spring blooms lost in deep snowdrifts
black ice roads mark highest peaks
shared coats and tea in old flasks
child builds snowman in a lee
night closing in on mountain
cold is seeping into bones
spare layers of clothes shared out
prejudices not valid
morning broken by weak sun
its beauty lost on the group
stranded in bitter landscape
amongst friends of all races
in shorts and sturdy jacket
farmhand comes to the rescue
trek through green valley and dale
assist weekend bushwhackers
to some it was a photo
in local rag or on phone
the essence was lost on most
of people stranded in peace
Life Weary, So Hungry I Could Eat A Dry Bone
Trekking through fire breathing desert, yes all alone
Mouth full of sand, shattered heart so heavy too
Life weary, so hungry I could eat a dry bone
Looking back at this life, where were the breaks my due
I recall all hellacious bad times that came
The motorcycle wreck when I was but fifteen!
All those shots that should have given me greater fame
Those barroom brawls, man that one dude was so damn mean
I laughed, I ran full amok, a bit crazy
I cried like a baby when they shot down Dean
I raised hell doing farmwork but was not lazy
School was a blast but math work I wasnt too keen.
Trekking through fire breathing desert, yes all alone.
Life weary, so hungry I could eat a dry bone one.
Mouth full of sand, shattered heart so heavy too
Looking back at this life, where were the breaks my due.
Robert J. Lindley, 6-08-2023
16 VERSE SONNET , WITH 12 SYLLABLES
EACH VERSE
Note_
My life in my youth was anything but dull.
I worked as a club bouncer, farmhand, factory working manager 4 times, carpenter, roofer, bricklayer, metal fabricator, even worked at a car repair once.
Farmland
David J Walker
I am
The dreamland
Of the farm
The zauberhaft/magic-craft
Found in the brown dirt
Beneath the feats
of farmers
I am
The farmhand of
The sacred farmland
Often found
Ground into dust and
Blown by the wind
Into the next county
I am the dirt ground into grime
and found
beneath the fingernails
of farmers
having coffee
in town
at the corner
coffee shop
eating eggs and
smoking unfiltered cigarettes
I am the pungent perfume
Of turned earth
Wetted with moisture of
Morning dew
The balm that soothes and heals
the sunbaked brown skin of the earth
I am packed caleche printed in
Tire track dirt road ruts
That leads farm families from
Rural isolation to
Civilization
Covered in asphalt & concrete
I am the mound
Covering the graves
Of long-gone farmers
That Jesus saves
For Himself
*Image of The Farmhouse by UNS.
Hint of Autumn
Sunstar wakes, Aurora reacts,
As light skews her southernmost sky,
A roost rouses, a rooster crows,
Henhouse's wood handle lifts up.
A replete farm inclined to rouse,
Sunstar wakes, Aurora reacts,
Four-year-old farmhand gets busy,
Baskets of fresh eggs walked with care.
A kitchen's stove burners light up,
A toaster plugged, and cooked bread sliced,
Sunstar wakes, Aurora reacts,
Pasteurized cow's milk fills glasses.
Patterned shirts and blue-jean jumpsuits,
Waits for the bus, two school returnees,
A leaf falls, "Guess afterschool rake?"
Sunstar wakes Aurora reacts.
2022 August 12
*5th Place*
Hint of Autumn
~~Regina McIntosh: Judged 2022 September 03
*HMS; 8 syllables per 16 lines
Short sighted Shirley, a young farmhand girlie
Life as a milkmaid meant getting up early
But it’s not the tiredness making her surly
Her hair has turned slimy: it’s normally curly
She talks to the cows like she’s Doctor Doolittle
Her hair, now it’s dry, is still sticky but brittle
She told the next cow that the last had one udder
But that cow exclaimed… that last cow was my brother!
Fruitful faeries flying freshly frightenly faraway
Flashing flea-bitten furry fireflies fantasy fey,
Faux flash-dancing flowery figs flowing flippantly free,
Ferocious fierce foursome fruit-flies flying fantasy’s flea.
Fast-fingered flicker formidably frugally fit flexible.
Frosting frilly flounder’s fluorescent fetish fully fixable.
Fanciful freckled fathomably frosted filly fibs flitting,
Fashionable forcefully fanatical farmhand fuzzily fretting.
Fun-loving, flippant foolhardy fivefold finger’s foghorn.
Fooled fellow’s fervent fleecy foppish fire fuzzily forlorn.
Fantastical fanged frolicking fishy fuzzy fickle frills.
Fixes froggy’s fanciful fanned fox figs from freezing Frankfort.
Oh, so precious our blood and roots,
yesterdays shadows creep and cling;
odd, I have those attributes . . .
The past lays icy hands to bring,
my foundation;
my formation,
from the long past and dust of time;
have been told sweet stories sublime.
Father's ancestors came from France,
with dreams of life- in a green land;
they came by boat to take a chance.
Grandpa worked hard as a farmhand,
and his father, too;
under a sky of blue . . .
One day, to France I will journey,
to find some names on tombs ferny.
Grandma was Ojibwe, First Nation,
these are people of many tales;
and I hear the drum vibrations,
since a child told things in details,
I embrace the call;
I want it all-
all the teachings, the history;
the tapestry and beautiful mystery.
____________________
May 17, 2017
Rhyme/My Deep Roots
Copyright Protected, ID 901339
Written for the contest, Ancestral Roots
sponsor, John Hamilton
Third Place
Summer is now over and fall is very near.
Our first harvest is what we celebrate here.
We've gathered berries, corn, and grain.
And soon we'll have other vegetables to gain!
We give thanks to Mother Earth for giving us what we need.
She nourished what we planted from each and every seed.
The Sun also added his warmth in this to lend a hand.
So that our crops could grow strong - pests and elements to withstand.
In this ever changing world we seldom stop to think.
Just where our food comes from - or the stuff we have to drink!
Most products come prepackaged in a box or can.
Mother Earth was tilled and seeded first by some caring farmhand.
Take a few moments as you enjoy your harvest meal.
Reach out to those you love and show them how you feel!
Remember too that we really never need a reason.
To come together and celebrate each and every season!
Autodidact
The small forest or the woods by the white road made of
crushed sea-shells was a place of enchantment squirrels
had no fear of solitary dreamers stumbling over oak roots.
I used to walk here when cows were milked, fed and
the mucking out was done and fresh straw strewn in their
stalls and the barn had chewing contented animals.
I could do so many things in the forest be an Indian or take
out of my pocket pornographic pictures the farmhand in
the village gave me and masturbate.
I was especially drawn to pictures of cunnilingus the women
seem to enjoy this form of sex more, and I was horrified when
told it was not a manly act, yet the pleasured faces stayed on
my mind. Years later I drove the forest was a private estate high
walls and posh villas and no squirrels, I laughed out loud they
will never know my secrets here where I dedicated trained for
a hearty sex life to come.
He stands against the old barn door
relaxed not a confrontational bone,
thin as a pitchfork's tine.
Farmhand, hunter, true-shooter,
the lens flatters him.
A ring of white T-shirt gives a reverse
halo to his lantern-jaw.
Loose fitting pants rumple
just right atop his kick ass boots.
He stands against an old barn door
who held up who the real question—
a bit of James Dean in pocket pressed hands,
Paul Newman in his eyes.
Flannel hugs him. (When the woman aren’t.)
Capped by a bent brimmed hat,
he's rolled to perfection.
I’m sure the name tag on his shirt
didn’t do him justice—
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
Outcast
Man with the cloven foot walks through the night, harsh and frustrated,
he was the result when a farmhand had intercourse with a cow... and
when cow a cold February day gave birth on a snowy field, people fled in
distress; the devil has been reborn they screamed and ran away.
The father of this obscenity hung from the rafter in the barn and bitterly
thought it had all come to this because his wife slept with bloomers on.
The child licked by warm cow tongues survived behind a hollow of a stone
and farmers wondered why his cattle gave so little milk.
Cloven foot, how could he hide from peoples fear and utter disgust other
than being evil and cursing mankind, he who had done nothing but being
a victim of a farmer hands unbecoming lust. Priests gave him the name
Satan, although he was never been baptized.
He survived wears a built up shoe to hide his defect, works in finance,
spreads mayhem and poverty. “Love me he says, and I will bring peace
but you must become vegetarians because i will not allow you to turn
my flesh and blood into hamburgers or Sunday roast.
A law firm partner living on Madison Avenue
bought a farm in the country. What a strange thing to do!
Oliver Wendell Douglas and Hungarian-born wife,
would head for Hooterville to start a new life.
Oliver and Lisa moved from their high-rise penthouse,
to a ramshackle farm with a dilapidated house.
Oliver wanted to leave New York City and Times Square,
to live in the country with chores to do, and fresh air.
To be dragged from New York, to a life that is bucolic,
became disastrous to wife Lisa, and quite tragic.
However, she held her husband Oliver very dear.
In this new life, poor Lisa had to persevere.
Douglas bought this farm from a crook named Mr. Haney.
Haney kept trying something new to get more money.
Oliver deals with the absent-minded Mr. Kimball.
He has a scatterbrained farmhand named Eb, but that’s not all.
Oliver climbs a telephone pole to make a phone call.
Neighbors Fred and Doris Ziffel have a pig named Arnold.
All except Oliver knows what Arnold has told.
Our Oliver would get himself into jams constantly.
All these things combine to make a great comedy.
Not for the contest