Best Hoeing Poems
My alarm clock was set to go off at eight
When I lurched out of bed oh heck I was late
Forgot to move on the clock for an hour
I was late for work – no time for a shower
I dashed to get dressed at the speed of light
My son was laughing - he could see my plight
I ran to the bathroom to clean my teeth and face
My car keys were hiding, not in their usual place
Ran to the car in my receptionist attire
To my horror I found I had a flat tyre
Got out the jack and changed the spare wheel
Jumped in the car how the tyres did squeal
Drove to the office into the parking lot
But why it was empty – oh no I forgot….
Bank holiday the first week of May
BOTHERATION was all I could say
Drove home slowly, just like a snail
Just in time to open the mail
Then I did:
The washing and ironing,
cleaning and cooking,
(had a few chocolates when no one was looking)
the weeding and hoeing,
planted some seeds that needed sowing,
washed the car and mowed the lawn
then to the hairdresser to have my hair shorn,
sat down with a book and had a cup of tea -
need a bit of time relaxation for me,
Then I
washed and dried the dishes,
cleaned out and fed the kid’s goldfishes
bathed the kids and made them a snack
got in the shower and rubbed my aching back
adjusted the alarm for the right time in the morning
crawled into bed and then started snoring
Tomorrow when I go back into work
I won’t tell them my error or I’ll look a jerk!
05~11~15
Fictional write for Contest: Today I Accomplished
Sponsor Sara Kendrick
"Caleb, go fetch me some dewberries from the fence row," Momma says,
as I polish off my Saturday morning breakfast. "I'll make us a cobbler."
She stands in her humble kitchen, the light of a country morning dawns
on her face. She's beautiful. I'd be happy to walk a hundred miles to
fetch her berries, or anything else. She hands me an old milk carton
with the top cut out of it. I burst out the door, running for the fence row
with the dog close behind. "And watch for snakes," she hollers after me.
As I round the edge of the 40 acre soybean field, I take the time to thank
God my dad doesn't have me hoeing weeds out of it.
toes peek out
from the canvass sneakers –
milk mustache
The dewberry vines meander beneath the line of fencing in between
the posts. I poke the undergrowth with my walking stick, trying to shoo
out any snakes! The berries ripen early this year in the Arkansas heat
wave. The stickers get me good where my big toe pokes out, I wince.
It’s too late now to go back for boots. The berries are real ripe and juicy,
staining my fingers as I drop them into the jug. “Two for me and one for
Momma,” I laugh and a passing Jay mimics with a caw.
Momma's call
carries down the row
stomach growls
Poets: Caleb Smith & Debbie Guzzi
See About the Poem
We have moved to higher Grounds.
The ridge enclave in mist and cold
Sight is poor as in jackets we fold
Peering below at the stagnant pools
-Covering to brim our hoeing tools.
Ink that was too thick is diluted
Scribbling leaves with water polluted
We’ve moved to scribble on the higher rocks
We’ve move away from the flooding docks
The streets are full of my works I never sold
Stories I thought will never be told
Only, I had already told them and someone else was bold
No- bolder than I ever were my dreams to uphold.
And now these earthquakes has also robbed me
Stolen the duet written by Maya and me
It has rolled and warped it in earths bare dust
Maya thinks I betrayed her most treasured trust.
And so when we couldn’t stand the waters flowing
When into our warm beds the stream came rushing
We took our feet and mind and our family of poets
And moved to higher grounds, we live again as cave poets.
We scribble in the darkest night
With splinters red enough to glow morsel light
We remember the glow of a car parking light
And we press the ochre harder, lips held tight.
We write on the rough walls of our refuge cave
Writing poetry in coded images of flower and dove
We write our fury in dark wooden coal,
-And happiness in a picture of an owl school.
Our hearts have enjoined from its broken bounds
But we still remember with the scariest, loudest heart pounds
And still we write up-up the filling rocks. Filled with words
-Words about the higher grounds and the flooded grounds.
The rocks floods with sentiments of frustration
-of the sired generation now lost in the canyon
-age has caught up to us and the cave is dripping with poetry
-so we pick a box of special pen and one or two poultry
-and we move to higher grounds.
Where the rocks are clean and caves are darker and empty
Standing hoeing garden stones
Eyes awash with tears
As memories flood back from
More than sixty years,
To the little village churchyard
For which my dad cared
And which duty I, as a child,
So very unwillingly shared.
He dug the graves, cut the grass
Scything carefully around
Each sheared and flower strewn
Humped burial mound.
All the paths were of loose stone
Which, after ever spring self seed,
Just attracted and harboured
Endless stretches of weed,
Each year it was my job
To shim and hoe them clean
So that those spick and span paths
Matched his carefully mown green.
I was a spoiled, lazy, idle child
Complaining every single year
But dad was quietly firm in spite
Of my every tantrum and tear.
Now he comes gently back to mind
As I hoe my stones, laid for easy care.
Just for a while it’s the old churchyard
And we are both back there.
Good job done he says
As we stand side by side
And we both inspect that path
And my chest swells with pride.
And now I stand here
Leaning on my garden hoe
Thinking of things I wish I’d said
All those many years ago.
But the past is the past
And we both know it’s for the best
That I wish his memory goodbye
And let him slip gently back to rest.
There's weeds in my
garden I can't use a
ho(e)
The man who could
pull them don't care
no mo
The ****'s overgrown
I might need a plow
But it's waited so
long that it's no
use now
When we planted the
thing we both shared
the work
Then one day I
looked up and said,
"Where is that
jerk?"
My back started
aching, legs started
to tremble
The beetles and
grubs began to
disassemble
All the love and
attention we put in
this thing
It's as rusty and
broken as my diamond
ring
He comes around
every once in awhile
And kills off small
weeds with a casual
smile
He tosses out a few
grubs with an 'I
love you'
I halfheartedly
reply, "I love you,
too"
Then I start to
remember as he walks
away
The tomatoes and
herbs we planted
that day
The cucumbers and
beans and corn and
beets
Represented by
kisses so warm and
so sweet
Flirty little winks
over coffee and
toast
The occasional
ass-squeeze -- gone
like a ghost
Making love was like
water to our
marriage bed
Reaffirming our
promise we made when
we wed
But with years of
neglect and a long
dry spell
I can say pretty
surely, this thing's
gone to hell
'Cause there's weeds
in my garden too big
to pull out
The bulldozer's just
me with a scream and
a shout
It would probably be
better to burn the
thing down
Forget about
gardening -- go out
on the town
To a place no one
knows me and I don't
know them
Where I sip on my
drink and -- Wait,
what is this stem
I just found in my
hair, damn those
infernal weeds!
I guess I should
stay here and tend
to the needs
Of the beautiful
garden we let go to
waste
Plant some kisses,
caresses -- so good
to taste
For love, like a
garden, needs
tending to grow
And weeding, and
hoeing and raking,
you know
It's back-breaking
work, but the payoff
is sweet
For the
soul-soothing feast
we both love to eat
We're starving each
other, pissed off
and pissed on
The garden we
planted has been
gone too long
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
Ma issued a decree that Pa received with very little ardor:
"A vegetable garden is needed to supplement our meager larder!"
Pa would rather spend his leisure time snoozing on the couch,
But he allowed he'd better get to work to appease the dear old grouch!
Pa hadn't been an ardent granger when a young Hoosier lad,
Laboring under the demanding oversight of his agrarian Dad!
Since his options were rather slim, he set upon tilling a patch,
And with spade, shovel and rake cleared it of its thatch.
Ma said, "I want lettuce, radishes and sweet pertaters,
Carrots, cabbages, rhubarb and beefsteak termaters.
Onions, asparagus, sweet corn and blackeyed peas,
And celery, string beans and rutabagas if you please!"
Under Ma's constant cajoling his summer looked very bleak.
He knew he had a "long row to hoe," so to speak!
Pa spent the summer planting, weeding and ever wishing,
He'd be relieved of his plight so that he could go fishing!
For seeds, plants and such they'd spent a fortune in dough,
And all that hoeing and spading had'nt helped Pa's lumbago.
Muttering beneath his breath, "Things'll be different next year;
She can plant flowers - I'll sit in the shade and enjoy a frosty beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 4 in How Does Your Garden Grow Contest
Far too many of these absentee fathers believe that they can plant a seed and harvest
a decent crop (child) without ever hoeing a row or pulling a weed (having any
involvement in their lives).
Thunder in the morning I complain
Summer's even
Hoeing in the rain I soon quit the field. . .
Freedom,
The spring at the one tree
From which we drank
Sweat pouring off us
In the grasshopper blur of Midsummer
The lightning dances in my eyes
The thunder rattles in my ears,
O Great Spirit
To be,to be
Freefalling and free
Memories Lost
past entangled snares
heavy laden under mire
lurk memories lost
deeply seeded held
cleverly hidden in mist
are memories lost
heaving hoeing
ebbing flowing never showing
all memories lost
~deborah burch©
4/28/2012
The hoes
The projects
Always think you fly
Yet, your mother struggles
Father, has two jobs
Don’t have enough money
And your still getting robbed
Walking through the hood
Guys always stare
Look left, Look right
Cops always there
Run up in someones house
Don’t even have a reason
Just want to run about
The street girls
The hood boys
The sirens
The fights
Crack heads and drug dealers
Parties all night
Remember those days
You know you miss that
Always wonder why
You would want to go back
Go back to the life
Of sex and crime
Baby mother struggles
Baby father hustled
Boys running around all crazy
Girls running the streets
Having a lot of babies
Mind is not set to go to school
That is a shame
Because you think your so cool
Low grades
High standards
Bandanna's hanging
Always flagging
Boys always packing
Clothes cut low
Body is showing
Strutting down the streets
You know she hoeing
Girls on the corner
Boys on the corner
Realize that’s how it is
Even if that's
Not how you were brought up
The hoes
The projects
Wonder who going to die next?
The struggle!
The streets!
While weeding in my vegetable garden,
I took a needed break, from my hoeing.
I gazed along the creek over the glen,
a pride of tiger lilies opening.
It appeared to me an exposition,
a thousand deep, emerging on parade.
Row on row and column after column,
in full regalia, a marching brigade.
A brilliant orange with narrow spots of brown,
on each top hat, a yellow pollen crown.
Shoulder to shoulder in closed rank column,
marching, marching in ornamental plume.
glorious day calls
donning summer's broad-brimmed hat
for LOVE of sunshine
locate garden shoes
unworn since last november
garden work my FUN
laggard spring was late and cold
urgent..seeding must get done
dig them up and put them in
setting sets in ..seeding seeds
hoeing, raking, composting
POETRY alive
Won a 5th with this
By: Joyce Johnson for Linda's contest "Fun & Frolic" (3 forms)
Once, a little Spanish girl
was given a "regalo" -
a dainty little potted plant,
a purple-petalled mallow.
She set it in a sunny spot,
beneath a southern window,
re-housed it in an iron pot
and named it, "Don Galindo".
She gave it water every day,
and gave its loam a hoeing.
She talked to it and petted it,
and marvelled at its growing.
Her plant rose tall and strong and fine,
rewarding all her labors:
"¡Te quiero!" sighed the little girl:
"¡Que raro!" cried the neighbors.
Joy never lasts, grief always comes,
said someone (maybe Byron?)
Galindo's roaming, ravenous roots
were hemmed-in by the iron.
The fine plant sickened and declined,
all hopes of salvage scuppered:
its lower parts, by steel confined,
could not sustain the upper.
And so, the moral of our tale -
resisting is not giving.
Do not preclude, prevent, prevail -
rigidity's all very well,
but soon turns heaven into hell!
Give in to me -
set us both free -
don't cramp or crowd -
things disallowed
can hardly go on living.
A myth and a fable can be found on a table. When an old man does look in an ancient book. Dragons and periodic charts do not mix. But historical inaccuracies a horse with wings can fix. Flee flee flee little mice. For that watering hole will attract bison. Heavy bodies and lots of hooves. Oh dear. It is never to be said that the honest truth of a pillar in a dome is slated with a burning bushel. But when a bushel of faith is carried by either a sea maiden or a voyaging spring queen the time for flutists,piccolo players and harpists is rife. And turbans link to dance and jump, headdresses and bangles leap in feathered and clawed unison (circling), moon painted bodies of the tribal ones wave spears, and all is a united effort. All is a unison. Globally positioned. But no monetary aim. So take a mixing bowl and create two hundred and eighty-nine deserts on ten minutes. Great. Kiss then. Good. *** horticultural horse hoeing horizontally and a big sneeze from a teacup. Fantastic so clap clap clap. Monetization Z