Long Alfalfa Poems
Long Alfalfa Poems. Below are the most popular long Alfalfa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Alfalfa poems by poem length and keyword.
Somewhere between
stretch marks on my voice
and the lurch of wanting,
I left the comb behind.
Let wind speak.
Let the cowlick rise
as shrine.
Some revolts come hushed—
no banners, no drums.
Only the refusal
to be pressed smooth.
Mine was spiral,
tender.
Unyielding.
In photographs—
always at the edge,
eyes doubting the lens,
halfway posed
between certain
and unsettled.
They named me Alfalfa—
after a rerun on Channel 12,
my crown a stubborn herald,
slanted with knowledge
I was too young to carry.
It whispered
to wind and window alike: go.
Mother’s hands smoothed it—
Blue Magic thick on her palms.
The brush grumbled in the bowl.
“What kind of boy’s hair does that?”
I didn’t answer.
What language holds defiance
that sprouts from the scalp,
a swirl refusing compliance?
No shadow held me.
Not in the barbershop glass,
nor beside the field
where fathers raised their voices
like flags of demand.
Manhood—a thing trimmed,
gripped, endured.
What I recall most:
the pause before questions,
heavy as drapery.
Hands—mine,
uncertain of posture.
Too much wave.
Too much reach.
They warned:
keep your hands plain.
Fists, if needed.
Folded, if God called.
Manhood, they said, came in parts:
a belt’s cold buckle,
a coach’s growl,
a girl’s number smudged
on math-paper margins.
I declined the offering.
Marked my own rituals—
in glances,
in beads of refusal
rolling off strings
never meant for amen.
The barbershop—
each time, a quiet chapel.
Men in capes awaiting
judgment or absolution.
But I kept the tangle.
My minor crown.
The map drawn by refusal.
Each coil: a quiet psalm.
Now—
I walk, not straighter,
just truer.
A boy turned man
by the long arc of detour—
learning joy lives
along roads that curve away
from expectation.
There are pieces of a quilt recalled, that once I called my home
Still folded into memory, and there to keep me warm
When the chill of winter overcomes, on stormy afternoons
I long to wrap my self inside the love that has been sewn
I will close my eyes, and deep inside, I see it again
The land, the home, the ones I loved and where it all began
A few meager acres, with long white fences and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, two well loved horses, clamor for attention
A small corral…, my dad in Levi's, …a pitchfork heaped with hay
A barn, some stalls, a chicken house, a clothes line leads the way
Sweet fragrant fields of alfalfa rows, five peach trees burst with season's bloom
Across the road are melon fields, spreading vines throughout the loom
Inside the house, some bacon fries, along with radio's drama
Clattering pans, and the chatter from phones, and then I see my Mama
The kitchen is painted a cheery yellow, as warm as melted butter
A breakfast nook, the table set, and a pile of school day clutter
The living room, ..the windows frame a sky, where mountains hover
This home I knew, the quilt I’ve sewn, will keep me warm forever
There are pieces of a quilt, that I still call my home
They are kept alive in memory, and are there to keep me warm
When the chill of frigid winter, or the still of an afternoon
It wraps me up in comfort's arms with love that fills the gloom
I close my eyes, and can see it there, and I am home again
The house, each room, my family, the place it all began
There are grassy acres, with long white fences and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, a pinto horse is watching me and clamoring for attention
A small corral… my Dad in Levi's…and a pitchfork heaped with hay
A barn, some stalls, a chicken house, a clothes line, filled with white sheets, waving
Sweet fragrant fields, alfalfa rows, five peach trees in pink bloom
Across the road a melon field, intertwining through the loom
Inside the house, some bacon fries, we hear morning radio drama
Clattering of dishes, and the chattering soap-stars, and at the sink, would be my Mama
The kitchen decked in a sunshine yellow, as warm as melted butter
A breakfast nook, the table set, and a pile of school day clutter
A living room, a window wide, where a mountain towers over
That was way back when, where I began.....and now it's something other....
A wedding ring, and years went by, the home had changed, and so did I...
A different place, with acres too, and long white fences, and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, are oak groves, fruit trees, clamoring for attention
There are gardens woven with flowers, and some growing things to eat
Clattering of dishes, and a CD playing,...Sweet!...
In the living room, from the window wide, many mountains live here too...
Living on the northern tip,....my California view
Some things have changed, some things have not
I've been quite lucky.....for what I've got
This home I knew, the quilt I’ve sewn, it keeps me warm, where I call home...
What if we could see into the future
Would we really like to know what's ahead
Something tells me it's better not knowing
The day when we wake up dead
What if we could see into the future
And knew we'll gain a big bunch of weight
Would we go on a diet of alfalfa and yogurt
Or say “what the hell, that's fate”
What if we could see into the future
No matter what, we couldn't lose
We knew all the winning lottery numbers
And knew every one to choose
What if we could see into the future
Knew an affair would end in disaster
It sure would save a whole bunch of grief
And we'd live happily ever after
What if we could see into the future
And a friend we knew from childhood
Turned out to be a rich entrepreneur
Renewing our friendship would be good
What if we could see into the future
Would we really like to know what's ahead
Probably better to stumble our way through
And be surprised by events instead
© Jack Ellison 2012
I strained and stressed over
what was assigned to me
she told me as if she was
doing an interview.
She felt honored that thoses
who were responsible for
production
saw her genius and offered her
the opportunity to create.
Not in the manner one would
expect since she was chosen to
create a formula that would be'
used to feed cattle and horses.
She said she thought that it
would be the same formula.
No,no,no! mind you: cattle
are ruminants and horses
are hindgut fermenters you
must formulate separate recipes
to accommodate there digestive
differences. Starting off I started with
salt and molasses and vegetable oil as fats
and binding adhesive. I was lucky
to come across a large
amount of cornmeal, we got it from a store
that was only gonna throw it out.
We were gonna use it to help bring nutrients
to a sandy lot, but
we decided to use it in our range cubes instead.
Do not use monensin or urea in cubes for horses
it can be toxic. Urea and monensin is
can be safe for both llamas and sheep, but it
carries a high risk of fatal toxicity if managed
incorrectly. It is used strictly as a non-protein
nitrogen (NPN) supplement to help mature
animals digest low-quality, high-fiber forage
That's were the formulas differ.because llamas
(camelids) and sheep (ruminants) have distinct
digestive sensitivities, special precautions must
be taken if they are housed together.
Afalfa,Wheat middlings,grain by-products,
plant proteins like cottonseed or
soybean meal, roughage, and molasses
Used along side sudan grass to help get through
the winter!
From; the Book "Alfalfa Desperado" by
"Dingle" Barry Frank" the turnip guy"
-----------------------------------------
airin out the lungs cause this Agee, Ajee
took two peices away from my dozen.
thats why we in here fussin
that jerk got me cussin'
I live in an oasis
One formed by the power of electricity
To pump day and night
From The River.
Day and night everyone along its shores
Waters their crops and yards, gardens and fields.
In the few years I’ve lived here
I’ve planted almost 500 trees and shrubs
To transform an old alfalfa field
Into a thicket of greens
Haven for mice and snakes, birds and bees.
Every day I faithfully reroute the irrigation
So that in a week it all gets watered.
If I don’t within just a few weeks
Everything would stop growing
And within just a few months
Everything would be dead.
It’s sobering to realize how tenuous our hold
On a place is.
Without electricity this whole farming valley
Would dry up and wither away.
With electricity, coming in fact from the water itself,
It is an oasis of life, calm and green
Filled with the joy of birds and bees
Humans and their trees.
My own place in it is temporary of course
But someone will come after
To keep the pumps going
Keep the sprinklers flowing
Until they don’t
And this moment in time is forgotten
As all things must be.
(5/5/26)
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
Autumn approached about a week ago as stealthily as a fox!
The corn has been shucked and the golden fodder stands in shocks.
Luscious apples have been plucked from every supple bough.
Sweet-scented alfalfa for the cattle has been stowed in the mow.
In yon woods the trees wear robes of brilliant yellows and reds.
Excited children have been burnishing the runners on their sleds!
The rasp of crosscut saws resounds from yonder oak tree grove,
As many cords of wood are sawn for the parlor heating stove!
Skeins of majestic geese grace the sky in their southward wing.
We'll miss their haunting cries but they'll return again come spring.
Cellar bins bulge with onions, punkins and sweet pertaters.
Shelves groan 'neath jars of corn, beans and beefsteak termaters!
Tom Turkey is being fattened up completely oblivious of his fate.
Unbeknownst to that strutting dude, he has a portentous dinner date!
Squirrels scurry about collecting nuts with vigorous animation,
Hiding them hither and yon about my lawn for later exhumation!
Wafting leaves weave a carpet of gold and scarlet upon the lawn.
The rising sun tinted the first snow on the mountain's crest at dawn.
Vagabond zephyrs that now gently shove the lifeless leaves around,
Anon, will become shrieking gales piling drifts of snow upon the ground!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Perhaps we all secretly long
to be embedded in perpetual spring time.
My most entertaining pre-pubescent memories
of spring's most sacred times,
when occasionally left
to my own leisurely adventurous pursuits
outside for further natural/spiritual embedded nest
Include a warm and sunny afternoon
unfolding on Saturday's mid-western stage,
going to a pond
waiting on the edge of wild
lying on my belly
with my nose nearly touching
Her still surface waters
watching spiders
walk over Her
polliwog organic submarines
waving
going somewhere fins
propelling, with me,
into our Saturday afternoon
nutritional adventures
embedded in feeding FlowSource
well-being entertainments.
Another spring Saturday,
perhaps closer to full pubescent
FlowSource entertaining feelings,
I ran far back into the RoundField
where I knew a solitary MotherTree,
like me,
busy getting dressed up
in Her fulling spring leaves
while I unbusily removed all my clothes
and climbed Her
full body hugging Her trunk,
embracing and thanking each sturdy
warm-used limb
all my forceful way to Her most sacred top
To look and feel together
across this green alfalfa field
with all surrounding trees
a deeply fertile ocean forest
green-radiant slumbering mysteriously back at us,
this happy solitary FlowSource
MotherTree and ResourceMe
unseen WinWin feeling together triumphantly
becoming Be
Indigenously embedding entertainments,
Memories much richer and deeper and older
yet naked and wider and younger
than anything I ever heard or saw mid-winter
coming from inside black and white TV.
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will