Best Hayfield Poems
The first time I painted the old red barn
I was twenty years old and the skies were blue.
There it sat in the middle of the hay field
Waiting to be immortalized on canvas.
The second time I painted the old red barn
I was thirty-nine and my life was in turbulence.
The fall thunderclouds predominated the picture.
The hayfield almost orange with the coming sunset.
The last time I took my easel to the field
The barn had faded to a dusty rose colour,
But the skies were blue and the clouds were fluffy.
The hay waved joyously in the breeze.
The barn and I had both aged and faded with time
But we were still blessed with the sun shining on the hay.
Categories:
hayfield, nostalgiaold, time, old, red,
Form:
Couplet
I climb into the big haymow
On this eventful day
Looking for childhood memories
Trapped in a mound of hay.
The large expanse is empty now
And somehow looks too small
To have held all the busy times
Now sweet in my recall.
It took a lot of sweat to get
From hot hayfield to mow
And then some more to pitch hay down
To feed each horse and cow.
Horses and cattle are all gone,
Mama and Daddy too.
It's time for selling off the past
And starting life anew.
I hear them coming, clamber down.
It's time to sell the barn.
It will be moved, the very last
Of Dad and Mother's farm.
The land will go to buyers who
Will break it into lots.
The only farming then will be
In little garden plots.
Entered in Rambling Poet contest
Inspired by her poem "The House"
Categories:
hayfield, nostalgiatime,
Form:
Narrative
FEEDING HORSES
She was four years old
Apples in bulging pockets from garden trees
Cold day in autumn
Stroll down to Paddy Sands’s horse pasture
Stop at five-bar gate and lift her up
Call or whistle - they come from a half-kilometre
Black, brown mares, one gelding
Jealous one tries to bite the others
Jostling for position at the gate
All those soft soft noses.....
They will permit stroking
If fed enough handfuls of grass
Grass tastes better from our hands
Than when cropped by them,
(Especially with tiny flowers of blue vetch).
Their big brown eyes close up
So peaceful and trusting
Tempting furry ears just out of reach for her
Turning cold now after half an hour
Spoil them with our apples before we go home
Show her how to hold back her thumb
So it doesn’t get bitten.
Walk home through Sands’s cropped hayfield
To tea and biscuits.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Carol Brown's Contest "A Horse Story"
Categories:
hayfield, animalshorse,
Form:
Free verse
Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged.
parents watch
through the window:
paper cup pills
He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”
First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014
Categories:
hayfield, betrayal,
Form:
Haibun
It laves under the waves of warm sunshine,
a chill breath of almost spring- near weather
deliver endless hope and yearn of the fruit vine,
her wee frame caressed by the moor's heather.
A look of silent wonder filled the sun
while it hung temptingly reaching natures
sweeping gold hayfield, light of day begun,
retrieving, renewing, reborn creatures.
Crepe myrtle delicate limbs dropped in size
with the weight of the vibrant pink flowers,
and the bees, as well as the butterflies,
taking full advantage of its bowers.
A breath beneath the sun and sky to drench,
hunger that only the sunshine doth quench.
3/9/2018
Categories:
hayfield, butterfly, flower, growth, sunshine,
Form:
Sonnet
Amish Sundown in the Hayfield
Heaven bright sunshine
slowly shadows
the hand-knotted
bundles, scenting the air
with sweet blessings,
for a peaceful night.
07/21/10
10:56pm
Categories:
hayfield, nature
Form:
Free verse
through a mud stained field
and thickets galore
mountaintops blue in the haze
walked through hayfield stubble
with a damp, faithful dog
I am anticipating Halloween
but thoughts dissolve quickly
in fields and forest hues
indian summer is over
litters of leaves all around
we pass a dead coyote
the white dog pays no mind
there's no need to hurry
lots of creekside bushes
cause my path to crook and veer
I miss the smell of brush burning
and dread the winter coming
I'll cancel my reservation
and head for some coral reef distant
summer without end
twinkling snow berms
and bitter cold will come
but technology can remedy
the chill nuisance
of Arctic's southward plunge
Categories:
hayfield, mountains, nature, october, seasons,
Form:
Imagism
Sky color shades hue
red yellow orange blue
insects click birds sing
trees leaves cling
green summer pleasure
gold harvest treasure
weeping-willow hill
far removed autumn chill
morning mist rising
soul uprising
coffee brewing dark
porch waking dog bark
cornfield full fine haul
yard there cut wall
rest invites shade tree
here farm life free
Categories:
hayfield, america, august, farm, freedom,
Form:
Light Verse
Rose Meadow, an outcast woman,
portrayed by Fertie Fields.
The film chronicles her Pagan beliefs.
A supporting cast boasts
Roland (Rollie) Hills and Hayden Hayfield.
Cameos by Misty Marsh and Lily Lake.
Marquee brags of Nature’s spiritual mysteries
comprising the life of Rose Meadow.
Categories:
hayfield, film, life, mystery, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Manchester Lad
by Robert (Bob) Moore
We used to live in Manchester, in England, the UK
till one day, our dad said, we’re going to move away
Australia’s where were going to, a land of sand and sun
with lots of jobs, and lots of space, a life there will be fun
I didn’t really want to go, at 18 my life was here
but dad had made his mind up, he made that very clear
it’s all or none he said to me, we go together, or we stay
so we agreed we all would go, and I’d return home one day
We caught a train to London, and as we crossed the Pennine Chain
little did I think, that I would not see them again
I’d hiked and camped all over them, since I was just a lad
Glossop, Hayfield, Kinder Scout, and all the fun we’d had
The train got to St Pancras, in the early morning light
time to have some breakfast, look around and see the sights
I had never been to London, this was my first trip,
we saw Nelsons Column, but that was about it
We had to go to Tilbury, a ship was waiting for us there
to take us half way round the world, to a land dad said was fair
it needed population, to help it build and grow
and people came from many lands to try and make it so
I never went back to Manchester, once I had settled here,
Australia became my home, but one thing was very clear
I was born and bred in Manchester, life was tough, but not so bad
and no matter where it is I live, at heart, I’m a Manchester Lad.
Bob Moore ©2022
Categories:
hayfield, family,
Form:
Rhyme
The fairest creature I, in the garden of the blossoms,
My scarlet visage overweighs the evil of thorny vesture,
In my dwelling, an unheard hymn the sparrows sing of,
Melodies of praise stacked up like hay in the hayfield,
A charming and so seductive I am in the eyes of theirs,
So devoted followers, often the heart of gold I encounter,
Decollate I, gently with bare hand amongst the legion of flowers,
Plunges in the bottle and in the altar before statues I stand,
Aromatic incense wafting and sinking in my tinged petals,
Wilt and dust I, inhaling and harking to prayers of faithful souls,
Glorious days of life, so beautiful and gilded with lustre,
A couple plod in the blinking of the fair moon of fond house,
Behead I by the boy and offer me to his charming lady,
Lonely days of lady, tug me out of the embossed casket,
Stares so deeply and sips fragrance of mine so sweetly.
Oh! Days are not so unkind sometimes of my patron,
So harshly drag I, tears oozing from the shore of her sea,
A scant of my scent she drinks not nor gives a fond gaze,
A petal by petal scatters my feathers on the floor of so much detest,
Tramples upon me, and hails at me of woe inflicted by him,
Mistress of the garden I, joy and melancholy of living souls.
Categories:
hayfield, 4th grade, fate,
Form:
Romanticism
The Journey
by Robert J (Bob) Moore ©2020
We used to live in Manchester, in England, the UK
till one day our dad said, we’re going to move away
Australia’s where were going to, a land of sand and sun
with lots of jobs, and lots of space, a life there will be fun
I didn’t really want to go, at 18 my life was here
but dad had made his mind up, he made that very clear
it’s all or none he said to me, we go together or, we stay
so we agreed we all would go, and I’d return home one day
We caught a train to London, and as we crossed the Pennine Chain
little did I think, that I would not see them again
I’d hiked and camped all over them, since I was just a lad
Glossop, Hayfield, Kinder Scout, and all the fun we’d had
The train got to St Pancras, in the early morning light
time to have some breakfast, look around and see the sights
I had never been to London, this was my first trip,
we saw Nelsons Column, but that was about it
We had to go to Tilbury, a ship was waiting for us there
to take us half way round the world, to a land dad said was fair
it needed population, to help it build and grow
and people came from many lands to try and make it so
so we sailed, down the Thames, hoping things would be alright
out into the Channel, and past Dovers cliffs of white
across the Bay of Biscay, through the Med and Suez too
then over the Indian Ocean, until Australia came into view
We called at Port Fremantle, then crossed the Australian Bight
just a stop at Melbourne, then on to Sydney through the night
at eight thirty in the morning, I went up on to deck A
we passed under the Harbour Bridge, England 12000 miles away
I would never again see England, or walk the Pennine Hills
never again see Manchester, the winter fogs, and chills
my friends from when I was a lad, are just memory
but living in Australia, has been a good life for me.
Categories:
hayfield, journey,
Form:
Rhyme
Poetry is a necessity
These words my breath
Blows thoughts in profusion
Into a windswept field
Your hair is golden
And speckled
Like the hayfield
I say thanks
But I am not thankful
Aura this and aura that
Aura just a little bit
A thesis on poetry
Is time well spent
And time in the physics lab
Is time better spent
Sipping coffee with friends
Even if it is starbucks.
Categories:
hayfield, on writing and words,
Form:
Free verse
Everyday my father got up early
And put wood in the fireplace
With frozen fingers that bleed
From labor in the hayfield the day before
Caused by the white cold weather.
I'd walk and see my white cold breath brisk
When i breathe out the cold air
Slowly i rise and dress
Fearing the pain staking task of the pasture
Walking outdoors ready to commence another cold day of farming.
After long hours dad and i would come indoors
Smelling the wonderful aroma of cooked food
By my mom, dad's loving wife smiling at us
WIth golden brown bisuits, sweeten white rice
And tender hot steaks for dinner tonight.
Categories:
hayfield, father, day,
Form:
Free verse
a black rose offers pink play on golden hayfield - a plum compulsion
January 3, 2018
Monoku 4: Colours - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Categories:
hayfield, color,
Form:
Monoku