Cornfields full; midst green blades glaze
As summer lends a hand with its golden blaze.
They sway to the wind, direction it blows
Golden cobs of grass in pride simply shows.
At sunset they cower to the creeping dark
Yet, loses not its gleam and dignified spark.
Roasted on spit fire till gold turns light brown
Enjoyed with lime, spices in a summer town.
In India, we call it Bhutta, sold on streets
With Indian spice as afternoon treats.
Laid out on a husk of gold and served,
To the buyer paying the well-deserved.
Many songs have spun the cornfield silk
Vietnam has brewed the ear into milk.
Corn in summer relished by people all
Till summer gives way to October’s fall.
Corn sometimes boiled to eat with some salt
Or churned in a grinder to make sweet malt.
Some use it in cooking, soup, salads and wine
The spirit is willing when the cob is refined.
Cornfields are ouchy, I know. I am from the corn state – Iowa.
Corn grows on tall stalks, out in a field that has gobs of
fat green worms.
You need a tractor to get through it.
Or a tank.
But farmers do not have tanks.
You cannot see anything except corn stalks when
you get there; rows and rows of them.
Taller than people. There is no running. Moving
is difficult. There is a corn smell too, but a smell
so unique to corn, it cannot be understood.
It must be lived.
The corn husks are tough, rough, they hurt your hands.
The stalks are painful to step on,
The corn itself is nothing like the canned corn you eat.
Hard as a fork tine, please do not try and bite it out here.
Cornfields are ouchy and itchy.
I know. I am from the corn state.
Faded murmurs soothe new twilight
as a gentle smoke blows around the wind,
mild circles hushed by Virginia maize
along a dampened lane, rainy lane
bringing me back home with comfort,
after a calm storm light and breezy
with the falling of wrinkled branches,
ruffling the threads of sky with corn husks
and a tender whisper cradles the farm
rising like bread of morning,
when all else lays quiet in the twang of sunrise.
They look down from their penthouse and turn up their nose.
They see us all as a murder of crows. Bunch of pests and foul nuisances trying to eat of their crops.
Not sons and daughters and mommas and pops.
They don't want to hear of our lower class rambling.
Why shan't we continue our financial gambling?
Their scarecrow is the media which deems us all decadent.
We shall not yield the cornfield, For we are the 99 percent!
Late summer clouds
Over golden countryside
Fields of corn and barley
Our mother nature provides
Along a country path
The sheepdog guides the flock
A young boy stops to drink
Before the grazing gates are unlocked
The farmer boys father
Aside his field of corn
Shaping up to harvest
Another crop reborn
This picture of late summer
Golden, greens and fawns
With autmun on our doorstep
A new season brings a new dawn
Inspired by John Constable's " Cornfield " painting.
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/art.php
Mother warned
Never make love in a cornfield
For the corn-- has ears
And they just may tell...
Upon hearing this
I laughed and replied mom
They might have ears
But they do not have lips
With which to speak...
Not so fast, Careful daughter said she with a smile
They have husks that are tough
And when shucked the silk and shucks will make you tell
Yeah, I've ran through the fields
Playing hide and seek
The itch form those husks --
Sure did make me shriek...
Ahh… Shucks... I guess you're right Mama
You don't have to worry about me
With great bliss--I promise you this...
I'll never make love in a cornfield.
Comments: The lesson was corny but true to form as I will never make love nor hide in a
field of corn -- ears and all 0;-)
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