Best Deere Poems
Ancient, rugged hills worn down by time
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley,
Mountains forged from eons long forgotten
During those prehistoric periods before
Earliest settlers found the Appalachians,
Already old, tired, and wrinkled, awaiting
The laughter of young children discovering,
Holding the secrets of ancestors denied
Their birthright by Jacobs and Jacob-ites
Where old waters flow down into new,
New River old, maybe older, than the Nile.
I miss the lush green hills of my home
Leaning away from the peaceful valley
Where John Deere still breaks the ground
In the springtime after a long, hard winter,
And where flowers bloom into October
Especially if Mother Nature allows them.
And she does, for that is her mountain way,
Creating an everlasting yearning for reunion
Back home in those West Virginia hills.
POEM OF THE DAY, December 2, 2021
Poetry Soup
written November 30, 2021
#49 on the Best New Poems List on Poetry Soup
December 8, 2021
I have claimed to be apolitical but there are times
when the crop is ready for harvesting, so I put fuel
in the John Deere, ink in my pen and wrote...
He'll get millions of votes for that nicked ear
The vengeful narcissist people should fear
Picasso President
With malicious intent
He should be given the famous Bronx Cheer!
It looks like the graffiti on the wall
Four more years and America will fall
Trump will blow his own horn
Guilty of loving p.o.r.n.
And the rape of all the women he's mauled
There's another Trump, Junior's daughter, Kai
Brought a tear or two to dear grandpa's eye
It was her intention
During the convention
To convince people that he's a good guy
Melania was there but just for show
Since he paid off Stormy... well uh, you know
She has kept her distance
Abhors his existence
She can't be with him since he's had a ho
His Trumpeters may be humbled one day
Those who will vote for him and have their say
Those who are so headstrong
Thinking he's done no wrong
The beast who led America astray
He hasn't made the US great again
He's torn the nation apart... friend from friend
Time will tell the story
But there'll be no glory
Picasso President is no Godsend.
Trump toadies must be in a state of bliss
When his venom spews like a snake, hiss, hiss
They praise the dictator
The alienator
His villainy too baleful to dismiss
I've never liked saying, "I told you so"
But D J Trump is a jerk and a schmo
He's a divisor of men
When he's elected again
His tyranny will reign like a deathblow
I've read a few posts about Trump and yet
Not one comment did I write to upset
Another poet's view
I expect that from you
Without hostility or epithet
Here lies a grave,
a conglomerate headstone
without a name.
Weeds and cobwebs
wrapped tight around the heartless edge.
Caretaker whips around in a rusty John Deere,
Waking the dead and stirring mud.
Pretending he's a NASCAR stud.
He takes his lunch beneath a tree,
eating Twinkies with green fingertips...
For his love he'll steal a wreath,
and place it gently on her grave.
That bears a scar called, 'long forgotten"
A grave he's coined "no name".
When I need an uplift for my weary soul and to clear my muddled mind.
I slowly cruise along a country road to see what treasures I might find.
I leave behind the frenzied traffic on the four-lane interstate,
To enjoy bucolic vistas along a gravel road, my languid soul to sate.
I see old barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco ads now faint due to age,
And remnants of Burma Shave signs with their charmin' adage.
Stately homes with white picket fences grace the country road,
With roses of every hue surroundin' emerald lawns all neatly mowed.
I cross a rickety wooden bridge 'neath which country boys are fishin',
And for long ago summer days of feckless youth, it gits me to wishin;!
A lady waves to me as she hangs her laundry on the clothesline to dry.
A sign on the old country store reads, 'Wave If You Can't Stop By!'
Farmers on John Deere tractors wave as they tend their fields of grain.
They sure kick up lots of dust and I reckon they're prayin' for some rain.
I rolled down the windows to savor the wonderful scent of new-mown hay,
And slow to let an Amish family in their buggy move along the way.
Fat cattle graze on lush meadows, each with a meanderin' stream.
Horses gaze at me over fences as they look askance and dream.
I loathe interstates where folks think they're in the Indy 500-mile race.
I prefer old country roads where life is enjoyed at a much slower pace!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
a weathervane still
points east 'pon gray ancient barn...
fall's air rust tractors
the vain weathervane speaks east
and rust grows though no one knows
rusty John Deere sits
outside engine deep in grass...
bucks face off for fight
the leaves are falling
revealing the trees fractures
fall air thrust factors
crimson, gold, and red leaves fall
farm lake ~ mural of the scene
John Deere the artist
tractors in the grass like clouds
wearing the weather
Rengay
Collaboration between Poet # 1 and Poet # 2
Poet # One, 1, 3, 5
Poet # Two...2, 4, 6
An old gal applied to join Mensa
Gee she couldn’t be any denser
She went in the wrong door
On the thirty third floor
And there she enrolled as a fencer
When attending her first fencing class
A man scored a hit on her huge ass
She screamed out so loud
It drew quite a crowd
She cannot abide failure – its crass!
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
She hollered and screamed for a medic
I swear it was worse than a dead duck
one without any wings
oh the horror she sings
she's much more than dense she's pathetic
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
She swore that she really could spell
And in math she did surely excel
But once she felt pain
All she did was complain
And whined as her sore butt did swell.
WRITTEN BY CHRIS GREEN
That old gal then became a method actor
but one thing soon became a huge factor
she forgot all her lines
her mentality declines
now she sputters like a John Deere tractor
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Her butt was so sore she bought leeches
Gently placing them in her breeches
To suck out the bruise
We could hear her oooh's
I felt sorry for the poor creatures
Her butt was so big like a whale
all that was missing was it's tail
so they stuck a flag up her ****
called it the new Khyber pass
she went a whiter shade of pale.
WRITTEN BY SEREN ROBERTS
"Am I smart?" is what she kept asking
In glory she hoped to be basking.
Suddenly she farted.
The whole room departed.
Now finding fresh air is their tasking.
WRITTEN BY DALE GREGORY COZART
She sat for the test with all smiles
Filled out the forms and the files
But she spelled her name wrong
Became twisted of tongue
And was thrown to the crocodiles.
WRITTEN BY RICHARD D SEAL
07-17-17
Seems the old gal was a talented tart
Clearing the room with but one single fart
Wiping their eyes
All those wise guys
Soundly applauded her flatulent art
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
07-18-17
Cigarette burns dot the seventies green vinyl chair and a floor television doubles as a table with a lamp and figurines. A six foot two inch three hundred pound strong man made the small room look like a doll house. I watched Big Daddy roll Prince Albert in a can on cigarette papers many times and he was precise, meticulous to make sure not to waste his precious costly addictive indulgence. I got the nerve to ask if I could roll a cigarette this evening and to my surprise he let me despite mawmaw’s protest. I was able to roll the paper without spilling a leaf he smiled and I felt I had accomplished something great. Life is simple in the summer time world of leisure and no school. Big Daddy stayed outside from dawn to dark and worked the fields of corn, beans, tomatoes and okra. His old John Deere tractor made a "pup, pop, pup" sound when he drove down the road to our house. I could hear him coming a mile away and ran out to greet him. He had an idea that women were women and men were men when it came to working and he didn’t allow a woman to help him with the dirty work. A woman was to have pretty clean hands and delicate pale skin in his mind. Any other man said that to me I would give him a verbal lashing. But I overlooked Big Daddy’s faults he had a kind heart and never wanted to hurt anyone. He was generous in trading his vegetables and harsh if someone hurt his family or tried to cheat him.
Sunday morning he rested and put on a suit and went to church never did he have his bald head uncovered except in church. He had a dress hat for Sunday to wear on the way to church. I miss seeing those fancy hats and suits. A third grade graduate knew how to dress and respect the lord better than any college educated wealthy man. He wouldn’t smoke at the church out of respect.
Respect left
With the man’s dress hat
Equal rights
The Pipe
(irrigation)
I am a city girl,
I have never,
until now…
Ridden a horse across the desert,
held a tarantula for longer than…
five minutes,
used an incubator to raise chickens,
helped keep track of puppies (twice),
cut tails and sewed them like material.
keep fish in a pond, raised just to eat,
and my garden is not organic,
it is simply blessed.
I bought, fixed and "care for"...,
my Own John Deere…Riding Tractor.
This is not a boast.
I have crawled under houses,
into attics, painted barns and chased a PIG!
The rooster would not quit crowing.
The altogether too close neighbor did the same.
Oh…
and the rain was coming down
in the middle of the front room,
inside.
While on the outside…
I, was knee-deep in water.
Not from above, although he lent a hand.
The corner of the yard. That mysterious place.
Behind a tree, a stump and two bushes.
It came from there, like the flood of Noah.
Now a gaping hole, where the river came to visit.
Fast and slow, in and out everywhere.
The middle of the night…
The top and I, do battle.
Cold and merciless… I shake, freezing.
I will win. Stop the gush, in a rush.
I am a city girl…
But I am a warrior.
My John Deere tractor is my favorite toy.
There’s nothing better that I enjoy.
I have many attachments I use every day,
That are used for more than just play.
My backhoe, chipper, and snow-blower are my friends.
Without them, my work would never end.
I love my tractor, it’s right outside.
Nature feeds my soul, as I take a ride.
john deere toy tractor
wet with spring's low cloud's moisture....
silence pierces air
Just a small country farm,
On a small country road,
A sixteen hand draft horse,
A pullin' the loads.
With maize as its mainstay,
Lofty tassels to the wind,
Lowly swine in the barn yard,
Venerable dairy cows in their pens.
Agrarian life's never easy,
Seems there's never a break,
Family somehow surviving,
When their lives are at stake.
Rising together,
With the light of the day,
A symphony -
Like the rivulet, flowing into the bay.
Spouse, his constant companion
Of more than two score years,
Steadfast confidant,
Mid' pleasure and tears.
Preparing his repast,
For a long, grueling day,
Always aware,
Life's time, passing away.
A hearty warm feast,
Of buttered toast, ham and eggs,
Fore' he treks to the fields
On his old, worn-out, rickety legs.
Sunrise to dust,
Ne'er completing his chores,
Will be dark, fore' he comes home
To the wife he adores.
Sowing and planting,
Enriching the soil,
Intrepid old farmer,
No less for his toil.
Every day the cycle,
Of life doth repeat,
Farmer and plow,
In the soil and the heat.
A second-hand Deere
Relieving ole' Sal,
Modern, technology
Not as reliable somehow.
Days on the farm
Are long and they're tough;
Hours pass slowly,
And they're never enough.
Seldom rewarding,
Life rarely sublime;
Going through the motions,
Like the caricatured mime.
A day in the fields
The farmer's true bliss,
His old wife waiting for him
With his dinner and kiss.
The old rustic farmer,
Barely making his way,
On a small country farm;
Just another, routine, ordinary day.
September 14, 2014
Spring in all its splendor has arrived - what a pleasant relief!
The grass has greened and the trees have begun to leaf!
Robins have returned and cheerily serenade me at the break of dawn.
Alas, those pesky dandelions scourge my pristine, emerald lawn!
The golden sun greets daffodils awakening from hibernation,
And colorful tulips blossom, beautifying God's grand Creation!
Pastel blooms of many hues adorn my cherry and apple trees.
Lord, please spare them from the usual late springtime freeze!
The roses were pruned and ample fertilizer was spread.
The snowblower was gladly stored securely in the shed.
The mower was serviced and its blade was finely honed.
Tomorrow the lawn must be mowed - it cannot be postponed!
But hold on! This morn I'm greeted with a grim surprise!
Drifting snow is piled as high as my shivering thighs!
Yesterday 'twas seventy degrees, now I shovel snow in coat and hat!
Fiddlefaddle! So much for Springtime in the Rockies and all of that!
During Springtime in the Rockies 'tis common modus operandi,
To keep the John Deere snowblower and lawnmower handy.
"Just wait ten minutes, the weather'll change" is an apt old saw,
As my lawnmower idles and I impatiently wait for the snow to thaw!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Carol Brown's "Spring" Contest - January 2012
1. I am thankful for Jesus to save me and for his mercy and grace.
2. I am thankful for My family, Wayne and Caleb
3. I am thankful for Daddy, Mama, Robbie, Phyillis, Scottie, Cody and Karter
4. I am Glad to have Wayne's Family also the whole wacky and wonderful crew.
5. I appreciate having our home and possessions.
6. I am glad my Honda CRV with 310K miles, survived being hit by a John Deere Loader blade.
7. Thank you God for our food and bless me to not partake so much.
8. Ashley, sugarfoot, moe curly and larry, snowball/boezoe, and the fishes
are a blessing in my life.
9. I am thankful for internet shopping.
10. I am thankful for air conditioning and in door plumbing.
11. I am thankful for our friends and church family.
12. I am thankful for my Extended family, in-laws, out-laws and kissing cousins.
13. I am thankful for life and medical treatments to help us.
14. Everything I am thankful for everything is good.
(in John Deere green)
The décor paid tribute to an American icon,
a way of life that built this land.
Did the owner's ancestors farm nearby,
his memories the reason for the John Deere green?
Green everywhere: tablecloths, wooden posts
trim strips on walls, wind-chimes and hanging plants;
not garish or overpowering, but subtle, and pleasing to the eye.
Ceiling beams were lined with strings of Christmas lights,
every bulb in John Deere green.
One old children's hand-tooled saddle—with sheepskin lining
and a cinch made from woven rope—sat astride a dividing rail.
A small shaped mirror near the door, wore a horse-collar frame.
John Deere tractors adorned an entire wall,
displayed on shelves, in framed photos and metal ads,
reflected in large mirrors—evenly
spaced— on the opposite wall.
Locals ate, took no notice. I was enthralled, and ordered
biscuits and gravy, my mind full of memories
of life on the farm, in John Deere green.
Clyde's Fine Country Diner is located about a mile south of town.
If you're lookin' fer rib-stickin' grub, its the greatest place aroun'!
Clyde retired after cookin' fer twenty-two years in the U.S. Navy,
Servin' up gobs of SOS, more delicately known as biscuits 'n' gravy!
It ain't a fancy place, jes' some booths and a dozen tables er so,
Dominated by a friendly but saucy-tongued waitress named Ruby Flo.
Farmers in John Deere caps meet there fer breakfast ever' day.
The Baptist Ladies Aid Society meets each Tuesday noon to dine 'n' pray.
Country and Western blares from the juke box near the kitchen door.
Ain't no fancy carpet gracin' the place, jes' a squeakin' wooden floor.
The menu ain't changed much over the years but it is quite replete,
With homemade pies, toxic navy coffee plus plain good things to eat.
Sundays, he features fried chicken, peas and smashed pertaters,
Mondays, soup du jour and tossed salad with garden fresh termaters.
Tuesdays, Clyde offers Mexican with enchiladas and tacos in the shell
Wednesdays, the speciality is green chili soup, the hottest this side of hell!
Thursdays, you can enjoy all you can eat of macaroni and cheese.
Fridays, he features either chicken fried steak er a servin' of Chinese.
Saturdays, is his famous chef d'oeuvre, prawns and black angus steak!
It ain't a 5-star café but Clyde serves great grub, of that there's no mistake!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved