I want to capture a PHOTOGRAPH
Of what the farmer sees.
When the farmer comes to PLOW,
He has a PLAN to PLANT.
There is POWER in his PURPOSE.
Therefore, he PURSUES with PROMISE.
The farmer feels PAÌN as do other PEOPLE;
And he may PAUSE but does not PANIC.
He PROCEEDS in hope and expectation
Because he has vision and sees a PICTURE.
The PRODUCTIVE farmer sees PRODUCE
And other agricultural PRODUCTS.
He sees a vast POPULATION of PEOPLE
Depending on him and what he grows.
In the farmer's mind, the picture is PAINTED
Like a rainbow in the sky after the rain.
What he sees through the eyes of his heart
Is PRESTINE and PRECIOUS. So he PREPARES
In hope and weathers the contrary storms.
The farmer lives by and within the confines
Of God's eternal PRINCIPLES of sowing and
Reaping. Such principles are tried and true.
History has PROVEN it so time and time again.
O God, may my soul be as POISED and my
Heart as PURE as the farmer whose harvest
is both bountiful and PLENTIFUL.
Playful clouds that wander free,
Drifting light in careless glee,
I gather them in secret ways,
Soft as whispers, shy as haze.
Softly gathered in silent hands,
Carried from distant, unseen lands,
Tucked away without a sound,
In my shirt’s small pocket bound—
Handful by handful, I hold them near,
Like quiet hopes, like unshed tears.
If ever sorrow dims your eyes,
And a single teardrop tries to rise,
I’ll scatter them like tender seeds
On the lashes where your silence bleeds.
They will fall as gentle rain,
Softly washing hidden pain,
Tracing lines on a barren chest,
Where secret rivers lie at rest—
Etched by fingers, faint yet deep,
Where unspoken longings sleep.
There, within that silent field,
Where wounds are sown and truths concealed,
A crop of sorrow starts to grow,
Fed by all we never show.
Yet this harvest, wild and true,
Will belong to none but you—
No other hand shall claim a part,
For it blooms within your guarded heart.
And like a farmer bound to land,
I stand with time and patient hand,
Tending fields both seen, unseen—
Of love, of loss, of what has been.
blue plaid flannel shirt
painter pants with deep pockets
toothpick inside one
trick-or-treating at Farmer Browns was fun
headless hens were constantly on the run
the rooster would chase them around the barn
causing little distress, instilling no harm
a super tall scarecrow welcomed them all
witch’s laugh came out of a bewitched doll
gumdrops and lollipops were given out
ghouls and goblins made most of us shout
scary place was this haunted country house
tucked back in a hamlet known as Little Crouse
some of our best times were had there on Halloween
hayride, pumpkin patch, evil witch with green sheen
When the State disappeared,
silence took command of the roads.
Villages slept with one eye open,
listening for engines, boots, and gunfire.
Markets that once sang with bargaining voices
now whisper in fear,
and children learn the language of hiding
before they learn to write their names.
Into the vacuum stepped shadows—
men without mercy,
flags without compassion,
laws written in bullets and ash.
Farmers abandoned their fields,
traders counted losses instead of profits,
and mothers prayed for sons
who should have returned at sunset.
Where protection failed,
terror planted its own authority;
where governance weakened,
fear became the new governor.
Yet the land remembers peace.
The soil still waits for laughter,
for schools instead of camps,
for soldiers of justice, not soldiers of terror.
And one day,
when the State returns not in uniforms alone
but in fairness, protection, and hope,
the people will reclaim their nights.
Until then, the wind carries one question
across northern plains and burning towns:
Who guards the people
when the guardians vanish?
Everyone knows
how the story goes
when down in the meadow
without his horse-drawn dray
the wheat farmer and his dog
had quite the fun-filled field day
altho' no longer spanking-new
but with all gears meshing
he had his combine harvester
give the crop a damn good threshing
Farmer Sue drove up on her tractor
Told Stan I’ll be your extractor
Hooked up to the Chevy
Dragged it atop the levy
For payment Stan quickly smacked her!
grumpy vegetables came marching over the hill to do their best.
They had heard of a weird new rule they wanted to contest.
Radishes and carrots were to stay in one bin, away from the potatoes.
But where did that leave the lettuce, turnips, parsley and tomatoes?
They came in with faces full of angry gloomy thunder clouds.
Ready to wrestle with anyone, their expressions dour as shrouds.
The farmer saw them coming and said what now? To his wife.
She rolled her eyes, said “I’ve got this,” and took out a paring knife.
Now I
want to be a banana
plant, swinging in the wind,
free from the knots of debt.
The shards of dreams won’t wound
me again. Ever. I’ll never be hunted
by the loan sharks with serrated teeth. The
weevil thought cannot perforate the corm of my peace.
Away from the waves of suicide, I’ll live–listening to the
Asian koel. I can decipher that song. Someone may drop
nutritious love into my heart; my roots will be wet
with kindness. My cigar leaf can grow straight
into the light. The blossoming of
altruism will come out, opening my
skull– budding. My end is made
serene- calm, by the cogitation
of my fruitful
e
x
i
s
t
e
n
c
e.
*First published in Native Skin.
*Reprinted in The Literary Hatchet.
*Poetry Nook Weekly Contest Winner.
Kill the Boer, kill the farmer
A song sung in a stadium by thousands
Reverberating a chorus of spine-chilling fear
A call to incite hatred and violence
Tomorrow, we mourn - another farmer
Umshini wami (my machine gun)
Paralysing fear runs through your soul
To wipe out the Boer and the farmer
A call to genocide, they cajole
Rat-a-tat, see how they run
There is no defence against this genocide
You must die, self-defence is a crime
Hundreds and thousands of crosses, erected
For the innocent these numbers climb
The Boer and Farmer in death abide.
A farmer ploughs his field,
And sows the quality seed,
Expecting a bumper yield.
He is so ambitious in deed!
The minimum support price,
He fails to get for his produce,
Instead receives many an advice.
Finally, found hanging to a noose!
His Echo Returns Not!!
A bride as a spouse,
In mind with many a hope,
Enters her in-laws house!
With them, she can’t cope!
For her to rejoice her married life,
There, she finds not an iota of scope!
She is denied her status of a wife,
For everything she gets a ‘nope’!
Her Echo Returns Not!!
Andrew Cooper farmer of the land, of Croyde Devon; in old
England decided he'd plough some fields again? as the sun was shining through the English rain, yet some eco-loonies including a judge? hit him with fines and orders and they don't want to
Want to budge.' O K he remted it to the relic's archialogical
Whatsama-thingammy..Cant deny it' and he took a fee' twenty
Years went past, now surely he can till? again.? At last!! No
Mention of a clause; or legal waiver, .' I'd say to farm again is
His right and favour.' Old England will benefit' the people all
Round need the crops to go into the ground.' A balance is
Great between preservation and farming.' Yet this is an
Imbalance. And most alarming in a time of Brexit and
Challenge of change a nations interest are more relevant
And this injustice must be changed.! Give ear to reality, and
Allow the wheat to grow, as in ww2 the fields need to be sown i am with Andrew.! (the Coope-rman)of Croyde Devon,! may he live long and hale to continue farming that land.!
I thank the sun ...
The soil, the summer rain,
I thank the apple tree
The fields of golden grain
I thank the corn crops
And the pumpkin patch,
I thank the warm barn
Where new poults hatch
I thank Tom turkey ...
From down on the farm,
And the good old farmer
Who caused him no harm
I thank the potato fields
And the pecan trees,
I thank the earth ...
For bogs of cranberries
I thank this land ...
The sky and the air,
For giving all of us
These things to share.
In memory of John Farmer, a man so bold,
An ironworker’s tale, in stories retold.
From Local 46, his strength did shine,
In New York’s skyline, his work divine.
A skydiver brave, he soared the skies,
Twice he faced death, but still did rise.
With a heart full of courage, he took the leap,
In the clouds, his spirit, forever to keep.
He loved to cook, with a chef’s delight,
At barbecues, he’d ignite the night.
With spatula in hand, and a grin so wide,
He’d serve up joy, with friends by his side.
A two-fisted drinker, who loved his beer,
In his local pub, he’d bring good cheer.
Known by all, with a laugh so hearty,
He’d light up the room, making everyone jolly.
For John, retirement was just a fancy word for more time to play,
With friends everyday, in whatever came his way.
On April 10th, 2024, he bid us farewell,
But his stories and laughter, forever we’ll tell.
His retirement brief, yet full of zest,
John Farmer, you truly were one of the best.
Rest in peace, dear John, your legacy grand,
In our hearts and memories, you’ll always stand.
Farmer Fred on the day he was wed
Believed every word he said
He knew his light of love Nancy
Was so much more than a passing fancy
Nancy had brains, beauty, and drive
With her by his side, Fred felt so alive
Now after forty years of wedded bliss
Fred thought he'd give Nancy a kiss
So Fred gives her his famous wink of the eye
And beckoned Nancy to come over nigh
Now Nancy had a different idea
Sideling over she gives Fred a swift kick in the rear
Smiles and says "Get yourself out of here
And go fix that old John Deere"
So much for romance thought Fred out loud
Hush! you old fool, the back forty needs to be plowed
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