Best Farm Poems
A curvaceous lady named Mary
Just loved having sex in the dairy
When smothered with whipped cream
Her beau would lick her clean…
His Calorie intake was scary!!!
14th June 2016
Daffodil majorettes lead the spring parade
Mom fox had lured out a reluctant kit
Verdant grasses are growing lovely shade
For dainty dulcet purple violet
Gentle nurturing rain from day or two
Coaxes her lace lilac to gently wake
Meadow rainbow chiffon a lovely hue.
Faerie-felt awe surrounds beautiful lake.
Carpet of tulips arrive on the scene.
Growth can be felt every hour or two.
Resurrection of weeds, not being mean.
Cyclical magic for me and for you.
The woodlands, the meadow, the lake and the dale.
Rebirth of spring yearly, without fail.
Written Feb 24, 2019
Contest: Springtime Rebirth
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Almost sixty years ago, my father
under suspicion, as a cattle rustler
Me a bit surprised
but it could have been as the title of a hustler
One day whilst in the dairy, my father with my brother milking cows
two young cops arrived to ask a leading question
Were you in such and such a paddock on such and such a day
if so what was your purpose, was put as a suggestion
They had evidence to support, that my father he did visit
That his actions in that paddock may be viewed as illicit
One cop from his pocket pulled a docket , that had been found
it was a receipt which displayed my fathers name
It was enough for them to investigate,
that's why to my father's property they came
To their leading question
what was it he was doing
I had a crap was his immediate reply
One young innocent cop asked my father what's a crap
They would have instantly known if my father said he was ........ a word that rhymes with ruing
perhaps my father would have had regrets if he had known what would later be brewing
NO CHARGES LAID
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
Mighty proud was I
with me lumber in one hand
my brick me carried in the other
I placed the brick in the barn yard
tall side for gained height
balanced the lumber board on top
I am silent and of Scottish temperament
You see folks
my feathered pet cock
was cock a doodle do-ing all day long
yapping and yelling
ranting and raving
the other farm animals had all had enough
action demanded
I place the ol koileach
at the end of one side of the board
all while smiling at the brainless duine beag
immediately I jumped on the other end
sending that whiny ol cock mid air
into the sea
he drowned
Ah what a wonderful day ladies
I shall meander onwards
among the heather and moor
my brick magically transformed
to fine woody scotch
oh what tales I shall tell
if tomorrow ever comes
Early Morn On The Old Farm
tomcat cat fast asleep
new house painted darkest of greens
old sun drenched, low-weeping willow
young black dog awakens
eager dawn, stretches its new legs
(1.) (living scene), no rhyme
Robert J. Lindley, 3-17-2000
New Poetry form, Lind68868
(1.) (living scene), no rhyme
***********************
New poetry form Lind68868
New poetry form: Must describe either 1. a living scene (one that is poetically possible to see), 2. a comparative thought, 3. or a dream.
Poem must list which of the three- this example is number 1.
Poem must have a Title
Syllable count must be 6,8,8,6,8
Must be 5 lines of verse.
May be rhymed or written with no rhyme
Note:
Yesterday, I found 6 of these poems in this new poetry form I created, written on a single page in one of my old poetry journals.
Twenty Pints of Sunshine
David J Walker
It seemed to be the only thing
In abundance on the farm
The light and heat
The shine so bright
Long days
short nights
And work doled out in the mornings
Today we will bottle in bell jars
20 pints of sunshine
And call it canning
A summer seasons planning
Saved for the
Short days
The long nights
Of freezing winter weather
To be opened
It says
When sleet falls in December
When the woods are wet and dreary
When the farm is fallow
When sunshine can only be found
In pint-sized
Bell Jar bottles
As soon as we got to the county fair
The country odor got through my nose hair
Coz above some milk pails
We encountered cow tails
Which filled our senses with their dairy-air
Truth Found, Recovery Of A Broken Soul
1.
In nightmarish dreams he found such great dread
Of lost hope, life's decay, eyes of the dead.
Day's clear lights his damaged mind repaired
Deep traps from which his heart had been ensnared.
In sunshine he felt life's returning glows
Erase night pains and darkest of its blows.
As sun waned and shadows of dark arrived
He felt again, joy vanquished, love deprived.
2.
What of this devilish, persistent foe
With such powers, its broken claws regrow.
Hope alone, can evil be defeated
Or must Fate decree, his life be cheated.
In sun's bright shining hours his heart grew bold
Oft from tales of warriors of old.
On such bright days his thoughts returned to her
Destroyed dark powers that made life a blur.
3.
Where deepest love passions reign, hope survives
For in man's inner soul, true love revives.
Times and cherished moments serve to remind
With love's great truth, one can never go blind.
Standing firm with knowledge of man's powers
One can face even darkest of dark-hours.
Faith, love and hope are the right paths to take
All the rest are results of blind mistakes.
4.
Armed with newfound wisdom and clearer path
He had weapons to overcome Fate's wrath.
Every night before falling fast asleep
Head bowed, he recited prayers true and deep.
As new dawn's brighter lights came, his heart knew
Torments were over, as joys in life grew.
Found true, cursed Fate can be defeated
If one but lives, each day truth is greeted.
8-24-2017
We loved to traverse the dense forest,
Where birds continued as they chorused,
Admiring on one side the tall pines,
Breathing their best fragrance from their vines.
On the other side of the pathway,
A thousand of maples made my day.
Gold leaves fluttered slowly to the ground,
A whiff of breeze, the path would be drowned.
At the edge of the wood was our friend,
Where with his food we had to contend.
Sausages, bacon, eggs and coffee,
Heard his lovely repeated story.
He lent us his barn where we could sleep.
Outside a river so wide and deep,
Winded its weary way through vast plains,
It would fill more with October rains.
Clouds gathered above the horizon.
What pleased us was a rainbow rising.
We went inside the warm cosy shed
Where all was clean, and straw which we spread.
We slept like angels on that sweet bed.
There’re many names for this place
Where sanity slips takes a break
Sometimes called the nut house
You can hear the squirrels shout
The funny farm I’d rather say
For someone laughs in the day
Even if it’s no joke to be there
There’s always a person who stares
Some are nice some are kind
Some mean drugged out of mind
A hospital to save you from self
Empower better mental health
Even then wrote poems in my head
Didn’t share as ambition was dead
Decided to stop talking to voices
Gave the muse all of my choices
“How did you sleep last night”
Like a rock but frozen in time
Always cold in that sterile place
Made it out by amazing grace
Looking back in the reflection glass is painful yet empowering and the reasons I pick this moment is the same. Being broken inside was very hard and I felt helpless and hopeless. It took time for despair to peel away like an onion. I recall being strapped to a bed and not caring refusing food or liquids so I was fed intravenously. Eventually I found the will to live after I had tried to take my life. I lost vision of what made me so ill I only knew that I at one time wanted to die. I almost did as I was in I.C.U. and intubated for weeks in a coma. God refused me in heaven so back to my body I went. The hardest line to write was decided to stop talking to voices because I really was tormented so horribly that I stopped talking at all for a while. I had a chemical imbalance and I knew it! It’s much kinder to be oblivious to madness. I removed from the first draft the free write style which was dry and full of despair.
The wood smoke is rising,
there’s a chill in the air,
the valley’s in shadow,
with the pear tree still bare,
but I know by morning,
what the new day will bring...
It’s the last day of winter;
yes, here comes the spring.
I feel the warmth growing,
with winter veggies to share.
The sweet smell of jasmine,
now wafts through the air.
The call of a currawong,
does melodically ring,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.
The last hawthorn berries,
have dropped to the ground,
a scavenging blackbird,
and they’re quickly found.
On cherry plum blossom,
I hear bees on the wing,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.
I taste a warm cup of milk,
close to the milking machine.
See the grasses all flourish,
lush in their greenest of green.
I feel a thunderstorm coming,
and smell the rain it will bring,
with my five senses acute,
as days warm up in the spring.
Bird song is now rising,
‘long the course of the creek.
Twin lambs in the meadow,
and a new calf next week.
Hens are back on the lay,
the rooster is crowing.
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.
Scarlet red is a sunset,
now a day’s work is done.
As frogs chorus the air,
say goodbye to the sun.
Farm life is rewarding,
with the challenges faced.
Each day I test my senses...
Sight hearing smell touch and taste.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
In youth the Eden where you played
was left bereft, destroyed, decayed,
by trusts malignant masquerade
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
No grass survives your fallow glade,
when opportunist needs invade
and bleed the lives from every blade
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
First, victims surging song is brayed
but dirges of the wronged soon fade
and urges pant their serenade
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Agendas you arrange cascade
to keep your motives undisplayed
and cover cracks in your charade
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
You planted with your soiled spade
these spoiled seeds in hopes that they'd
advance the rancid plots you'd laid
Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
In kind, your ruined past replayed
will find each bloom on whom you've preyed
entombed in blighted beds you've made
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
When we were young boys on our farm.
A fish tale never meant any harm,
We oft were given a look,
When from such a tiny brook,
We claimed a fish as long as your arm.
But then our neighbor named Meg,
Beat the fib and put us down a peg,
By claiming from the same brook,
With not a worm on her hook,
She caught a fish as long as your leg!
Well that truth was quite hard to beat,
Then Summer beat a hasty retreat.
Winter changed the fishing world,
Meg turned from tomboy to girl.
And now this fishing tale is complete!
For John Freeman's "Fishing Limericks"