Best Plowing Poems
“Howdy Amos”, “Howdy Seth”, without a glance.
Amos t’aint much for words as he stares straight ahead
His gaze as straight as his furrows.
Amos is what you might call a “deep thinker”.
I watch as he bounces up and down on the plow hitch
The bells on his mighty Percherons jingling with each practiced step
As they perform their timeworn ballet with Amos their choreographer.
I wonder what Amos is thinking and then I remember our last conversation.
Did I say Amos t’aint much for words?
Well, it seemed as though his “word dam” had finally overflowed
As he told me about the girl he met
At the Limerick Town Hall dance last Saturday night.
He said he watched the most wonderful girl in the world dance with every guy
Who was standing in line for their turn listening
To the out-of-tune piano player and drummer
Who called themselves the Limerick Two.
During the band’s first break, she came over to where Amos was sitting.
Smiling, she introduced herself as Irene from just down the street.
Amos didn’t disappoint her because, as usual, he was at a loss for words,
But he was a “deep thinker”
And he was thinking she was the most beautiful girl in the world.
“Would you like to dance?” She asked. Amos just nodded his head.
Amos was the last guy she danced with that night
As Irene's waiting line kept getting longer and longer.
Amos said his feet didn’t touch the ground as he walked home
To West Newfield late that night.
Amos t’aint much for words,
But when he speaks, his words, though few, are poetic.
As I watch Amos plowing with horses, I know what he’s thinking.
He’s thinking about next Saturday night and his first dance with Irene.
I turn my back and continue my journey,
The sounds of the great Percheron’s bells fading in the distance
As Amos continues plowing with horses and dreaming of Irene.
plowing the garden
hot summer sun bearing down
recipes in mind
The seasons are running with a plow straight over my face
and creates furrows for tears under my eyes.
PLOWMAN
(for Bill Troy, and Messer’s generous
free Plowman Day.)
Not soon enough comes the thrill of snow!
for plowmen who beckon the blizzard’s fall
anxious to use his craft of geometric cut lines
and angles of blizzard white in reverse drive
so shines a man’s intuition of spatial awareness
a gift more like knowing than any clear thought
to read white-out screens of sky and windshield
the plowman’s art performed in winter snow
plowman craves the joy of plowing a first white
applying his clever angles to defeat the weight
of wet snow’s higher walls and piled tonnage
hands on a wheel he shifts to feel the road
with a hot coffee steaming to favorite tunes
he’s cranking until the windshield white-out
demands an all senses alert mode in quiet
‘cause backwards driving on a narrow road
calls up deeper focus in rearview mirror reads
as white storm fury closes heavier curtains
and packed snow tires treads slide like ice
a rush demands radio off full concentration
at the edge of thin roads’ sagging shoulders
ready to jump the heart and pull down a rig
and a plow like a trick spirit hand thrust up
as if the old camp road was bad with karma
plowman and wheels of a machine in motion
the best Plowman’s final look is edged just so
his framed snow art soon melts with a season
like those sand sculptures on a summer beach
Charles Eastland
from Amazon Kindle eBook: The Car Has Ears
We are reasoning the limitations of women,in Islam,but we are giving non-religious freedom to women in our own land,what we do,is not defending Islam;It is just plowing the sands.
plowing ahead she rises to the occasional
pique of future flowing moments unfurling from
the pages of the book stuck together like morning
eyelashes fluttering, no cause necessary, just practicing
push pull not the same as yes or no...paralyzed in some
moments along the river bank of fog, lazily drifting
doing some fishin’ I think...not sure for what
no bait...none taken, none given...albatross wings span
the globe, circumnavigating for something like years
age old pieces of me surfacing...can I really do this again?
pits in my stomach of excitement and whatever else
I can’t call it out because I don’t know what it is right now
trepidation about movement and yet, movement is having
her way with me sort of. The mess no longer supports so
something must give now...I cannot keep up the illusion that
I no long care...I do care...I want more than I have given myself
for a very long time...unspooling threads...cannot see as I am
apparently not a weaver of time...praise for the old folks who
walked the wisdom paths in our illustrious world...
Good night for now...eyes drifting into the downward dog...
Asta la vista baby...
Driving along steel on the road
look in the mirror
salt falls from my load
Moving just as swift as I can
Look at me
I'm the snow plow man
Snow piles high as it moves off my plow
push back corners
the kids scream WOW
working round the clock all through the night
Clearing the roads
With determination an might
Road to road as fast as I can
Look at me
I'm the snow plow man
The horses hitched, the team stands ready
The farmer’s hands on reins firm steady
Prepared to work with heads held proud
To challenge fields that lie unplowed.
With gentle hands he guides the crew
To plow the furrows straight and true
At corners turn, a pure ballet
These mighty steeds, grand Boulannais.
All day long they mind their plowing
Weather fair, daylight allowing
The three of them all work as one
The farmer and his team ‘til done