Best Tractor Poems
The crystal ringing songs of summer,
Falling like mists of a whispy cloud,
Within a myriad of young birds chirping
To the fierce crow of a rooster proud.
As yellow tractors till black earth
Where new spring seeds will find a berth
To shoot forth growth in struggling crowd,
And wave green leaves in land well-plowed.
Snows have melted and in their dearth
Is seen the conquest of rebirth,
While the sweet crow of a rooster proud
Sounds across farmland freshly plowed.
I get up early, a rancher with chores
Hay grows in fields, animals shuffle, roars
Dawn breaks its steel grey grip on my land
And I, well, I have a clear bottle clutched in hand
The first swipe, the one that burns the most
Clears the head, lifts the fog, begins my dose
Work ahead, hours on the grind
A key in my hand, the tractor is mine
Muddy boots climb my ass to my seat
Prepared I am, for this summer heat
A seperate, full bottle in pocket, the engine is turned
Key to the right, another throat tickle burned
Through the gate on into field I find my day anew
View as of now, not quite so askew
The rows start straight, a farmers simple task
They soon grow crooked, I can't find my flask
Fuel runs low, a hassle to refill
Inebriated I find it easy to spill
Unwiser still, I light up a smoke
Finding my way, to field with a toke
Stoned and drunk I arrive at my field
I'll try it again, a little more even keeled
A drunken chuckle to nobody in sight
What a great poem, another forgotten to write
A vision of an old boss, his hatred of me
I laugh, again, to no person I see
He works all day at his nine to five
And I'm drunk on my tractor, happy alive
Old tin roof, plastered adobe walls that were melting
Two big Cottonwood trees, junk cars in the back
Cracked concrete floor, covered with oil and grease
Mexican kids running in and out, playing and screaming
Couple of water jugs, covered with gunny sack
In all of this was some sort of peace
Joes Montes was the owner, we just called him Joe
Joe spoke good broken English, had a little accent
Talked a lot with his hands, pointing at this and that
Did not advertise, everyone knew Old Joe
Been there for years, did not pay any rent
Always wore a greasy cap, never wore a hat
Farmers up and down the valley swore by Joe
When a tractor was down, they knew who to call
Jump in his old truck and he was there
Been known to use bailing wire, he would make them go
Cotton pickers to a hale bailer, he worked on them all
Never charged much, was always fair
Adobe wall have melted, Joe has passed away
In that old shop where a lot of memories were made
No telling how many tractors Joe made run
Tractors now have computers, not in Joe's day
The Cottonwood trees make no more shade
Joe was a tractor fixing son of a gun
My John Deere tractor is my favorite toy.
There’s nothing better that I enjoy.
I have many attachments I use every day,
That are used for more than just play.
My backhoe, chipper, and snow-blower are my friends.
Without them, my work would never end.
I love my tractor, it’s right outside.
Nature feeds my soul, as I take a ride.
>Although I love writing, I would also like my books to sell. Then I can grant my wife her wishes and buy her a house by the sea. And if there is enough in the kitty one for me. I never miss a chance of free publicity. Last year our local BBC Radio Station, had an open day. I was raising funds in a small way for their charity of the year Suffolk Family Carers, So I was given a ticket by the nice lady on reception. Lots of local celebrities were there and me. Tractor Boy is football spokesman.
Have you met tractor boy?
I have and him perhaps did annoy.
I criticised them men in blue.
Well it's something, controversial to do.
Was because I'm a writer see.
Wanted some free publicity.
But when him I did meet.
He was sitting, not on his feet..
Was on a certain radio station open day.
The name I'm not allowed to say.
As when on their Facebook page did write.
They struck me off, they did one night.
Was only in a light-hearted way.
I mentioned my Smarty dog's I say.
Alright they spoke, both night and day.
Usually agreeing with what I did say.
But now my laptop's sick and away.
At the menders now I say.
So I don't worry night or day.
About that page, where I have no say.
I can get on with my Smarty book.
But at my files, when I did look.
I see I finished his latest book.
Oh this poem was about Tractor Boy.
I used his name, just as a ploy.
Just so you would read, about Smarty.
And his author, blinking me.
I'll try a short poem.
Having a tiring day.
Come on hands, knees and toes.
As upstairs I climb with those.
When day ends and I retire.
Where can I find new ones to hire?
As when that final step I take.
Make my weary way to bed.
I wish it was a stairless house.
A bungalow and not a house.
I know I used the house word twice.
Both the same reason, not poetically nice.
But if a bungalow I had got.
My hands, knees and toes, knackered, would be not.
I know that last line, sounded not right.
But was how I felt, is that alright?
But as I climb those stairs each night.
A bungalow, would serve me right.<
I get paid driving a farm tractor
with sideline job as chiropractor;
I massage, soothe muscular pains,
move circulation through your veins;
though never trained in orthopedics,
I've got some real skills like the medics;
strained tendons or twisted ligaments,
come, just suit yourselves, my compliments;
I rub and press, and even squeeze
your bodies, limbs, extremities;
be yours the size of whales or eels,
your aches, your ills this masseur heals;
the contours of your anatomy
are easy topographies for me;
I've learned skills of a land surveyor
from years of driving a farm tractor.
T he tractor has pulled up outside my door.
R acing to the window when I hear it's roar.
A ll dressed up for this date.
C an't wait to head out with my mate.
T he link box is hooked up, all shined.
O ver goes my leg as I jump on behind.
R ev her up, I'm covered in hay but never mind.
midsummer sunset
dad's tractor
parked for the night
Published in Bottle Rockets Press #48
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
I get paid driving a huge farm tractor
with sideline job as chiropractor;
I massage and I soothe muscular pains,
move vital circulation through your veins.
Though I never trained in orthopedics,
I've got skills similar to the medics;
sprained joints, strained tendons, twisted ligaments,
just tell me where it hurts, my compliments.
I pat and dab, rub and press, knead and squeeze
your weary back, limbs and extremities;
be yours the size and girth of whales or eels,
your aches, your ills this handy masseur heals.
You see, there's none on your anatomy
that escapes from these fingers that tell me;
I've learned the skills of a land surveyor
from long years of driving a farm tractor!
Living on a farm is never boring
There are cows to milk, bulls, steers, calves to feed
Pigs to slop and chickens to peck the dust
With guineas moving around, exploring
Chasing turkeys through the musical lead
Dance must
Enlightening their lives through adventures
Naught is as soothing a silence, a must
Ensuring life brings contentment, indeed
Knowing we will learn from misadventures
God’s just
The Speaker Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
October 20, 2020
Sitting in the rundown shed, rejected she does feel
Her life once was perfect, every thing was ideal
His hands weathered and wrinkled, she missed his loving touch
Never did she imagine, she would miss him, oh so much
In the Spring he loved her, he saw her every day
Together in the sun, in the fields they would stay
Gently he would guide her, as on their way they'd go
Tilling up the fertile ground, row, by row, by row
In the Summer he loved her, they worked the planted ground
Under their loving care, vegetables did abound
To the shed he would guide her, at the setting of the sun
He always made her feel, proud of work she had done
In the Autumn he loved her, she watched the falling leaves
She helped him with the harvest, bringing in the sheaves
Corn stalks cut, gathered, and bound, in rows neatly shocked
The garden almost empty, she watched him as he walked
In the Winter he loved her, for the season she retired
The land was at rest, her services not required
She sits in the rundown shed, awaiting his return
She longs to see his face, for his touch she does yearn
Spring returned, he did not, her sadness knows no allay
No one came to tell her, death had taken him away
Her lights no longer illuminate, there's no one to turn them on
She sits there all by herself, wondering where he has gone
Rust has overtaken her, her frame is weak and frail
Slowly her body crumbles, her pain does prevail
Her motor no longer runs, her sadness does abound
Soon, like him she will rest, beneath the fallow ground
The yard’s a mess and grass has grown.
It’s time for me to mow.
Not hard to figure on one’s own,
Don’t even have to show.
Some don’t agree about my plea.
I’m even given strife.
If you think, who that might be,
That person is my wife.
My tractor is my mistress,
I’m having an affair.
Who’s only living interest,
Is cutting earth’s green hair.
She gets so mad, I have to hide,
And mow when she’s not here.
Alone outside it’s that I ride,
Just me and my John Deere.
Peering out, she watches me,
And peaks between the blinds.
Oh the burning jealousy,
That seeps inside her mind.
I plead with her, said she could try,
And give the thing a spin.
I said I’d even keep an eye,
And damn try not to grin.
And then one day, I went outside,
My mind went oh so nervous.
For it was gone, and then she cried,
She’d hired a lawn service!
This is our land you tractor-man
our nests are here underneath
our queen mother lives there below
our king dwells with the queen
Tractor man we do not understand you
you say you want to plant trees and grass
you want to build houses here in our land
shall we eat your plants and houses?
We are mere termites but this is our land,
you can trample on us today with rage
our nests and queen you may maw down
but our termite-ness shall not perish
Plant your trees and build your houses
let us all suffer under your plow and rage
be informed we shall not all perish away
generations shall arise and reclaim our land
Daddy's shoulders were burned by the sun
as he plowed wheat fields one by one
All his hopes seeded in the soil
His labor fed us with all his toil
Noon would come - he would find a tree
Take his hunchback pail...a moment free
The tractors roar was fierce and strong
He rode it all the daylight long.
He now plows heaven's fields on John Deere
I hear that motor loud and clear
Power to the Plough.
She sits there all used up, a shadow of her past self. The remains of her bodywork, only survive.
Rusting, and decaying into an iron oxide heap. No more use, the old gal is turning into a junk yard art scape.
Mice make homes in her alcoves, spiders spin webs amongst her corroded remains.
The red Fergie has passed her sell by date, a relic from the past.
She had a full and busy life on the farm, powering the plough to turn the earth.
Sowing, planting and rolling the fields.
Reaping the rewards of the harvest, towing trailers of corn, grass, and hay bales in the summer sun. The farmers friend, rugged and dependable, out in all weathers.
After all that she is just a farm vehicle, a tool of the trade. Her days of powering the plough are over now.