Best Farmed Poems
I don't look at stars anymore.
As a boy I would sneak out into the night
to hear the horses and barn mice
chewing over their hurts and simple hopes.
I could smell the waking dreams
of dogs and cats.
a nocturnal alchemy I considered
to be an extension of my integral soul.
I did not look upwards
I looked inwards and saw where I was
in that sensory cauldron, the broth of being.
One clear and cold night,
I looked up and knew that I was far away,
far away from this farmed backwater,
far from these backwoods,
the barn, the flagstone kitchen, my mother,
my father, myself.
The stars, those blazing guardians
of eternal silence, held me
enthralled to a distance I could not imagine.
I was only this tenuous stem of blood,
left here to sway on the edge of an horizonless night,
a vastness that held my breath and heartbeat
in the limbo of its indifferent favor.
That night, the stars spoke to me
in the language of the dead.
For a moment, the far away echoed close,
while I, like a moth, felt pinned to the void.
I heard the starlight sing and if that song had words
it would have said:
We harvest your dreams,
set fire to them, use there ash
and your ashes to come, for fuel.
Only we exist among the doomed.
Only the stars.
British wanted profit
British wanted new land
Land rich in resources
Land of ivory and coffee
Coffee British could sell
Coffee Kenyans could not
Could not retrieve freedom
Could not reason with British
British took over land
British farmed fertile soil
Soil was Kenyan birthright
Soil of Kenyan ancestors
Ancestors buried here
Ancestors grieved for living
Living like refugees
Living in fear of England
England built railway
England bolstered power
Power taken by British
Power denied to Kenyans
Kenyans displaced
Kenyans were angry
Angry since dishonored
Angry since stripped of rights
Rights taken from Kenyans
Rights only for British
British happy in new land
British prosperous future
Future lost Kenyans
Future lost hope
Hope came from bravery
Hope came from Dedan
Dedan well respected
Dedan joined Mau Mau
Mau Mau took oath
Mau Mau freedom fighters
Fighters for rights
Fighters for justice
Justice took much time
Justice took much blood
Blood shed for Dedan
Blood shed for hero
Hero was hung
Hero yet lives
Lives in the minds
Lives in the hearts
Hearts beat forever
Hearts beat freedom
Freedom...
Forever...
5/19/16
Long ago, a girl and boy met walking through a pumpkin field.
She laughed and ran, he dared to chase, and neither ever paused to yield.
The boy was rich, and she was poor - for this they did not care.
For what was fortune or the lack, when playtime be your fare?
The year ran out and came again, and pumpkins grew once more.
The boy and girl would meet and laugh and tell of local lore.
Year on year the two would meet until they both grew tall.
And one good year he stole kiss, sometime late in fall.
“Marry me,” he said to her and her response was “yes.”
She laughed and sang and didn’t mind she had nothing for a dress.
The boy, once home was sat straight down and sternly told to choose.
The girl he loved would ne’er be his, else his fortune he would lose.
The proposition made him think, perhaps he had been wrong,
And in the pumpkin field again, he made her wait so long.
The girl, she had no gold or jewels – only love and faith,
So, nothing mattered quite as much as that one handsome face.
He kissed her long and then again, his passion cruel and bold,
He told her then she’d ne’er be his - and left her in the cold.
The next day dawned, the farmer farmed, and all seemed as before,
Until he stumbled on some cloth and recognized the frozen form.
Tears had hardened where they’d fallen, down her pretty cheeks,
And her lovely lips so still and blue, never more would speak.
The farmers anger grew and glistened, though he knew quite well,
There’d be no justice for the girl, in this calloused dell.
He took the pumpkin she had clutched and carved in it a look,
A hellish laugh condemned the boy for the life he took.
The boy, he saw the farmers gourd, and fear did strike his heart.
He ran so fast he tripped at last and down a cliff he did depart.
And every year that has gone by the villagers remember,
And put their pumpkins at the door, within each gourd an ember.
It flickers so, that every soul would know that good comes not
To those that pray upon their lessers – comes only spoil and rot.
Save your soul in a pickle jar
Wishes will get you only so far
Today is yesterday in review
Will tomorrow bring anything new?
Saints are sinners that God forgave
Dead bodies are farmed into the grave
You give and take and take and give
You live to die and die to live
Paradise was lost by a fleshy bite
Innocence was deflowered by knowing right
Adam's apple jiggles when he lies
Nothing is sweet as Eve's apple pie
I was working for Jack Daymond, a farmer,
who farmed livestock, potatoes and vines.
I s’pose he had over two hundred cattle.
The spuds and the grapes grew in lines.
Oh gawd! Jack had me slaving ‘til sunset,
keeping his farm spick and span.
Jack kept his eyes on the produce,
while I was his cleaning up man.
And that meant me days were all busy,
spraying and killing off weeds,
grubbing out hundreds of tussocks,
before the darn thing set its seeds.
Sometimes old Jack was a good bloke,
he’d jump in with a fine helping hand,
and we’d spend our day in the paddock,
destroying the weeds on his land.
We were digging out plenty of thistles,
in the north paddock up near the creek,
and we worked like a couple of Trojans
clearing what should have taken a week.
Then a voice loudly filled up the air.
And it was quite menacing too.
A bloke in a suit was striding to us,
declaring his strong point of view.
“Mr. Daymond, I am here to warn you,
that I represent government’s need.
It appears that with government water,
that your quota you far did exceed.”
“I’m here to check your irrigation,
and make sure you’re not being unfair.”
Jack Daymond replied “Do what you must,
but don’t go in that paddock up there.”
The bloke in the suit became snaky,
standing over poor Jack with a leer,
“Don’t tell me where I can or can’t go,
See this card that I am holding here.”
“This card is a reminder to you,
I have authority over your land.
I am allowed to go wherever I wish,
have I made myself clear? Do you understand?'
Jack looked down at the card in his hand,
and knew there’s no sense to rebound,
so Jack nodded politely and joined me,
grubbing thistles from out of the ground.
It appeared that Jack had been beaten,
and in silence he’s taking it hard,
between thistles he gazed to the paddock,
at the bloke who had shown him the card.
But then a grin formed on his face,
we heard yelling like never before,
for the bloke in the suit he was sprinting,
and it’s something we cannot ignore.
Jack beat me on reaching the fence.
With the bloke in the suit in full flight,
and hot in pursuit was Jack’s Jersey bull,
with a look that was all sheer delight.
As the bloke in the suit got beside us,
with the bull behind him by a yard,
Old Jack cupped his hands and yelled out -
“Your card! Your card! Show him your card!”
Spring speaks of promise beginning anew,
While winter winds whistle of being true.
Summer shouts like ferocious violins,
Buzzing warmth of Sun delivers up-chins.
Fall's voice is favoured, it's song's not of loss,
Her trust is heard as though hallowed glass-gloss,
Her breathing, laboured, is suggestion-filled.
Taste of her drink from the farmed rows, distilled,
Her season of the cultured cup, it brims,
And sounds of fingers circling wine glass rims,
For such delicate ring's language of choice,
It sings, it is Autumn's breathe given voice.
You can
drive your whole life
not look upon the face
of harbingers in spring wet earth.
Remembering the ephemeral warm
Mediterranean summers
clean Petrich or fresh rain
bucolic life
setting.
Yielding
a nostalgic
propinquity city's
efflorescence dress brick building.
The epiphany of an old church as
it sings the echoes of erstwhile.
Redolent warm feeling
Victorian
versed homes.
Yester
years fine brushstrokes.
Trees towering on the
outskirts of the demesne beauty
Unique, intertwined dalliance with the
farmed and the wild a wonderful
serendipity finds
quiet hunger
of life.
3/31/2016
The city's two-block business district consists of the original brick buildings built in the 1880s and 1890s
I use to work in the Oakland School. They have left the very small town the same, it's like walking into the past. It lays in a valley surrounded by mountains. A very old silo still stands where they use to burn the woodchips. Very beautiful old town.
Grandma was a firefighter woman
For most of the 1960s--
When she was already in her sixties
You see, around about 1961
A brush fire almost burned down
Kanarraville—that little Utah farming town.
The men farmed or worked outside of town,
And there were no firehouses very near.
So the postmistress said “Sisters, volunteer!”
Housewives and mothers heard the call,
About 20 or so ladies in all
Were trained to put those fires down.
My grandparents ran the Ranch Café--
(Famous for their sourdough biscuits)
A classic mom-and-pop business.
When the old fire engine sputtered by,
Thelma would stop making pumpkin pie,
Toss her apron, and be on her way.
An all-women’s volunteer fire department
Was really unique--quite the novelty.
Papers mentioned them around the country.
Nothing could keep those old ladies down,
Except the expansion of the town;
Which eventually had a paid fire department.
Yes, the old gals put out their last fire.
The Ranch Café is gone, and so are they,
But those firefighters are remembered today.
I can still imagine Grandma then,
Riding on that obsolete fire engine,
In her fireman’s hat and waitress attire.
BELIZEAN BLEND
In the beginning it was the Yucatec, the Mopan and Kekchi as well
Who came from the steppes of Asia where nomads dwell
They fished and farmed milpas, in paradise; away from hell
Some building great civilizations that, for many reasons, eventually fell
Then came the Spaniards whose ambivalence; mixed feelings
Caused them to waver in subsequent dealings
Killed some natives, driven off by others
In the end did not settle; wasn’t worth the bother
Displaced by the British, rowdy pirates turn woodcutters
Who made laws and build infrastructure down to the gutters
Cut logwood, then mahogany for powerful and wealthy folks
Then, to satisfy greed, sought others to enslave in yokes
Africans from Jamaica and Bermuda transshipped
Then as chattel they were frequently whipped
Stolen from Africa, becoming the major labor force
Dehumanized and tortured for centuries without remorse
Mestizos fleeing oppressors in the Yucatan
The War of Castes brought them from beyond
Working as chicleros and cane cutters
As a way of providing ‘ bread and butter’
Garinagu deported from St. Vincent as a form of punishment
Many dying in their odyssey , their massive predicament
Survive , resiliently, on the rebound
A proud people, with culture and learning very sound
Mennonites coming to enjoy religious freedom and peace
Avoiding persecution for a life of ease
Providing furniture, low cost poultry and eggs
Reducing the cadre of many that beg
From India and China they were duped and brought
As indentured servants who were hastily sought
Later as merchants and shopkeepers they came
Voluntarily this time, which is not nearly the same
Backpackers and excursionists everywhere
In a world where they’re free to choose elsewhere
Not part of the earlier diaspora
But manifestations of a new plethora
Adorned with shells
Beautiful enough
to be on a necklace.
Faces and bodies
Ugly enough to be
"Movie monsters."
Shells that dot the lawn with
Tan, pink, browns, black and stripes
Desperately try to protect the delicate
"Movie monsters" within from
Mother and human nature.
I carry them off to a
Temporary safety
Whenever I can.
Stuck to my garage door
Window as if to peak in.
Watching us instead of
The other way around.
On my garage door
As if to be waiting
For the moment that
It is opened to jump in.
Hugging my house
And shyly sharing the world
With the rest of us.
Out after a summer rain
Dining on lawn salad.
Farmed for tasty appetizers on
Somebody's dinner plate.
Plucked from shells by hungry birds.
Smashed by a shoe, lawn mower,
car tire, garage door...
It's never a good ending
For the snails.
Empty unbroken shells are
Cherished in my collection.
The Elephant Gift.
upon the elephant rode a boy prince,
his royal command, he was there to evince.
dark with grace and dripping with youth.
bringing his men, his crown and his couth.
town after town he strode fierce through the gates.
and any detractors were left to cruel fates.
and on one windy day, as they strode into town.
the faces where tenfold and a hush passed around
the grey of the creature with knowing black eyes
swayed left towards the crowd as if to capsize.
and the mass gasped in horror; bairns seized by their mam.
men flung at young ladies, babes pulled from the pram.
the bewildered and flustered
tired elephant sat.
in the center of all on the bald pastors hat.
the old pastor looked stunned to see such a disgrace.
until he remembered, and composed his face.
'your highness' he bowed. his manners restored.
but the poor prince was toppled his mighty seat floored.
they gasped for the prince, just really a child
dressed in fine silks on this elephant wild.
pastor said, 'here now' extending an arm
hand wrinkled and gnarled from the land that he farmed.
then the guards sprung to life as if sudden awake
guns point to the man of whose life they would take.
and just as they squinted their eye for the aim
a boy sang out sweetly, 'sire he's not to blame!'
and the prince from street where he lay in pool
held up his hand and recovered his rule.
he looked at the crowd and he said 'boy now speak'
the boy said, 'prince it is the prayers that you seek.
the prayers that you'd visit. the prayers that you'd stay.
lord must of heard them and granted this way.'
his eyes wide with truth and the love of his church
the prince laughed a beautiful belly filled lurch.
the carriage was called as the prince shared a feast.
and even some water was splashed on the beast.
such a good time as he danced and he spun
till the horses arrived in the dust of a run.
to thank the town and the lovely haired boy
the young prince gave up his own precious toy.
the beast stays quite put in the center of town...
but prayers? Say no more...
so the prince won't fall down.
He’d just turned forty, a happy single daddy
He had sunshine days and his life on track
His two girls and him, he love’s his lit’l family
He would never even think of ever looking back
Cuz’ his two girls were growing - way to fast
His days were busy, when springtime came calling
He farmed right on through the cold bitter rains
And when the planting season finally ended
He’d caught a cough he just couldn’t shake by then
And that’s when he called me up
My heart beat fast as I packed my bags
and rushed to him
It hit me hard how his face was pale
and his body thin
He smiled his smile at me and said - come on in
He said - brother you’ve got to help me
Cuz’soon my girls will be missing me
I need you to hug and kiss them both for me
Tell’em their daddy loves’em when they scrape their knees
Wipe their tears and tuck them in
Read them stories where the Prince always wins
And when they bring home their first dates
You make a mean face and you tell him straight
To have them home not a minute too late
You just tell him- I’m always watching
From Heaven
I laid my head there upon his chest
My tears fell hard as he struggled for breath
My shoulders shook and he squeezed my hand
He said, I love you brother and you’re a good man
And I know you’ll be the greatest daddy to them
You just tell them – I ‘m always watching
From Heaven
I raised my head then, smiled and said
I’ll hug them daily and tuck them in
I’ll tell them stories where the Prince always wins
They’ll know their daddy was strong and brave
And I’ll have fun scaring all their dates
I’ll teach them right and what is wrong
I’ll dry their tears when they hear your song
And when its hard and their missing you
I’ll just tell them- You’ll always be watching
From Heaven
I read the title as
U - nite- as
three syllables - hard I
And I marveled that a female poet would
write of U Johnny
and looked hurriedly down the page
hoping to read
Of your years leading the Colts
(who were in Baltimore then)
on gimpy knees and guts
when a player
who had it
had balls
not a multi-million $dollar$ contract,
a side deal with a shoe company and....
and of the anger as you
were pushed from the color commentary
by younger has-beens
and sank into muddle-aged oblivion
However, I misread the title
uni - tas
two syllables - soft I
An homage to Aiende and Chile
a democratically elected socialist government
ousted by a CIA-backed military coup
to maintain control over strategic copper
but those days are over
and today the country
produces wonderful, cheap wine
and farmed fish
So I wrote this poem
for U
Written sometime in 1977-1978 on reading Dorthy Livesay's poem from Ice Age - which can be found here
http://envoifound.com/envoi-poetry-festival/poets-dead-or-alive/dorothy-livesay-october-12-1909-december-29-1996/
OH THOSE DAYS,THOSE DAYS.FARMERS FARMED ,YES THEY FARMED NATURAL WERE THE FOOD CROPS,YES NATURAL I SAY. THE TASTE WAS SUPER GOOD,THE CROPS NATURAL IN ALL THEIR MINERAL COMPONENTS. THERE WERE NO [G.M.O] YES THEY CALL IT GENETICALLY MODIFIED ORGANISM,OH WHAT A HARM TO HUMANITY.THOSE DAYS WE FELL ILL ON A SCARCE BASE,TODAY ALL SORT OF DISEASES. THOSE DAYS OH THOSE DAYS,YES THOSE DAYS.STOP THE INORGANIC FARMING MORE HARM THAN GOOD WE HAVE AS A RESULT OF G.M.OS.THOSE DAYS OH THOSE DAYS.
A mysterious moan rose up from below,
Up through the floor boards of our age.
This curious, extraordinary wail rose up,
Becoming an ungoverned, impotent rage.
I queried this torment, this bubble of noise,
Would it murder with a savage of blind.
Would this cry grow and envelop, devouring our thoughts,
Consuming every bit of our mind.
We began to panic with irrational fear,
We chose flight as desperately fast as we could.
Flight from this house, this terrorised house,
With the screams coming up through the wood.
And we ran like a riot, through green fields of farmed crop,
Crop that was now in full blossom.
We heard the chainsaw behind, and glanced back into eyes,
The eyes of the small Brushtail Aussie possum.
written 30th August 2016 which is not new, soz, but I like this "horror" poem and thought it might fit. hope u enjoy it. Ranked Second place Eve Roper 11/16/2016