The swallows and falcons
are out of their shells.
The sky has more wings now.
Spring bounds around -
the foals' long legs
kick up meadow buttercups.
If I were younger,
if I were stronger,
If I were lither,
I would roll in the hayfield,
and not worry a bit
about straw in my hair.
Pennine Chain
by Bob Moore © 2021
I’ve camped in the hills of the Pennine Chain
in the cold, and the snow, and the pouring rain
and if I was young I would do it again
but the days of my youth are behind me
Beyond Hayfield, at Kinder Scout
each weekend I would be, out and about
tramping and camping, and seeing the sights
free as the birds all around me.
Follow the road, the Pennine Way
built by the Romans, back in the day
Climb the downfall, and Jacobs Ladder
enjoy all the peace travels with me
Now back home to reality, the week is new
money to earn, and work to do
back to my life, and daily toil
with friends and family around me.
Bob Moore.
Rose Meadow, an outcast woman,
portrayed by Fertie Fields.
The film chronicles her Pagan beliefs.
A supporting cast boasts
Roland (Rollie) Hills and Hayden Hayfield.
Cameos by Misty Marsh and Lily Lake.
Marquee brags of Nature’s spiritual mysteries
comprising the life of Rose Meadow.
No one refuses a refuge
Even the holiness stays at sanctuary.
I'm halfway into the street
whose paw had held million souls
& millions of us astray at nights
like the Sun caught up in the chambers of the Moon.
I'm now along the street
thunder trashed us & we burn & flaky are we
without the taste of Bethlehem
only the hayfield we lay bare.
Open up your vast paw
wild beast has throttle in mass
thousands of us oblivion of the dark;
splatter on us Jerusalem:
our hearts is panting via our mouths
ONLY FIVE MINUTES & we'll be chopped.
Quick! Quick!! Quick!!!
O, what a strong stones and bricks you're made of
that spread messianic hands
across the borders of torrent ocean.
We know your dreams are moribund;
before you we can't shelter
instead the desultory Sun will have all of us tan.
Peaceful stay on the rocks of the Earth
as we wiggle off to hunt for asylum after here.
Excel Chinagorom Michael
sun on the hill a hayfield
on an uncle’s farm
my childhood, captured gold
reflections on a placid lake
trees and greenery rise
ripple a silver face
later a song in the air
the summer of love
sgt pepper, a new refrain
an old brick hall
north of central campus
where as a student I find my life
the campanile late at night stilled
oversees a place where paths cross
young lovers find their dreams
a winding road in the countryside
a side trip to nowhere
solitude where time unwinds
in depths of a forest I find myself
a rustling of leaves
nature speaks to me
a hummingbird at arm’s length
we gaze at each other
until the wind takes it away
a fellow writer and I at her farm
in company of horses she keeps
life shared in poetry and verse
lyrics of a love song shared
a waitress refills my drink
in reflections
of other times and places
It laves under the waves of warm sunshine,
a chill breath of almost spring- near weather
deliver endless hope and yearn of the fruit vine,
her wee frame caressed by the moor's heather.
A look of silent wonder filled the sun
while it hung temptingly reaching natures
sweeping gold hayfield, light of day begun,
retrieving, renewing, reborn creatures.
Crepe myrtle delicate limbs dropped in size
with the weight of the vibrant pink flowers,
and the bees, as well as the butterflies,
taking full advantage of its bowers.
A breath beneath the sun and sky to drench,
hunger that only the sunshine doth quench.
3/9/2018
a black rose offers pink play on golden hayfield - a plum compulsion
January 3, 2018
Monoku 4: Colours - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Sky color shades hue
red yellow orange blue
insects click birds sing
trees leaves cling
green summer pleasure
gold harvest treasure
weeping-willow hill
far removed autumn chill
morning mist rising
soul uprising
coffee brewing dark
porch waking dog bark
cornfield full fine haul
yard there cut wall
rest invites shade tree
here farm life free
through a mud stained field
and thickets galore
mountaintops blue in the haze
walked through hayfield stubble
with a damp, faithful dog
I am anticipating Halloween
but thoughts dissolve quickly
in fields and forest hues
indian summer is over
litters of leaves all around
we pass a dead coyote
the white dog pays no mind
there's no need to hurry
lots of creekside bushes
cause my path to crook and veer
I miss the smell of brush burning
and dread the winter coming
I'll cancel my reservation
and head for some coral reef distant
summer without end
twinkling snow berms
and bitter cold will come
but technology can remedy
the chill nuisance
of Arctic's southward plunge
Symbols and sigils flood the forebrain as I walk through the metal and wired glass doors. With an whoosh of air, they close as if mocking the breath I had held in too long. Fear beaded in the sweat on my upper lip. What had once been the blissful gold-tinged vessel of apple blossom days had now turned into the hollow boned reality of a Dali summer, a loveless leaden pit of dread. Constant incessant sobbing, gagging, rocking did little to quell the practice’s belief that I was deranged.
parents watch
through the window:
paper cup pills
He was bald, and full of hmmm’s, nodding as I babbled. A seventies summer started with first love in a hayfield, ended in a heroin fright. The local quack had assured me it was all a communist plot to overtake the youth of America. Really, one should never tell their parents the truth. They certainly hadn’t checked in with their brains when their seed and egg mixed a proclivity for alcoholism with a dollop of bipolar mania. “Ahhh, hmmmm,” The Doctor said. “Two weeks rest should do you fine.”
First Published in Tincture Journal, Australia April 2014
FEEDING HORSES
She was four years old
Apples in bulging pockets from garden trees
Cold day in autumn
Stroll down to Paddy Sands’s horse pasture
Stop at five-bar gate and lift her up
Call or whistle - they come from a half-kilometre
Black, brown mares, one gelding
Jealous one tries to bite the others
Jostling for position at the gate
All those soft soft noses.....
They will permit stroking
If fed enough handfuls of grass
Grass tastes better from our hands
Than when cropped by them,
(Especially with tiny flowers of blue vetch).
Their big brown eyes close up
So peaceful and trusting
Tempting furry ears just out of reach for her
Turning cold now after half an hour
Spoil them with our apples before we go home
Show her how to hold back her thumb
So it doesn’t get bitten.
Walk home through Sands’s cropped hayfield
To tea and biscuits.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Carol Brown's Contest "A Horse Story"
The first time I painted the old red barn
I was twenty years old and the skies were blue.
There it sat in the middle of the hay field
Waiting to be immortalized on canvas.
The second time I painted the old red barn
I was thirty-nine and my life was in turbulence.
The fall thunderclouds predominated the picture.
The hayfield almost orange with the coming sunset.
The last time I took my easel to the field
The barn had faded to a dusty rose colour,
But the skies were blue and the clouds were fluffy.
The hay waved joyously in the breeze.
The barn and I had both aged and faded with time
But we were still blessed with the sun shining on the hay.
I climb into the big haymow
On this eventful day
Looking for childhood memories
Trapped in a mound of hay.
The large expanse is empty now
And somehow looks too small
To have held all the busy times
Now sweet in my recall.
It took a lot of sweat to get
From hot hayfield to mow
And then some more to pitch hay down
To feed each horse and cow.
Horses and cattle are all gone,
Mama and Daddy too.
It's time for selling off the past
And starting life anew.
I hear them coming, clamber down.
It's time to sell the barn.
It will be moved, the very last
Of Dad and Mother's farm.
The land will go to buyers who
Will break it into lots.
The only farming then will be
In little garden plots.
Entered in Rambling Poet contest
Inspired by her poem "The House"
Amish Sundown in the Hayfield
Heaven bright sunshine
slowly shadows
the hand-knotted
bundles, scenting the air
with sweet blessings,
for a peaceful night.
07/21/10
10:56pm
on his knees in the moonlit field
he prayed
far enough from the house so no one could see
on his knees in the cold hayfield
don't let her leave me
alone here
father god
she says I'm a
bad husband
worse father
and she sits in finery there
pointing that finger
shouting
there's no pleasing her
father god
I've only you to talk to in my shame
I'm a hard worker
but I can't love a woman
who is all
bones
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