer
Golden, greens and fawns
With autmun on our doorstep
A new season brings a new dawn
Inspired by John Constable's " Cornfield " painting.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/art.php
Cornfields are ouchy, I know. I am from the corn state – Iowa.
Corn grows on tall stalks, out in a field that has gobs of
fat green worms.
You need a tractor to get through it.
Or a tank.
But farmers do not have tanks.
You cannot see anything except corn stalks when
you get there; rows and rows of them.
Taller than people. There is no running. Moving
is difficult. There is a corn smell too, but a smell
so unique to corn, it cannot be understood.
It must be lived.
The corn husks are tough, rough, they hurt your hands.
The stalks are painful to step on,
The corn itself is nothing like the canned corn you eat.
Hard as a fork tine, please do not try and bite it out here.
Cornfields are ouchy and itchy.
I know. I am from the corn state.
Cornfields full; midst green blades glaze
As summer lends a hand with its golden blaze.
They sway to the wind, direction it blows
Golden cobs of grass in pride simply shows.
At sunset they cower to the creeping dark
Yet, loses not its gleam and dignified spark.
Roasted on spit fire till gold turns light brown
Enjoyed with lime, spices in a summer town.
In India, we call it Bhutta, sold on streets
With Indian spice as afternoon treats.
Laid out on a husk of gold and served,
To the buyer paying the well-deserved.
Many songs have spun the cornfield silk
Vietnam has brewed the ear into milk.
Corn in summer relished by people all
Till summer gives way to October’s fall.
Corn sometimes boiled to eat with some salt
Or churned in a grinder to make sweet malt.
Some use it in cooking, soup, salads and wine
The spirit is willing when the cob is refined.