A rotted old house deep in the South
Was where I learned to shut my mouth
And keep my stockings high and my hems low
And take care of babies and learn to sew
And the very first thing I stitched together
Was made of cotton that had heathered
Was a pair of pants like my Papa wore
“For wearin’ ‘round the house!” my Mama swore
When I was ten I was grown enough
To wear layered dresses and shoulder puffs
To gussy up when I went out for a walk
And to court a man with dainty talk
I got old enough to leave the nest
And my Papa found one out in the west
A farmer’s boy with corn agrow
And I didn’t care enough to say no
Six babies to him I gives
Ain’t none of which who lives
I didn’t much care for them anyways
But now he works much longer days
But when he’d come home and go to bed
I’d creep around the dark farmstead
And saddle up his horse to ride
I felt like such a man astride
He done worked himself to death
On that horse he drew his last breath
The preacher offered three hundred
And my horse and I were sundered
Now as I sit, old and gray
I think about the final day
And maybe the Lord will let me be
Out of these bones and finally free.
The interlopers surrounded the old folk’s farmstead before dawn.
Farmer Jay wondered what planet they were now living on.
Their gravely gobbles were incessantly loud, it was a take over.
Farmer Jay’s hound dog was missing, his name was Leaf Clover.
What do they want? The missus asked her sweet husband Jay.
Not sure he said, but it does not look like a very good day.
Eat hamburgers and bacon at Thanksgiving was their soul-full yell.
They gobbled it all morning until the dinner bell.
Other demands were written down in blue and red ink.
By this time they had sold their farm to a young couple named Pink.
What about the turkeys? Are you taking them? The young owner asked.
They are your problem now, Farmer Jay said, picking up his statue of Bast.
Far away over meadows, fields and hills
Or through oak woodland which is ever sweet;
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.
Early morning, amid the dewy chills
Where a dawn kissed grassland moistens the feet
Far away over meadows, fields and hills.
A perfumed carpet your raw sense it fills
A yellow trumpeted aspect replete
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.
And by the noon, as mid-day sunlight spills,
I wander onward down a floral street
Far away over meadows, fields and hills.
By farmstead ruins and old water mills
Where sheep now dwell and brightly bleat and eat,
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.
So, the land where the poet whet his skills
I walk at springtime in nature's elite.
Far away over meadows, fields and hills
Seeking out Wordsworth's golden daffodils.
Alan S Jeeves
While sighs arose from dried marsh and clay,
the girl in me embraced an amiable virtue
born out of an affinity for our town’s revelries :
Oh those bouncy play with cousins
when burnt dusk kindly taught me
the wisdom of moon’s varied phases, fables,
then a soul tamed through older clans’ demise
as this ancient realm became a night keeper,
leading me unto stages of womanhood
Today, I am older, perhaps more dauntless…
yet nostalgia seeps into these heavy eyes
where youth’s indulgences
are now gone, damp, acrid...
A bushfire searing our farmstead
like cinder on my hands bolstered my spirit
Though parish bells knell afar,
long gazes of abode ‘s remnants tear my flesh,
mirroring portraits of youth epiphanies
which now mold my present life's outlook…
a kind resolute amidst triumphs and hurdles.
Brian Strand’s Completely Your Choice 17
~ format and spelling of ' girlhood edited
due to bad internet
9/27/2020/em>
The gravel driveway lies outside the barnyard,
a young rider on its back asks if this is the first ride,
and about the reins it bears. Just ahead lies a field
lined by trees, and beyond, a highway where it
must stop. The young rider counts on it to know
the way, but the older cousins on horses lead.
First a canter, then a trot, the pony must walk
before it runs, steps of imagination taken
on a farmstead claimed by another generation,
flights of fancy taken, as the sun sets to the west.
What happened
The woman from the Philippines
She and her husband a European man of middle years
Had a clearing in the jungle.
Built their own bamboo cabin raised pigs and chicken
Also, vegetables which the sold at the local market.
She sent many photos of their daily life
Then came the long silence I heard nothing more
What had happened?
Now my imagination speaks: he had died and she
Surrounded by hostile men, not interested in her
Farm but to sleep with her.
She sold the farmstead went to live in Cebu and
Waits for an elderly man ready to share in her dreams.
Since her first vision was shattered there is
No need to give up the idea of having a cabin
In the jungle
I returned to our farmstead last autumn
on the driveway where I kicked marbles
and plucked brambles catching my gaze-
Now overgrown at sixty-two
horse wagons filled the blank spaces
of my remembered landscape...
I walked like a ghost looking for dear home,
but found this lofty edifice
ridiculing, mocking me from its skylight--
The dogwood trees Grandma nurtured
now impetuously ravaged and gnarled,
casting shadows on translucent mirrors--
past her dream of a lush orchard,
that my eyes lingered through a heap
for treasures, hoping to discover
a piece of yesterday's laughter,
among the junk of ancestral, broken wood.
-------------
Emile Pinet's Contest: New Poems Only
4/16/2018
Words flow like a babbling brook,
To my home, muse lets me look.
A farmstead by the rush.
Whisper in my ear, ancestor cheer, comedic discuss.
A choice for some, prince or slum.
Forward thinking, and digital dumb.
Can we walk? Soulful spirit and painless run?
Journey end, expedition begun.
One of three, three of one,
To flight, to absorb the here and gone.
Memory and conscience,
Hammer or tongue.
Soulful challenge, to fit or belong,
Codswallop with angelic song.
Pain soup all the way, fire and flame,
Your shine. . . Our shame.
-The Northern Poet-
Once a landmark, beautiful country home
Stately hundred year old oaks surrounded
Years ago productive farm was awesome
In the community family grounded
House sold for family built new dwelling
A different family then resided
But an orange red glow took home quelling
All the families joy gone with farmstead
A sadness engulfed me, for fifty years
Of memories and constantly seeing
Home in passing, now new home will premier.
Crumbled burned tin remains for time being
Life's assurance_change will happen sooner
Or later, adaptation roughly hewn
Click on "About This Poem"
As we share our life going hand in hand,
we will work our farmstead and the land;
as the crops from the seed begin to sprout,
over the land, my love for you, I will shout;
then as the plants mature and daily grow,
our love will radiate and bring a warm glow;
harvesting the crops and storing them away,
we will now have time for special love play;
I will take you in my arms and hold you tight,
to always let you know for me you are right;
to hug you, to kiss you, to love you my dear,
to let you know, you have nothing to fear;
as I love you now, I will love you forever,
loving you will be my life's greatest endeavor.
The Horse's Mouth
Meadows green, lavish, plush,
White picket fence, prospectively pleasing.
Farmstead particular,
A picture postcard realm.
Stallion struts proudly,
Mare mutters while grazing.
Rare breeds,
Bloodline polished, yet forged.
Colt striving independence,
Reins tight, suffocating.
Whips command order,
Gallop inevitable.
Pungent manure engulfs the stable,
Stampede bellows "nay".
Horses led to water,
Could not make them drink.
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