Best Scarecrow Poems
Blackened Crow circle
frightened hardly
-plucking nightly
the fruits of her harvest
pitchforked hollow eyes watch
behind the disguise
of a red worn bandana
impaled
and left to molder
Is the Lord just a scarecrow
watching over my fields
Is He no more than a guard dog
springing from his heels
Nay the Lord is my shepherd
I am His treasure
With love He watches over me
Tenderly guards my family
Ride of the Scarecrow Clan
(To: Mittens)
She was born in the corn on a cold misty morn,
the most beautiful cat on the farm.
(I must keep her from coming to harm!)
The most beautiful kitty inspired this ditty
with whiskers that whisper her charm,
wild white whiskers that whisper her charm.
But the angels grew jealous, much too overzealous,
they schemed up a dastardly plan,
that they stole from a medicine man.
They would use and abuse all their magic, so tragic,
to conjure the Scarecrow Clan,
for their devilish dastardly plan.
The Clan owed them a favor for past misbehavior,
behavior so foul and so cruel,
they would ride when moon became full!
When the moon elevated they rose animated
to drown Mitten’s in the cesspool.
As they hunted they started to drool.
Hunting high, hunting low, riding ‘round to and fro,
the Clan frantically searched helter-skelter,
for young Mittens who found a safe shelter.
As they howled and they growled all the air became fouled,
but they couldn’t find Mittens’ safe shelter.
“When we find her, in acid we’ll melt her!”
Could these four scarecrows stoop to even new lows
as they hunt by light of the moon?
(Better hurry the dawn will come soon!)
Long they hunted and haunted but she was undaunted,
she laughed at the bumbling buffoons,
while she purred out some kitty cat tunes.
Curled with grace in a space near the warm fireplace,
for the Scarecrow Clan fears the fire.
(Just the thought of it makes them perspire.)
Low they lurched as they searched in the fields near the church,
growing desperate, dejected, and dire,
for the sunlight will make them expire.
Then dawn broke Night's dark cloak with a big puff of smoke
as the angels’ black magic was shattered,
and the Scarecrow Clan riders battered.
Under natural law the Clan turned back to straw,
and their straw o’er the cornfield was scattered.
She'll be safe now and that’s all that mattered.
13-March-2020 (Friday the 13th). First Place in "A Rattling Rhyme" poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter
golden harvest moon
illuminates the night sky --
a scarecrow keeps watch
9/20/16
For Catie Lindsey's Traditional Haiku contest.
Hopping mad, Billy glares through a port
at what foes seem to think is such sport.
Frown for frown, glare for glare,
scarecrow raises his hair.
He laughed yet while his foes took the fort!
"The human race has but one affective weapon,
and that is laughter."
Mark Twain
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
Scarecrow Addict
Gritted and dusty
Powered by flack jacket eyes
Bootsteps through grey puddles
Flotilla of cigarette butts
Trash kicked aside
In a desert of litter
Seeking the soulless of death
Chattering on split lips
The grimy irk of air
Festoons the rink and rack
The floating black
Sucks unbidden
Horses into battle ridden
Scream through his lungs
Broken weapons
Filled with empty bullets
Enemies in their colours run
Demon angel
Of the iridescent metal
In the bars of sculptured hell
For the hot choke of alcohol
Has squandered his nights
And burnt his will
The vengeance of mirrors
He cannot defy
He has become
The man with the gun
And rabid dog bark
Is the music
The fang gangster rap
Chews on his pride
Coughs back and spits
Too many drugs
To fill his hate
As he seethes through the alleys
The ricochet sound of poverty
Slaps hard at the cold
Whistle through the doorstep
The vicious snide crack
Scavenges his chest
Scarecrow buckshot
Trammels his lungs
And coughs up plastic
Iron girders against shattered walls
Where the whole world threw up
His sick
Chokes on the disgusting chuck up
Of need
So full of promises
But still lets in the freezing winds
To whined up urine stained
In the pallor
The colour
Of his sky
Bandit warrior and loser
This brave young man
Watched this driven and ploughed memory
Eat away
By iron vice drag
Devastate his pale haired wench
Leaving blood trailing on her breast
Pimped
She was
And hate in grey battered uniforms
Drove the callous on
And lifted him from the reeking cans
Of his desolation
Bled him through nights of sweat
And cold turkey chewed regret
The plaster wet billboard and pealing advert
Have no idea
What they have unleashed
Brittle as long dead bones
And screaming head
No longer hates
But still sneers revenge
In tattered loose rags
He staggers from the vomiting pit
Emaciated wolf
The grinning scarecrow eyes of merciless
And the jagged teeth of candle lit
The reek of vendetta
Hangs ever about his lips
And woe betide the gun smith
Woe betide indeed the needles
Wet prick
Nothing left to fight for
Other than
A long dead
Lover
I have seen something and the something saw
a me, a scarecrow, stuffed with straw
in half with claims to more. The something’s not
into onlookers. A well done, a taut,
a plausible, I thought I looked alive
but the insightful something said: «A chive
can’t kill the stink of death». So ever since
I have been thinking what the something means
and what it meant…
Don’t see some things up close
if your vocation is to scare crows.
The ritual, started with the influence of scarecrows
They taunt, they slyly work their way through a spell
Their eyes glow, they have razor teeth waiting for flesh
Human flesh is their delicacy, eating straight through hell
Yellow is their color, power is from the fires below
Destroying, casting, waiting for the atrocities of night
Keeping promises, promises of death and destruction to all
Opening nothing but the gates, the gates of hell tonight
Passersby that wander, they love to grasp their souls
And cause evil splicing, to pounce on their somber innocence
Unlike the witches that come by, irritating they are
For they compete, to take away the stock of the human sense
Jack-O-Lanterns surround, the scarecrows concentrate
And the crows, they love the night’s evil of departed souls
Tombstones move, underneath the soil becomes very loose
And out comes the nature of the spells, the hurtful ghouls
Evil lives, alive and free this night of Halloween, fear abounds
Love is not safe, it will not save you under the moon’s glow
The fire rages, carries over the temperament of death
They all dance, dance to the rhythm of hells fury below
Russell Sivey
Nature has painted you
a moldy shade of green;
and you're the ugliest
scarecrow I've ever seen.
A grotesque effigy
in the image of man,
you're a collage of rags
and a rusty tin can.
Stuffing has fallen out
of your disheveled clothes,
and you hang deflated;
drooped in a ghoulish pose.
You seem so comical;
like a crazed circus clown
that's skewed lopsidedly,
with your pants slipping down.
You have a sad-sack face
too depressing for words;
yet, you’ve kept the crops safe,
by scaring off the birds.
Her material-finished-economical clothes,
from see through to micro-mini skirts,
all display bleached thighs.
Thighs, cushioning men to comfort,
smooth and spotless,
like refined cotton.
She is beauty itself.
Those who see say:
voluptuous bosom,
tattooed and displayed,
displayed naked for the naked eye.
A glance at them,
has made men instant babies.
Blood-red lips, always calling,
silently calling those not scared.
Hips form smooth curves,
perfect with the supple waist.
Boosters on all curves,
perfect the magnetic arcs,
Her secret of the game.
At sight,
she kills the second thought.
Her hypnotizing voice,
always setting the pendulum in motion,
yet enticing many to sleep underground.
Replaced hymen,
mocks the grooms chastity.
Like a suicide bomber she knows her calling.
Guiltless ever,
she comes calling and knocking.
Generous ever,
plays hard to get when smiling.
Oh beautiful scarecrow,
you scare them but keep coming.
Scare them, they’ll know,
they’ll know.
Beauty is only skin-deep.
I
saw a
tattered dark
useless scarecrow,
in a large wheat field, where all flying birds
seemed to enjoy, resting on tattered arms.
Except children
who seemed to
greatly
fear.
But
once at
night, I thought
I saw it move,
scared the guts out of my soul as I screamed.
”What are you screaming for, you wake the birds.”
Did I hear right?
I felt fear,
I ran
fast.
My heart still holds the unused beats,
My shallow lungs long the stolen breaths,
And the bones, cloaked and masked, run empty of flesh.
The eyes that dreamt the dreams,
Are now separated from the sockets,
Like sharply detached staccato tones,
Sinking into lonely depths,
Weaving evaporated future and moments with vacant gaze.
I still stand still like the way they had hung me,
Wearing the same wreath of barbed thorns,
The skull and skeleton fastened in the trellis,
And buried in the sod that holds the blood
The blood of my chest,
That somewhere still runs raw in rivulets.
"Come lay your head on my stretched shoulders.
Listen to my melancholic memories"
I am calling to you, can you perceive?
I'm not the scarecrow you see,
It lassoes my soul. The farmer's soul.
Here I stand still echoing out my torments in mummed shrieks,
The secrets and confessions,
The complots and conspiracies of my spurious sons,
Who killed me softly to meet the hunger of affluence,
In lucid illusion of benevolence.
One day the clouds with swelled wombs will moisten my parched gullet,
The empty spaces below my feet will be nourished,
And the breeze hitting the poincianas around,
Will finally lull me to eternal sleep,
When obstreperous sins will be cleansed,
When justice will be served,
And truth will be harvested at every silence's leap.
Copyright: 1272017
Birds flying away
Scarecrows on constant alert-
Predators around.