“Chicken!”
Just check’n in
The wizardly road
Wise crack’n
Two flowers on a stem
Yodelly-yellow
“Chicken!”
Surely escaped
From his looney pen
Clouds like cerulean lakes
On a perfectly blue sky day
Peek-a-boo chicken
Just check’n in
As if a photo bomber
Chicken’s a tease
The escapee’s off roading
Green hills and hay
Red roof and chimney
Jiminy crickets
The chicken has been spotted
He’s sporting a crimson crest
A triangular nose
Striking a pose
Will he be long gone
When the farmer’s wife
Comes looking for him
With a fork and knife
Thus far the door’s closed
And the chicken roams
Free on the range
Perhaps you’ll find his signature
Or perhaps an imposter
Drying on the paint
Perhaps it isn’t at all
What it seems
Farewell thee, chicken
And your cockeyed scene
Fragrant rose lined the sidewalks of time, filtering a special aroma in the street; the wind is spreading the fragrance around to a special place where destiny is bound. The sun is shining in my face spilling sweat all over the place; the pores are opened wide secreting a unique substance from inside. Look around and you will see the temperature climbing up the sycamore tree, the passion is in the sun so when you get the chance get up and run. Words are not cheap and you must get the energy out of the sea. If you want to do business with me, you have to arrange a trip to the galaxy. The race is on to the moon and China will see you soon, if they get there before you do, the earth will turn into a dust bowl of doom. You have to get there before the twenty thirty year and synchronize with the tales of the atmosphere. The sun in the East will make you weep; the sun in the East will send fire in the street, the energy is very strong, so you have to filter all the different songs, and make them one. The sun in the east is disrupting my heartbeat.
The Horse
says Neigh
eats Hay
The Cow
builds mass
eats grass
The Pig
eats slop
won't stop
The Sheep
wool sleeves
eats leaves
The Chicken
his feed
is seed
The Goat
strange clan
eats can
Poverty stole the sky from us,
but childhood gave us wings.
God only visited at Christmas,
on the wings of a blue Cessna,
brought by the owner of the farm—and of our souls.
One day a year, God saw me.
first, the sky before my eyes unfurls
a vast, boundless silver canopy,
spreading further along the line of sight,
covering the fields beneath my feet,
and the forested hills that lie beyond.
the land, which had been
as still as a sleeping creature,
is the first to wake, slowly shaking off
the last lingering drowsiness
that accumulated through the night.
right after, amber sunlight breaks through
the clouds, spilling into the expanses of woods,
settling on the calm lake surface,
and spreading over the fields
and grain plots in the mountain hollow.
a pair of hands holds a farm tool steadily,
turning over clods of dark, fertile soil from the field;
every clod brim with the nutrients
that can grow strong, thriving crops.
when sowing seeds, everyone carries...
a steady, earnest wish, gently
tucking the seeds wrapped in hope
into the freshly turned soil.
in the long stretch of days that follow,
someone tends to this field at all times,
devoting wholehearted care to
every single seedling, putting in
full effort working in the fields each day,
watching over the crops’ roots
as they dig into the ear.
The sun casts red upon the myriad dead,
The heavens die, departing shadowed shades;
The bloody duty’s done, but what ahead?
For prosp'rous peace rests not on sharpened blades.
And "Cincinnatus!", some now cry, "Be king!
To lead in peace, as you have led in war!"
But this a thing no friend of Rome should bring,
For army rule is not what Rome is for.
O, well enough, I know how well to lead,
But in my shadow, how could roses grow?
My absence is the thing that Romans need,
For in the sun, shall Rome itself best know.
Let others sharpen wits, for good or harm,
I'll sharpen plows, upon my humble farm.
Off the land and into the pit, September rolls around.
Simple days have long since gone upon the family ground.
Stolen pride-dignity.
Gossip hounds' voices sound like trumpets to the games.
I'm in the pit, grease to my neck, not hearing the marching band.
But thoughts intrude, they are so vain, adding layers to the pain.
My dream is muddled in murky grey as the selfish look for more.
Holding on till morning light, body spent, truth ignored.
I'm but a serf upon my land, the devil has the upper hand.
So as September rolls on through, my thoughts no longer good.
Purple bands upon our hands, the grease hides all the pain.
Dreams alive for those who stare, not a clue of something wrong.
For in this pit and man-made hell, I'm struggling to hold on.
Stress like devil's electric pain, the blood beats through my veins.
Beats of heart like coffin nails erase the final stand.
In the box the farmer goes, absent from the land.
Rob a farmer of his love, you steal his soul.
There's nothing left, they're asking why, but refuse to understand.
We here at the goat farm
will never do you any harm.
We just want a chance
to eat your shirt and pants.
Beneath the sun, the farmer sows,
Into the earth where hope still grows.
With patient hands and faithful heart,
He gives the seed its place to start.
The rain will come, the green will rise,
And golden harvest fill the skies.
For every seed the farmer lays,
Is a prayer for better days.
scenic farm view
cows and horses out to graze
barn and silo stand
Wooden signs, pickup trucks,
Bob wire fence, cattle herds,
Rows of corn, cotton fields,
Shelly beans, kinder words.
No town lights, no loud cars,
See the sky, see the stars.
Swimmin’ holes, catfish bite,
No work stress, live on less.
Peace of mind, country side,
Sunday church, decent folk,
Pretty girls, handsome boys
Fulfilled life, boundless joys.
I sat inside your office at the age of forty-five,
A farmer's desperation just to keep the dream alive.
Just hoping you would look at me and take a chance to see,
The farmer's steady promise that was still inside of me.
I'll admit I'm far from perfect, and I surely wasn't then,
But I learned mechanic's lessons in the rust beside the men.
That my true value isn't found in polish or in gold,
But in the perseverance when the nights were growing cold.
The months went by, the days grew long, until the layoffs hit,
And when the storm came crashing down, my time was sadly clipped.
I still remember clearly the words you said that day,
"I hope our paths will cross again somewhere along the way."
I spent eight years in other jobs, the foundry called me back,
And finally put my purpose and my spirit back on track.
I know it was my second chance, a light that has been lit,
And I'm glad to have been taught by you the truth in all the grit.
farmers cut for hay
fields smell so good driving by
as bales are pushed out
Just an old lady
Who had just an old man.
They didn't have much,
Just each other's hands.
They used them for hard work,
For wiping sweat off their brow.
Not a whisper of complaint
In their voice could be found.
They used them to love
All those who were born.
Making sweet memories
Is what brought them joy.
They used them to pray,
Anointing and giving,
Spreading the Gospel
To all who were living.
When his hands went to Heaven,
Hers, unexpectedly, alone,
All that was left
Was his name on a stone.
Just an old lady
Who now has her old man,
Reunited in Heaven,
On golden streets, hand in hand.
winter approaches
we cut final round of wood
splitting it in barn
Farm Categories
Definition | What is Farm in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
meadow, lawn, estate, orchard, ranch, acreage, plantation, field, nursery, grassland, pasture, garden, claim, soil, patch, holding, enclosure, grange, homestead, farmstead, arboretum, freehold, vineyard, acres, demense