Homesteads Poems | Examples

A Place of Pleasure

Written By:  D. Collins 6/30/25


I'll be in a place of pleasure where wind soothes my bald head.
Far from the concrete jungles and snow-shoveling homesteads.
I'll be in the ocean with waves crashing all up against me.
Tasting salt water with nothing but sand under my feet.


A quiet place of pleasure sipping umbrella drinks.
Leaving bitter cold for those who love their minks.
I will lay in the sun and turn a dark, bronze red.
Do power walks on the beach versus working instead.


Learn to build sandcastles to amaze everyone's eyes.
Breathe that sigh of relief I've waited for all my life.
I can smell it, taste it, and gather it into my reach.
The next time you'll see me it will be at the beach.

The Red Dirt Road

Follow the red dirt road.
Take it slow, walk it,
this is not an exploration
nor a pilgrimage,
it is a short tour around
the beginning of an idea
and its end.

Move along
past the few rural homesteads,
pass beyond the shacks
and the weather-beaten
tumbledown cabins,
the double and single wide
not so mobile homes
with their rusting trucks.

Hurry past the gypsy encampments.
with their gangs of wild dogs
until that dirt road ends
in a dry long uncultivated field.

This is where the dust
covers the old road maker
and beside his sunbaked bones
see how his maps and plans
are rolled up tight
never to be unrolled again.

A Far Way Place

A faraway place

I lived in the interior of the Algarve for many years
in a converted stable made into a cottage that
was smelling of mules when it rained.
After the heat of summers, winters were, if not
Welcome, but accepted as good for the land
Rain and damp, how great to have a wood burner
and a gas stove for cooking when electricity
broke down as it often did.
International problems of the time had a feel
of distance, nothing to with us away from the
braying crowd and the insanity of pop- culture
Walking in the woods reclaimed by nature
once small homesteads were here, people lived
in need, till they gave up this unequal struggle
and left to find their luck in the USA or Canada
Domestic trees grew wild was oddly shaped 
cottages reduced to heaps of stones under
which rabbits had found homes; and to not forget
the boar is not hunted, getting bothersome.
When my dog crossed the railway line and not
looking, I sank into gloom, the romance had gone
I had not succeeded in my endeavour, time 
to leave; eventually, everything comes to an
end, only time remains and is silent.

Rural Ghosts

The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.

Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.

Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open 
in a denim haze.

Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.

Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.

Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.

~~~~

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Valleys

                          Visions of landscapes, calm
                            venerate tranquil scenes
                         vast plains of bending wheat
                              various homesteads lie
                               vistas overlook sights
                            voices heard in whispers 
                           veiled secrets in the winds.













A Pleiades Poem
10/2/2022

Lilacs

Lilacs
Fragrant lilac plumes,
Like clusters of butterflies,
Usher in the month of May
With haunting melodies 
Whispering from Pan’s flute
To dance her May ballet
While delicate lavender hued perfume
Remembers mountain homesteads
Where lilacs reminisce about pioneer days
As old homes crumble
Slender regal queen of the garden
Arrayed in the Celtic legends of magic
Announces summer
As she swings and sways
In rhyme and rhythm of the wind
Spreading her gift of delicate scent
Spreading graceful tranquility.

6-9-22
Contest: Purple flowers
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
Sponsor

Farmland

The Farmland

The mid-west of the USA flat plain many farmers
tilling rich soil; red barns under a blue sky.
The community thrived, cows and horses in the fields
the Amis people lived nearby in peace with God.
There was harmony here and whispering grass.
Agricultural – business moved in, bought up land 
the farmers could not compete and sold out.
Empty barns, fading colours, falling into disrepair 
No cows in the field, no horses or dogs
Silent despair of ruined homesteads hangs 
In the bitter wind telling of failure.
This is the way we live the strongest always wins.

Winding Roads of Chilmark

Tunnels through ancient
Overbearing oaks,
Lined by the still standing
Stone fences built
With sweat and tears
By long ago settlers
Who dragged rocks and
Stones and boulders from
The hardscrabble ice age soil 
To create their farms.
Once Indian trails and 
Rutted cart tracks, 
Replaced now by the narrow 
Winding roads of Chilmark
Curling through the hills,
Up a rise and down,
Around the sudden bend,
A startled deer takes flight.
Thickets of wild blueberries, 
And tangled grape vines,
Give way to pastures 
Filled with sheep and
Tiny distant views of blue
Atlantic Ocean.
Then back to woods again,
Dotted here and there 
With homesteads hidden
Up long dirt lanes,
Only lighted windows
Giving away their presence.

Thoughts From My World

they say 
your thoughts
create your world
my third world was birthed
when the white storm
swept across our homesteads
do i get to recreate it
by simply thinking
of meadows and prairies
crystal jars
of milk and honey?

i think of thorns
pricking her beautiful skin
the midday sun
scorching her blooming day

i think of green fields and empty pots
flowing rivers and bare granaries
i think of beautiful jewels and plastic chains
naked servants and gucci clad masters
i think of flooded homes and empty dams
i think of the nail crowns
bleeding my people dry

~ thoughts from my world

Two-Ply

Two-ply in roses of yellow and pink,
rolls and sings to the touch
of fingers on its faintly-scented folds,
giving miles of pleasure to soft seats
on hard covers all in the name of
modern convenience which sure is a change
from old catalog sheets housed in quarter-moon
outhouses on homesteads.

Two-ply greets us in grocery stores,
all the pretty ones sit on the front row,
purring at our squeeze test,
begging to be brought home,
heaven forbid if you buy the plain,
all-white single-ply which sits
on the bottom shelf looking forlorn
because of its unscented homeliness.

Two-ply dies a million deaths each day,
lost in the vortex of flushed toilets,
killing its suppleness and sweet fragrance,
headed to the deep and dark sewers waiting
to be processed in the jaws of the sewage
treatment plants which do not discriminate
against the bland, anorexic and hard-to-the-touch

Trees Trembling

Trees trembling,
Catastrophic cries,
As leaves depart,
For other pastures,
Dressing down,
Reaching moments,
And places,
We can't,
Russling, their language,
For no one to hear,
The wind, breathing life,
Into staid, ruthless,
Emancipated limbs,
Stalking, talking,
Standing,
Alone,
Rooted deeply,
To no one,
Settling,
Piercing sun,
Dribbleing light,
To expand the view,
Dignity,
Offered nightly,
By solace seekers,
Memory makers,
Bouncing life,
From trunk,
To trunk,
Homesteads,
For heroes,
Who wish,
To cover,
Their nut.

(10/24/02)

Donkey Day

who shall rescue me Donkey?
Friends I have no advocate
on whose shoulder to lean is thirst
come my day to reconcile with God

for daily burdens no relief
tomorrow and ever nothing new
my lord has thought I'll ever beef
come my day to reconcile with God

Early I wake up to water homesteads
The heavy load a faithfull back bruise
A long way to go my load flatter
come my day to reconcile with God

too slim I plough no break
back home no food dogs full
our rich house no longer mine
come my day to reconcile with God

my cold food time no to thaw
my prisonous home for rest
my proceeds the lords table
come my day to reconcile with God

Rural Ghosts

The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.

Baked into the sky,
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.

Dander creaks on dry porches.
Fallow rooms open wardrobes
in a denim haze.

Homesteaders planted a light here,
then at days end,
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled,
table-tops charged.

Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed,
the Brylcream shine of city sights
until she is swept away.

Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray
on a skewed field gate.

Betrayal

Sit in the loins of my pride
Dance around the embers of my memory
See the children are singing
It’s a game they play, under the dead moon
Hats like caskets evading their little heads
Arms akimbo with legs apart like little soldiers
Saluting every bird that flys above them
The weeping willows are whistling
There is an honorable ceremony
Where skeletons with no bones
Will walk like humans with no soul
Eyes are rolling, drums are beating
The rainbow is bowing
All the colors are gone
Secrets stolen from naked dreams
Masquerades fallen, seasons wasted
Ancient thrones kissing graveyards
Angels and demons conniving
Tales of doom in clustered homesteads
Trumpet blows for last kiss
Rotten brides and righteous whores
Noxious bullets from guns of affection
Shoot the sun and kill the day

The Raindrop

Wild hot winds whip with abandon 
swirling down the steep canyons 
sucking moisture from the atmosphere 
spreading around, helter skelter.
  
I am withering in these California canyons
where dying trees rattle like skeletons
in the brittle heat and kindling brush. 
Fear of fire haunts the hillsides
while homesteads huddle
in suffocating valleys. 

I languish in the stagnant air
for want of refreshment 
when unexpectedly
I feel a miracle…
…a solitary raindrop
splashing down upon my head! 

The clay baked earth sighs with relief 
as it embraces the liquid staccato 
of raindrops, slap and splatter.
For each drop is a pure jewel
sent forth from heaven’s fount
reviving a parched and thirsty land.

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