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...

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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 ashen branches,
ruffling the threads of sky with corn husks...

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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...

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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...

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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,...

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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...

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We chased young love through the cornfields, wild and free,
A golden maze where laughter danced on the breeze.
Each stalk a secret, whispering dreams to the sea,
As sunbeams painted our hearts with ease.
We were fireflies flickering in twilight's embrace,
Chasing shadows that tangled in the dusk.
With every...

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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...

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