Farm(A) Poems - Poems about Farm(A)

Packing up house I do not like Much, rather fly a kite, Or go on a hike! We lived in our first home Almost forever, But in the last six years, The third and most traumatic Emotion in life, Was packing up and moving. It’s all about enduring! This home was where Our children grew up, Graduations, celebrations, Happy moments and sad Where our parents died, Where our hearts sadly...

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at one with nature the sun sets on the weary ~ reward for hard work...

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I'ma gonna wake up, at the brink of dawn Drink some coffee, throw my blue jeans on The little red rooster is my alarm Cock-a-doodle doodling on my farm I'ma gonna water, all of my crops Especially, my barley and hops Then I'll roll up, a bunch of bales of hay Where the goats...

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bill the billionaire and the commies are devouring our farmland...

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As this life now quickly drifts away, I'm unable to look around and say, ...

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(“Honeybee on Apple Blossom”, 2020, original pen and ink) Homing Bees Up before dawn To bring home the bees, Last evening’s swarm So full and feisty, And nestled in Their new hive They seem contented Distracted and without concern That in the end They have only Travelled a few feet From their old home. (7/3/25)...

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The vibrant popinjay has gone.' The harlequin no more really Spins in song.' The magic's now all in a can.' Younger female backers Parry times looming advance plan..' The age'd icon takes his glances Across the acres, of yearning souls in hopefull trances..Parody banners they lie.' beneath sultry skies.' Echo the effigy of the past, See it...

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We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa Love of our land's labour should make us proud; The efforts, time, and energy put through... Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed. But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed, When slavery is to labourers in blue... Love of our land's labour...

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Loitering around at the expense of my parents back, I too wish to be at the resemblance of hardworking thumbs, those same fingers that sewed the futile grounds back home, my mother’s yuca farm, my father's dying crops, dance taking their final waltz with the tumble- weeds in direction where my ancestors sleep while their bones continue...

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crows caustic cawing polluting morning silence corn field quiet...

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The Mighty Quinn in the Highlands on Maggie's Farm in an Idiot Wind What He Didn't Say About Being Famous: "Just Like The Rest, I Like My Sugar Sweet." When Quinn The Inuit Gets Here, We're All Gonna Hafta' Eat. I "Feel Like A Prisoner In A World Of Mystery." A Pretty...

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They called him the dosser. A blessed man with a crooked, bent and wobbly wishbone of wire, held tight in clenched fist. He fossicks spellbound for water hiding deep below in the groundwater. His fingers compel the water sleeping fifty feet down to hear his call, and echo a reply forthwith, with a signal on the wire tap. On some hot dry...

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The earth holds stories, secrets old trees keep, deep inside, it's true, ?My uncle's farm, where family wisdom feels so real, fresh and new. ?When soil I touch, old memories bloom, like whispers from a cozy room, ?A history carried by the wind, chasing every scary, chilling gloom. Yet most days, I’m trapped, a pheonix in...

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. "i walk'd in to this furniture store 'shh' and all by hern lonesome ...

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I wonder why in African land the white farmers how-come?...

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