Long Barns Poems
Long Barns Poems. Below are the most popular long Barns by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Barns poems by poem length and keyword.
Farm kids wake up before the roosters
We do our chores twice a day in the dark
Once in the morning, and once in the evening
It is our responsibility; we are not reminded.
We want to do the right thing.
Farm animals know when to expect their feed.
Loud chickens are the first ones out of the hen house
Clucking and strutting; pecking and prancing
The rooster goes topside and begins to crow
We enjoy the dance of the barnyard animals.
Farm life is rapidly disappearing.
So many industrial farms have taken over.
Breeding hogs and cows without 4-H kids
Farm kids have moved to town now
Where are there no fishing holes, barns or tractors.
We have not forgotten. We shall never forget
The great life we had on a farm.
Once upon a time….
At first there was no alarm; these were winds
And high prairie farms had learned to hold tight
Against gale force blizzards and tornado;
Replanting, repairing after each storm,
‘Rain Follows the Plow’, the golden promise
For European settlers flush with land,
Planting in familiar ways of home,
Trusting tradition and the land agents.
Dark clouds in western skies dangled promise,
Sweet, saving rain just before they vanished,
Leaving naught but crackled fields and static.
Rainmen appeared, showers promised, for cash;
Farmers paid, desperate now, this new spring,
Watching hard-earned savings sowed into clouds;
Circus planes driven by clowns peddling hope
O’er bare fields, empty barns, forsaken dreams.
These were winds, curdled harvests of heartache,
Hot summer winds, bleaching pastures, hayfields,
Blowing dusty “heys” from Oklahoma;
Bitter winter gales, driving snow upward
To dance with black Colorado topsoil.
Four years of wind blowing down future’s dream,
Delivering drought, death and foreclosure;
Desperate winds ringing funeral bells.
[I grew up on stories of the 1930’s ‘Dust Bowl’ reaching the Dakotas in the last few years
of this devastating phenomena. My mother’s family lost everything; my father’s family
held on, and rebuilt. When the winds finally abated, farming methods were modified and
adapted to protect the topsoil, but the damage was done. Farming would no longer be
merely plowing up the land, seeding and expecting rain. Farming became a risk, a hope, a
prayer. The strong, the faithful, the fortunate remained on the land. The broken, the
faint-hearted, the hopeless were swept away.]
Gently sloping emerald hills,
Old, gray fences brightened by daffodils,
Majestic trees ready to burst into bloom,
Strangers smiling and waving at me.
That’s my Kentucky.
Gleaming horses peacefully grazing
Behind white fences,
Old, leaning barns speaking of tobbacco and history,
Spring peepers voicing joy by the pond,
Young groundhogs nibbling on new growth,
That’s my Kentucky.
Forsythia blooming against an old log cabin,
Surrounded by ancient maples in red spring splendor,
And the weathered schoolhouse nearby,
boardered by a split rail fence covered in ivy.
That’s my Kentucky.
The quietly rolling Ohio river carries coal
away from these hills in barges,
While a bald eagle turns wide circles above,
Soaring on air curents invisible to me.
That’s my Kentucky.
Along the creek watercress and forget-me-nots are flourishing,
A blue heron stands statue-still on the glittering water’s egdge.
The ancient mill is nestled between the wooded hills,
where the sparkling creek works the creaky wheel.
That’s my Kentucky
Softly swaying cedar trees line roads like tin soldiers,
Decked in fresh, spring green coats,
And underneath velvety violets and glorious bright dandelions
celebrate their life with happy faces.
That’s my Kentucky.
The Chicken Coop
Down on Farmer Brown’s poultry farm
Amongst the Barns and the old cowsheds no longer used
A bunch of Chickens run around in fear
Dashing about looking all confused
Loud clucking is all you hear
It’s all because a nasty vicious fox is in the neighbourhood
So they are in fear of their lives, panic sets in
Until Mr Brown’s old Alsatian dog Buster
Starts barking making such a din
He is used to scaring off vermin
That is his main job after all
The chickens all feel safe again
Now Buster is there standing tall
Mavis Mr Brown’s lady wife
Comes to collect the morning eggs
Like she’s done so all her married life
The two of them have been together for nearly fifty years
Through thick and thin they have seen it all
But farming is the only life they know
Dealing with problems together however big or small
The Chickens have settled down again
Now the fox has been made to disappear
The old rather large old Rhode Island Red Cockerel
Is now strutting his stuff with his bright colours all on show never fear
He really is a show off and creates a rather loud din
When he crows early when the mornings get light
He wakes everyone nearby with his loud racket
Old Buster gets quite an early morning fright
He would rather be awakened buy lots of Girls and Boys
The local primary school does day trips to the farm
So they can see all the animals and chase the chickens
But Buster always makes sure that they don’t come to any harm
They love it when the chicks have hatched
All running around the chicken run
They squawk and jump around a lot
They seen to have such fun
It’s nice to think that children enjoy
Seeing how a Chicken Farm is run
And how much noise a Rooster can make
From morning to the setting Sun
A Town I knew
He was born in a narrow-minded town where a Christian
the party was in power, and there were rules for acceptable
behavior by stern people who liked to tell others what
is right, of course, including a religious attitude
a Pakistani scholar who, due to a navigational error
came to our town, left quickly through the town
reminded him of a town, called Laura in his country
The leaders of our town, also interfered with how houses should look, white or pale yellow was allowed
A rebel painted his house red, which actually used to be
a traditional color on barns, the law fined him, said
the house represented a fire hazard.
There were many missionaries around who went to Africa to educate the blacks, it was regarded as a high calling
doing God's work among the heathen
Little did they understand how racist they were seeking
implant a foreign God in a confused country
about what the missionaries called democracy.
Later, when a new political party came to power, white
a word of shame, we who had never seen a black person, except for the cook on a banana boat, so well-liked by the ladies, the captain had to go ashore to find him.
This brings us to the Jews, who had suffered cruelly and
and deserved a state of their own, anyone who tried to
disagree were called ant-Semitic
This was in stark contrast to the Jews we knew, who were viewed with suspicion as con artists
As for the Palestinians, weren't they Arabs going to Arabia, where they belonged
We know now that the Hebrews had weaponized the holocaust
at last, we see the ugly face of Israel
, a land they stole
from the Palestinians
Israel wants more, they need the Gaza Strip,
to construct
a big commercial harbor, and who knows, a canal all the way to Jerusalem
So, what's next for Palestine?
The Hamas, called terrorists today, like the late Begin of
Stern gang once was,
Tomorrow, Quin Sabe?
Pecos Bill rode herd in the vast forlorn.
His quiet Paint gobbled buttered popcorn.
A tornado, in a fit,
Came for a whirlwind visit.
“Paint, meet Curley. His back I will adorn.”
Bill grabbed his rope and threw a loop with hope
And saddled the whirlwind so Paint could lope,
Leisurely grazing along
While Bill sang a peaceful song
Though the twister used top spin, Bill could cope.
Whirly raced north swift as antelope might.
Picking up barns, tossing them left and right,
Heaving a freight train five miles.
Bill hung on with joyful smiles,
“Almost beats chasing roadrunners at night.”
Bill rode that twister into a broke nag,
That lay city curbside limp as a rag,
A sadder, but wiser storm.
Where his horse Paint, true to form,
Whinnied by the nag, wanting to play tag.
A jolly sheriff saw Bill ride in view,
He chose at least three tickets to issue:
Parking in a tow away;
No emissions valve that day;
Driving a twister with no license too.
Tale Tales 1 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
Date Written: 3/14/2022
Used Poetry Soup Syllable Counter
When I need an uplift for my weary soul and to clear my muddled mind.
I slowly cruise along a country road to see what treasures I might find.
I leave behind the frenzied traffic on the four-lane interstate,
To enjoy bucolic vistas along a gravel road, my languid soul to sate.
I see old barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco ads now faint due to age,
And remnants of Burma Shave signs with their charmin' adage.
Stately homes with white picket fences grace the country road,
With roses of every hue surroundin' emerald lawns all neatly mowed.
I cross a rickety wooden bridge 'neath which country boys are fishin',
And for long ago summer days of feckless youth, it gits me to wishin;!
A lady waves to me as she hangs her laundry on the clothesline to dry.
A sign on the old country store reads, 'Wave If You Can't Stop By!'
Farmers on John Deere tractors wave as they tend their fields of grain.
They sure kick up lots of dust and I reckon they're prayin' for some rain.
I rolled down the windows to savor the wonderful scent of new-mown hay,
And slow to let an Amish family in their buggy move along the way.
Fat cattle graze on lush meadows, each with a meanderin' stream.
Horses gaze at me over fences as they look askance and dream.
I loathe interstates where folks think they're in the Indy 500-mile race.
I prefer old country roads where life is enjoyed at a much slower pace!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
To see this Photo please use the following URL of the face book.
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=116675645690270&set=gm.1727230410916544&type=3&theater
Photo Poem . 01
In English-
.
These beautiful swans adjusting their wings slowly
While focusing their eyes and concentration in the lake water
The Sun seems a little uneasy in such calm & quietness
The magic of the scene enchanted even the winds
Earlier, such a scenic beauty was so common
in our villages near ponds and puddles
But all this is lost in the dust of modern forests
We no more see frequently those farm and the barns
How very far away,
We have gone from our beautiful Natural surroundings
From the enchanting inherent beauty of our country's life. "
.
In Hindi
.
"ye apanee pankhon ko hole se samet kar baithate
paanee mein nazaren tikaate sundar se Hans pakshee
khaamosh fizaaon mein kuchh machalata sa sooraj
ye thahari havaon ka madahosh karata jaadoo
pahale kabhee dikhata tha har gaanv aur pokhar par
par khoya ye sab, ab aadhunik jangal mein
ab to khet aur khalihaan bhee nahin dikhate aksar,
kitane door ho gae hain hm, sb se apne sundar parivesh se
apanee desh ke jeevan kii sundarata aur sahajata se."
.
Ravindra K Kapoor
MP India 12th Sept. 2017
I don’t know how many millions or billions
Of sparrows there are, but the Father does
How can he know when each sparrow falls?
He knows every detail because
He is infinite and omniscient
He counts every hair on your head
He cares for the lilies and cares for the birds
He makes certain that each one is fed
What do I say to my little girl
On the day that her grandfather dies?
In that silence when we both know he’s not coming back
I hold her and sing as she cries…
He is infinite in his love for you
To prove it he left heaven’s throne
He died on the cross and he rose from the dead
He’s preparing a place for his own
So why should I worry about my life,
Or what I should eat, drink, or wear
Why should I fear what the future may hold?
Just consider the birds of the air
He is infinite and omnipotent
He knows every path that you tread
He cares for the lilies and cares for the birds
And makes certain that each one is fed
When you grieve for a loss or your life’s at a crossroads,
You don’t know which path is God’s way,
Remember his Word says his will for you
Is rejoice and give thanks and to pray
He is infinite in his love for you
To prove it he left heaven’s throne
He cares for the lilies and cares for the birds
How much more does He care for His own?*
*Matthew 6:26 "Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?"
written 4 Jul 2003
When the first rain kisses the dust,
The earth remembers every seed.
Silent roots begin to stir,
And hungry fields awaken.
Nature is a mother without pride,
A giver that counts no tribe,
No language, no religion, no name.
She spreads her table before all.
The rivers do not drink their own water,
The trees do not eat their own fruits,
Yet both stand faithfully every season,
Serving life without complaint.
The farmer bends beneath the sun,
Trusting clouds he cannot command.
And still the soil answers him
With yam, maize, cassava, and rice.
In the forests, wild berries ripen.
In the valleys, vegetables bloom.
The oceans carry silver fish,
And the wind escorts pollen to flowers.
Even after fire,
Green shoots rise again.
Even after drought,
The stubborn rain returns.
Nature never abandons its own.
She hides tomorrow’s harvest
Inside today’s smallest seed,
Teaching hope through seasons.
The birds wake to songs and worms,
The goats find grass upon the hills,
Children laugh around cooking fires,
And pots dance with fresh harvests.
What greater miracle exists
Than a tiny grain becoming bread?
Than bare land turning gold
Under the mercy of rain?
So when the barns are full,
Let gratitude rise like smoke at dawn.
For the earth still keeps her promise:
To feed every hand willing to plant.
Nature never abandons its own—
She whispers it through rustling leaves,
Through ripened farms and flowing streams,
Through every season that returns alive.