Long Poem Topics

Check out these short poem topics. Find short poems by topic or form.

abortion absence
abuse addiction
adventure africa
age allah
allegory allusion
america analogy
angel anger
angst animal
anniversary anti bullying
anxiety appreciation
april arabic
art assonance
aubade august
autumn baby
bangla baptism
baseball basketball
beach beautiful
beauty bereavement
best friend betrayal
bible bio
bird birth
birthday black african american
blessing blue
boat body
books boxing day
boy boyfriend
break up bridal shower
brother bullying
business butterfly
cancer candy
car care
career caregiving
cat celebration
celebrity change
chanukah character
cheer up chicago
child child abuse
childhood children
chocolate christian
christmas cinco de mayo
cinderella city
class clothes
color columbus day
community computer
confidence conflict
confusion cool
corruption courage
cousin cowboy
crazy creation
crush cry
culture cute love
dad daffodils
dance dark
daughter day
death death of a friend
december dedication
deep depression
desire destiny
devotion discrimination
divorce dog
dream drink
drug earth
earth day easter
education emo
emotions encouraging
endurance engagement
england environment
epic eulogy
eve evil
fairy faith
family fantasy
farewell farm
fashion fate
father father daughter
father son fathers day
fear february
feelings film
fire firework
first love fish
fishing flower
flying food
football for children
for her for him
for kids forgiveness
freedom french
friend friendship
fruit fun
funeral funny
funny love future
games garden
gender giggle
girl girlfriend
giving god
golf good friday
good morning good night
goodbye gospel
gothic graduate
graduation grandchild
granddaughter grandfather
grandmother grandparents
grandson grave
green grief
growing up growth
guitar hair
halloween happiness
happy happy birthday
hate health
heart heartbreak
heartbroken heaven
hello hero
high school hilarious
hindi hip hop
history hockey
holiday holocaust
home homework
hope horror
horse house
how i feel howl
humanity humor
humorous hurt
husband hyperbole
i am i love you
i miss you identity
image imagery
imagination immigration
independence day innocence
insect inspiration
inspirational integrity
international internet
introspection ireland
irony islamic
january jealousy
jesus jewish
jobs journey
joy judgement
july june
kid kindergarten
kiss language
leadership leaving
life light
little sister london
loneliness lonely
longing loss
lost lost love
love love hurts
lust lyric
magic malayalam
marathi march
marriage math
may me
meaningful memorial day
memory men
mental illness mentor
metaphor metrical tale
middle school military
miracle mirror
miss you missing
missing you mom
money moon
morning mother
mother daughter mother son
mothers day motivation
mountains moving on
mum murder
muse music
my child my children
mystery myth
mythology name
native american natural disasters
nature new year
new years day new york
nice niece
night nonsense
nostalgia november
nursery rhyme obituary
ocean october
old onomatopoeia
pain paradise
parents paris
parody pashto
passion patriotic
peace people
perspective pets
philosophy places
planet poems
poetess poetry
poets political
pollution poverty
power prayer
prejudice preschool
presidents day pride
princess prison
proposal psychological
purple quinceanera
race racism
rain rainbow
rainforest rap
raven recovery from
red relationship
religion religious
remember remembrance day
repetition retirement
riddle rights
river romance
romantic rose
roses are red rude
sad sad love
satire scary
school science
science fiction sea
seasons self
senses sensual
september sexy
sick silence
silly silver
simile simple
sin sister
sky slam
slavery sleep
smart smile
snow soccer
social society
softball soldier
solitude sometimes
son song
sorrow sorry
soulmate sound
space spanish
spiritual spoken word
sports spring
star stars
storm strength
stress student
success suicide
summer sun
sunset sunshine
surreal sweet
symbolism sympathy
tamil teacher
teachers day technology
teen teenage
thank you thanks
thanksgiving thanksgiving day
tiger time
today together
travel tree
tribute true love
trust truth
universe uplifting
urban urdu
usa vacation
valentines day vanity
veterans day violence
visionary vogon
voice volleyball
voyage war
water weather
wedding wife
wind wine
winter wisdom
woman women
word play words
work world
world war i world war ii
write writing
yellow youth

Long Farm Poems

Long Farm Poems. Below are the most popular long Farm by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Farm poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by James Inman | Details

A Day on the Farm

"You really wanna know? Cause I'll tell ya if you really wanna know. You'll be thinkin' I'm crazy before I'm done, but I'll tell ya... ifn' you really wanna know." The day started like any other, up before dawn, breakfast and fuel for the combine. Outa' the window I saw the sun rise above the horizon, no clouds in the sky, waves of heat pulsing like slow heart beats above the drying wheat fields. Already the fields are half bare. The twenty two acres out past the barn were harvested last week before the weather started to change and the 40 acres at the bottom of Rocky Point was finished just yesterday, hell'uv-a-place to plant wheat, what with all them rocks that broke three disc blades and the boulders that we had to plant around, too late to dynamite 'em by the time the rain stopped last spring. The plow got stuck in the muck for a whole day before we got the seeds in. But we did it and reaped a good return on our efforts that first year, thank God. I remember that piece of land from when I was young. We used to have an old green barn out there where we kept the live stock. Paw said it wasn't much good for nothin' else, said you couldn't grow anything out there. I think he was just scared to. There'd always been rumors 'bout that place. Some folks said that Indians had buried their Chiefs under the big boulders, and prayed to their heathen gods up on the hill that looked over the valley, said that some day they was gonna come back and reclaim this land for themselves, at least that is, that sacred part below the hill. Every morning around 6 o'clock me and Johnny would run out to that barn to feed the chickens and slop the hogs. He was always faster 'n me so he got to choose whatever he wanted to do. He liked slopping the pigs even though they smelled to high heaven. He liked ride'n on there backs. I'd laugh my head off when they threw him in the mud and he'd have to hide from Paw so he wouldn't know. Paw would wack him good if he found out. I can hear him now, "Boy I'll burn your hide if'n you don't keep off of them pigs. Your gonna break their backs. Your gonna wind up kill'n one of 'em, one of these days." Johnny would always be quick to reply, "But paw we're just gonna eat 'em anyways." Hard to believe I always like them hams so good at Easter after smell'n 'em for so many years. "I know, I know, I'm git'n to it. Give me a minute. I wanna get it straight. It ain't easy to talk about and you weren't there." I saw the clouds rollin' in long before I got out to the good fields on the other side of the creek. This was where our best grain was grown. We bought this land the year that Paw passed. I remember the tears Maw cryed when we got it. It'd been a dream Paw had for a long time. He was gonna put a road through it to the main highway so's to cut our drive to town by five miles. I've always felt bad that he never got to see it. I went on watchin' them clouds wonderin' if we might just have us a late fall twister brew'n. They was nasty look'n and it's been nasty hot for this time of year. I pulled the choke on the old combine and it coughed to a stop. Didn't see any rain fall'n as I neared the creek from the Rocky Point side but it was get'n aweful dark, and the clouds were startin' to swirl and boil way up in the sky. As I watched I swear on my Paws grave that I saw a horse runnin' across the sky. It was like the ones you see when your layin' on your back in the grass on a hot summer day lookin' up at the sky and pickin' out shapes in the clouds,... but it wasn't. It was breathin' and glarin' at me with fiery demon eyes. Then out of the darkness I saw another shape. It was a face, all white with dark puffy round cheeks. It looked like the pictures of Santa Claus we used to take with the kids after the Thanks Givin' day parade downtown. He'd huff and he'd puff and his cheeks would billow out and all-a-sudden he'd let out this big bellow, "Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas," but when the face in the cloud bellowed no sound came out, just ice cold wind. It near 'bout froze me to my seat in that old combine. The windows glazed over with frost and my hand got stuck to the steerin' wheel for a second, pulled some skin off get'n em free. I turned on the headlights and wipers and as the Window cleared I could see ice twinkling like jewels on all of the wheat stalks. Down by the bridge I could see the weeds reflected in a thin layer of ice covering the water. Then all Hell broke loose. Thunder so loud I couldn't think clear, and lightnin' everywhere striking every rock and boulder. Mist rose up after each hit like ghost risen' out of the grave. I forgot about the cold cause the storm froze me solid. A bolt of lightnin' hit the top of the combine and the thunder shook the cab so bad I hit my head on the back of the seat. For a few minutes I was in a daze but as my head cleared I could see fires all over Rocky Point. I didn't have time to do anything but start the engine of the combine and move it over the bridge to the next field so it wouldn't burn up too. I watched as all the grain left at Rocky Point burned to cinders. Funny thing is all the other fields around that one were OK. Not one never burned. It was like someone drew a line around the place, strangest thing. The weather guy on TV tried to explain it. What'd he call it? Oh, a micro... something, blow, burst, something like that. He didn't explain what I saw, but that don't matter no more. It's over and done. Lost all that good grain, though. Had some scientist from the college down in Lawton come by and do some lookin'. They kept scratchin' their heads and mumblin', looked kinda befuddled to me. We talked and they said something about the soil ph was wrong and there seemed to be salt all through the dirt, maybe all the way down to the bedrock. Well, All I know is I'm guessin' nothin'll ever grow in that field again. Can't rightly say for sure though, never plan on findn' out.
11/20

Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Why Life

Why does dawn dress robust morning,
while dusk undresses sight?
Each dawn incarnates another Earth Day
a lifetime of Easter mornings 
redeeming nocturnal sight's revolution,
another therapeutic day of gift-it-forward light,
some longer,
some shorter before naked covered night.

Why life?
To uncover love's enlighting therapeutic invitation,
integrity's eco-arising comprehensive bright.
To discover love life sustained bilateral becoming 
within Earth dependent ego-death's belonging.
To recover co-passion's perpetual peaceful pilot light,
decomposing fire's burning fuel and flame 
and flow toward warm home health, 
timeless regenerating sight.

Why universal rehabilitation,
repurposing of people, 
regenerative places,
recycling property,
revolving plants, 
revisiting possession, 
reculturing planet?
Recreation unfolds redemptive revolutions,
dawning/darkening new each moment 
expanding each day to contract each night
and present presence life
integrative communality 
as co-operating species,
polypathic paradigms and memes,
language and information,
form as dynamically reintegrating function,
inclusive conscience as revolutioning regenerate ego/ecoconsciousness,
each loving act of mutual gravity's emergence,
ego-eco zero-solidarity practice
practice
practice.

Therapeutic intent to rehabit and repurpose
to recycle
reprehend
reconsider
recreate
renovitiate
regenerate
remember
reconnect
redeem
revolution
grows internally nutritious inspirational DNA health roots,
natural trans-generational therapeutic branches,
ecological economics healing cooperative Paradise Lost
within our Tree of CooperativeLife meets CompetitiveDeath, 
without our Tree of Languaged "Good" and "Evil,"
comprehensive 
polymorphic 
organic rooted landscapes
of Ego absorbing polypaths 
echoing Earth's co-arising great with small transitional nurture-systems.

Language both fertilizes and farms,
produces and consumes
echoes and enthymemes
nouns and verbs
subjects and objectives
causes and effects
grows and harvests 
induces and deduces,
inhales and exhales
yangs and yins
optimizes and purges
lives and decomposes rainbow octaves
universalizes and integrally unites polyculturing visions
building on sight
reflecting off light
rebounding of sound
resonant feelings
polyculturing paradigms
polymorphing polypaths.

Speech and thought can both rehabit and repurpose understanding,
comprehensive comprehension,
co-passion feeds con-science
as ecojustice fills out anthrocentric peace with plants and planet.

DNA's temporal analysis decomposes eating cultural memory, 
image evolving imagination, 
hope co-arising faith,
despairing dreams predicting syntax edicting climatic decay,
raping eco-screams restricting life's sensual gift potential,
universal dark negentropy swallowing and regurgitating
inhaling and exhaling
Earth's teleosynthetic life of time-squared zero-light,
both dissonance and confluence,
chaotic energy swelling complex matters
ergodic clatters,
double-negatives justifying ecological positive balance,
contentiousness challenging co-operating contentedness,
fearing ego-death inviting beloved eco-climaxing ecstatic life,
longing regenerating belonging.

Noticing dipolar relationships,
Ego-yang swelling not-not Eco-yin's Earth flight,
enrich multiculturing fields of analogy,
Win-Win games reiterating time's perception of inclusive hope,
growing consciousness of interdependent iconic-ionic paradigms
feeding within and on each Other,
Double Dark dynamic love between weeds and seedy compost flowers,
brother and sister transparent organic kosmic farm
of deep absorbing ecologic.

Bi-identified RNA rests simply silent vital void
growing confidence in SunGod's compelling righteous revolution
resonant resolution
spilling out discontented longing roots
investing regenerate co-passion's peacefilled therapeutic NOW.

SunGod is to Yang/Yin flowing power potential
as ReGenerate Tribal Identity is to Earth's voiceless harmony, 
listening discernment to and of and in and by DNA's health-assurance systems
as non-violent intent is to recreative peace and ecojustice practice,
as embracing empathic conscience grows co-passion's Beloved Community.

Decompositional function of polynomial binary/bilateral language 
grows information's reverse hierarchy of ego/ecoconscious bicameral systems,
where Right-brain not-not polycultural relationship 
rediscovers binomial space as fractal time's proportional construction,
revolving double-boundaried resolution of eternal time, 
coincidental co-arising
co-relational meeting of infinitely omnipresent past 
with omnipotent future.

Regenerate function of language creates,
subjects health objectives to empirical scrutiny,
nouns verbs toward analogical futurity, 
inspires,
enjoys,
insights,
conjoins,
brights dawns both ecologically wise and economically (0)-sum co-operative,
fueling Earth's Win-Win co-passioning power toward global peaceful justice.
 
Eco-systemic comprehension both biofuels and farms permacultural love,
organic ecotherapy emerging all four economic seasons,
including advent's winterish purgation,
winnowing Identity's weedy monocultural/monomial root assumptions,
composting Earth Tree's rehabiting spring production branches
stretching out gravity's mutual nutritious gratitude 
toward Omniscientific Earth's radiant emerging light.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Life's Midway Ride

Our body is only a cloak;
seek the one who has dressed you,
heed not the dress.
Midway means nothing to infinity.

When totally immersed in pursuits that you love,
illness and pain won't distract you.
Midway means nothing to infinity.

I wonder why when a bird 
clearly sees the trap laid out for her,
she's still drawn to fly straight in!
Midway means nothing to infinity.
Rumi (M Mafi translation)

Midway means everything present to binomial time,
captured between a polynomial past and  not-so-unpredictably resolving,
resonantly revolutionary,
mutually redemptive (co-arising) future,
where science religions polycultural metrics of infinitely wise and lovely bodies
discovering Interior Landscape's analogical ecology of evolution v. revolution,
competitive Yang v. cooperative YinYin,
diastatically co-arising compost 
mirroring and absorbing Earth's nutrient streams and flows,
functions and (0)-core frequencies 
of energy as life,
development within design,
decomposition implying regenesis,
organically fertile farming
Prime Relationships of loving peace-filled fairness
in and among Beloved Climax Communities.

Space means nothing to Time, as
Midway means nothing to Infinity,
half of timelessness means nothing to eternity,
as Midway equals Polynomial +Left-Deductive
reiteratively dancing with(-)(-)Polynomial (-)Right-Inductive,
as Yang-convex + Yin-concave = [(0)logic Tao]
balances Infinity's Prime Relationship
between Here and Now  cooperative economic ecologic,
meeting Economic Design CQI,
Globally Synergetic Optimization,
Natural System Development Standards
of ecotherapeutic orthopraxis
thermodynamic balance
and electromagnetic 4-equivalent dimensional spacetime Commons function.

Adults grow from children
deep learning prime relationship
between isolating comedic ridicule
and mutually humored information
emerging from both self and other,
confluently sometimes,
while other times only through sustained cognitive dissonance,
hard birthing events,
yet both confluent Yang/Yin harmony
and dissonant Yang-dominance
unveil redemptive merit
for polyparadigmatic comprehension of other complex
chaotic
stressful
metaparadigmatic
discontented love relationships.

Shared joy and beauty and goodness and wisdom
multisystemically regenerate
when polyculturally analyzed and decomposed
discussed and discerned
remembered and reconnected and religioned
reflected and redeemed
with karmic grace intent,
grateful noticing as-is here and now,
cooperatively redemptive practice,
mutually mentoring synergetic design,
incarnating Bodhisattva Messiahs and Prophets,
Teachers who are first EcoTherapeutic Listeners,
thus permaculturing orthopraxisizers.

Zero Space is Infinite Time
at Her best
wisely resonant Beauty
YangBeing what we are YinBecoming-Balanced
diastatically enculturing internal Climax Communities,
both YangJustStrength and YinOrganicBeauty EcoTherapists
enjoying our ride,
avoiding "I am Ego-Special" feelings
if only because catastrophic paranoia and megalomania both grow contagiously sad and angry,
slowly
transitioning
co-falling dusk 
returning to a self-regenerating dream of
Beloved Community Teleology and Orthopraxis
of active peace absorbing issues of lack-of-time fears
such as mortality and death and climatic survival
as something darker than a shadow chasing Infinite Light
and Midway as something other than this revolving ride between
our SuperEco One,
our Love,
our Contentment,
our being and belonging
where Here greets Now greets Here
eternal cooperative economic ecotherapeutic information
redundantly  and inclusively unfolding
enculturing
binomial/binary un-double-knotting systemic QBit string
of prime fractal-tel-ec(o)metric Beloved Community.

Midway is nothing to Infinity
as (-)(-) balancing information-bits grow everytimely
ecotherapeutic (+) prime Eulerian relationship function,
(0) Core Vector/Vortex Fullerian crystal-fractal spacetime.

Id is nothing to SuperEco
as ego-centrism confluently optimizes resonance
with Right-brained eco-natural systemic encoded DNA/RNA
SuperEco Metric Regenerative Optimization Systems,
both thermodynamic and electromagnetic
co-arising gravity.

Here is nothing to Now
as Now is Comprehensive Co-incident Intelligence
regenerating SuperEco Tao as Western eco-logical Time.

Fear is nothing to Love
as Love loses everything to Fear of Time's Unresolved Absence,
as Absence of Fear encultures
composts
Beloved Communities,
Exterior/Interior Prime (0)-sum Balancing Cooperative Landscapes.

Here means everything to Now
as Midway means nothing to Infinity
unfolding permaculturing past
enfolding polycultural future promise.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details

Enduring Spinning: Agriculture, Culture and War

You can feel it spinning
                                fast
the Chinese, Japanese, American and European junk
orbiting at several thousand miles per hour could
                                                                  punch
a hole in your armor, future. Thanksgiving passes, then Christmas.
A nuclear detonation, we absorb that fact. The scientist in us
delays sadness by recording observations. What is is,
sorrow's for tomorrow.

By reducing probabilities to near zero I hope to avoid sorrow.
In yr suburb.
In history when there were many fewer people we still found reason
to cross space, explore, trade and war. Now
                                                            overpopulation
may not be the problem but food and water shortages
get our attention.
                         I have Korf's fears.
And hear what I want to hear.

Some hear singing, some hear speeches or complaining.
Martin Luther King sang his complaints, dreamed of a brotherly nation
which came to pass, spinning fast, past Thanksgivings, past jailings
into reconnaissance, small wars, drones, renaissance, inventions.
At the border,
                    where the Juaristas fought Maximilian:
Benito Juarez (1806-1872) Zapotec Amerindian who served five terms as president of Mexico. He was the first Mexican leader who did not have a military background and also the first full-blooded indigenous person to lead a country in the western hemisphere in over 300 years. For resisting French occupation, overthrowing the Empire, and restoring the Republic, Juarez is regarded as Mexico's greatest and most beloved leader.

Each soldier chooses what war at what border, or just
                                                                         shows up
spinning with the planet.
The neighborhood and surrounding nature is orderly.
But always there is implied force, violence holding it together,
                                                                                   chaos
is contained
kept out of the playground, government buildings, children's games
but lies within
the force maintaining order, a spinning tumor, a gyroscope of
                                                                                  inertia.
                                                                                                                
The force of the spinning, the speed of the force bring one to one's
      death
seasons, weather, earth.
                                   While the emperor's being beheaded
enduring seeds are discovered and invented, cross-fertilized and bred.
Corn, yams, potatoes, sunflowers, rice.
                                                      Food is life and a good study,
useful discipline
                      daily meditation.
                                             The fighting man protects the farmer
and the farmer feeds the fighting man.
They elect the governor
                                  who serves the people. Peace out.

Peace and war are transitory manifestations of spinning
electrons, planets.
                          The sun's a nuclear detonation, essential
to spring and planting. Food is life. Seeds endure
if man goes to his daily discipline. If woman is man.
Birth and death
                      together are orderly, the border can be known,
voluntarily. How we live together, by prayer or force,
is our story.

Knowledge
from laboratory to starry corridor keeps us very
                                                                 versed.
Did Juaristas consider the rights of animals not to be eaten?
Not during that spinning.
                                  And perform the history that surrounds us.
All that can be done
is written in the spinning:
The people of the land, the Indian farmers of North America - like their counterparts in Mesoamerica, the Andean region, and the Amazon - have continuously cultivated maize, beans, squash and other crops for more than five thousand years. One of the salient features of their traditional farming systems is the high degree of biodiversity. These traditional farming systems have emerged over centuries of cultural and biological evolution, and they represent the accumulated experience of indigenous farmers interacting with the environment without access to external inputs, capital or scientific knowledge. In Latin America alone, more than 2.5 million hectares under traditional agriculture in the form of raised fields, polycultures, agroforestry systems and the like document indigenous farmers' successful adaptations to difficult environments.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

UnWoven Memories

I grew up and out on a four family-owned,
and cooperatively-organized,
extended matriarchal farm.

Four interdependent 1940s through 1970s patriarchally managed businesses,
without substantial questions about who should wear pants,
yet with a surprising matriarchal cooperative understory.

The boxers outnumbered the panties,
but the panties had full nutritional care-giving and -receiving reign,
Monday through Friday,
9 to 5,
and what the boxers missed,
well,
that's the competitive market price of non-panties.

My maternal grandparents were farmer and wife
with three daughters.
These daughters, as adults,
lived, and two died,
within a five to fifteen minute drive from each other,
an easy spring through fall bike ride for pre-teen cousins,
ten of us in all,
four all-American girls,
five made in USA boys,
and the fifth-born,
well,
we never were entirely persuaded
one way or the other.

During the spring
each of the three sisters planted her garden,
large enough to produce tiers of canned corn,
rows of string beans,
pickled beets,
sauerkraut,
stewed tomatoes,
applesauce
and peaches and pears
self-picked in teams of two or three adult sisters
and their attendant underlings
infesting local orchards.

It was at canning time
our matriarchal cooperative came into its own.
And the making of preserves,
jams and jellies,
cherry and strawberry, 
raspberry and blueberry.

I recall bushel baskets of sweetcorn
waiting to be husked
and cooked
and cut off the cooled cobs;
huge harvesting pans
of peas waiting to be snapped open
then pulled out with our left thumbs,
except for my oldest sister,
princess Elder of all matriarchal cousins,
who is left-hand dominant.

Rows of tomatoes
lined up on our enclosed front porch
to finish sun-ripening on yellowed newspapers
spread thin across the grey painted cement floor
leaving only a center aisle
to walk in from outside
toward the sacred altar of our mass producing kitchen stove,
all four burners sacrificing red hot electricity.

The porch floor would fill
with alternating waves of peaches and pears
creeping toward their ripest time
while we pitted mahogany sweet cherries
for freezing
and florescent red cherries
tart,
to drench in sugar
and smack our mouths with amazing jam.

So, there I was
the fifth-born ambiguity of ten cousins
living literally in the midst of a traditional
MidWestern
extended family
matriarchal cooperative,
Monday through Friday
during summer vacations,
with some elements of patriarchal sharing
among my mother's dad
and the three son-in-laws
on weekends,
sometimes even hot haymaking weeknights,
sharing combines and bailers and harvesting wagons,
forming hay bailing teams,
drivers and stackers,
unstackers and hay mount restackers,
and cookers of meals for the field workers,
washers of well-worn dishes.

All this economic nutritional production
was further enriched
by shared sister and cousin lunches
and laughter
and lavish suppers
with sweetcorn on buttered and salted cobs,
sliced beefsteak tomatoes,
potato salads
and strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert,
a la vanilla-only mode
for those who preferred creamy
with their just desserts
during summer's cooperative harvest.

Good food,
but also hot rhapsodies of laughter
spreading echoes across the evening barn
to share with dairy cows
and satiated pigs
cooling in their cooperative mud
beside the algae-blooming pond.

This cooperative worked and played across all four sites,
grandparents
and all three sisters
and my usually convivial cousins.
We peaked in summer
and dwindled down in winter
to monthly Sunday dinners
extending on through sleepy afternoons
of Sabbath rest,
and maybe sledding,
to end in nocturnal benedictions
back at church,
to close these sacred rituals
where we began
all of Sunday morning,
10 a.m. Sunday School
through noonish,
often over-heated
over-extended admonishments
against greed and lechery,
dancing and provocative entertainments
in movie theaters
and pool halls,
and don't even think about the bars
and devil-liquor stores.

In retrospect,
I doubt these Sabbath admonishments
against competing with extended family health
were as influential
as was our cooperative structure,
our mutual enjoyment of nutritional outcomes
but also the harvesting process
together.

Our matriarchal cooperative,
for the generation it lasted,
was 100% proof against unhealthy family disruptions.

But,
that was then,
and this is now,
spread out and dissipated,
finding our new ways
toward extending families
of matriarchal and patriarchal cooperatives.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Mohamed Manzur Bah | Details

OUR ENVIRONMENT TODAY

I was taught by   my father to be obedient in the dense forest to save the individuals trees, stop destruction to plantation. I cannot be silent under the detriment from lumberjacks to global emissions; I cannot sleep in the night, because I am employed to deter exportation of trees to chickens labs.
Zero is nothing, but I see the money you are waging wars for is written in zeros My chest is congests with carbon monoxide, I monopolize to defeat the bunch of exploiters, I expose them to exposition. I prefer to die with dignity than to live with dictator by the dictionary, dictions are sweet, but they cannot boil eggs.
Stop cutting the trees from terrace to the crest to Red Cross; I eliminate elements to elucidate through the data. I cannot stop imagining and exonerate exodus to the red sea, bring me hope with oath middle October. She doesn’t need fire to fry cakes by the equator; the sun is enough for her sauce pan to boil billions hertz in seconds.
Stop blinding yourself expose those deny you pure Oxygen; I cannot focus my entire life watching TV to realize you are destroying the environment to global warming as inevitable. Look the earth giving musky smell from the oil leak Gulf of Mexico to environmental degradation to Dakota pipeline to war zones. You fail to learn to lead liquidity to economic boom and to stop bombs drops and draconian laws.
Self-egotism on the rise, civilization on the fall beast of burden to bondage the voyage teaches you to take responsibilities for the things you done.  Stop to ply garbage by the routes, I cannot stop to fight with pen and paper to save the Amazon forest; I prefer to rescue you than to lay you to rest. Pious people pioneer our thinking to streams so that when the dams run dry still fry fishes by the sea, the smiling ray is sufficient to wake me up in the morning with happy face.
Stop forcing relationship to wrestling, the snow drop punches on the faces of lumberjacks, I contend to condone the conundrum classical mistakes. There are too much of earthquakes, from the squad to the volcano eruption to volatile and vodka drink, I lost appetite to capture by the time I approach the rapture to erect optimism. My factory is my dearest entity that entitles me to think not like the monkey, I cannot ignore the forest it is the source of my livelihood to rendezvous.
I farm by the river to listen to the music from it, I shelter myself under the canopy to plant fruits to get definition of love and I irrigate the land to protect ecology to ecstasy. I excommunicate cult to cultural calendar to clap for clandestine magical to philanthropist promises, I officiate protocol to pronounce protection for my environment. I cannot afford to drink liters of water to clinch thirst into intoxication; I used to see lions in the jungle defending the forest now they are forced out without a single trace. 
Sahel in fire the hunger is on the rise, famine from Somalia to South Sudan, kids are denied the opportunity to fill their bellies to billions of food shortages. Sudan to sadness, you ceded from paradise to civil war, the jungle bears nothing than disappointments. Warlords loaded their barrels guns to funnel difficulties, the oil you prospect proven to poverty and ultimate nightmare. NGOs engage to gauge the situation to situate hope from hot temperature to flash flooding. 
The problem bang to testimonial  catastrophic save the surrounding before you are surround by your actions. Climate changes on the rise, bush fire from Australia to Chile and down to Africa, as the expectation more disastrous to ecological detriment to catastrophically phenomenon. It is too dangerous because of heavy demand for fuel especially in Africa to holocaust health situation to air pollution.

Copyright © Mohamed Manzur Bah | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Donal Mahoney | Details

Doing Laundry on a Farm in the Fifities

Grandma Gretchen's in her rocker and she has something to say. 

She tells a visitor, a young man from the city, if he plans to write a book about life on a farm in the Fifties, he likely has a lot to learn. She knows about that life because she was there. She says he needs to know about the little things as well as the big things if the book is going to be accurate. 

For example, she says for him to understand that culture, he needs to know how laundry was done back then. This was before electric washers and dryers became popular. And he needs to understand why some farm wives today still use a ringer washer to do their laundry, usually on a Monday if the weather is nice.

The visitor agrees. So as he and Grandma sip strong coffee and nibble on scones from yesterday, Grandma starts to rock faster and begins a long tutorial. 

The young man begins to feel he’s back in law school and should be taking notes but he had no reason to bring a notebook. He thought he was just visiting an older lady still living in her old farmhouse, a widow cared for by her adult children. 

Colors and whites, Grandma explains, are always washed separately. Undies are washed separately as well. Sheets and towels are washed by themselves as are the men’s clothes.

“Men’s clothes are the filthiest thing on laundry day on any farm,” Grandma says, "especially the overalls. 

"Believe me, young man, overalls are always washed alone. It’s a task no farm wife enjoys." 

In good weather, she says the whites are the first to be hung out to dry. 

The clothesline is strung between two trees or from a tree to a hook on the house. As long as the line is not under where birds might perch, everything’s okay. 

“Between two trees is prettier,” she says, "and a clothesline should look pretty."

Warming to her task, Grandma goes on to explain that clothespins join all of the wash together except for bras which are hung by a single strap. 

"A good wind and bras will kick," she says, "like the Rockettes.” 

The young man wonders how she knows about the Rockettes. He was told that Grandma's sole exposure to the media over the years has been a Gospel music station on an old RCA console radio stationed not far from her rocking chair. 

She goes on to point out that if it starts to rain and the clothes are nearly dry, the farm wife dashes out and rushes the clothes into the house. 

"Even if he’s in the house at the time, her husband isn’t any help,” she says. “On a farm men have their tasks and women have theirs.” 

Grandma admits she’s heard that some younger men today may help out in ways they would never have done back in the Fifties. That’s a big surprise, she says, if it’s true.

Then she mentions something the young man had been told by one of her daughters: Grandma and her husband, Carl, had seven kids. Carl took care of the farm and Grandma took care of the kids. 

"Seven kids are a lot of work," she says, "but Carl had 20 cows to milk every morning and 100 hogs to slop and eggs to gather in the hen house. I’d rather take care of Carl and seven kids."

Grandma finishes her tutorial by telling the visitor that although she wishes him well, she doesn’t know how a man from the city can write a book about farm life in the Fifties.

"You weren’t there," she tells him with all the kindness and wonder she can muster.

He tells her all he can do is try and maybe with her help something good will come of it.

She tells him he better let her read what he writes before it’s printed. She says she just got new bifocals.

The young man says she will be the first to read it. 

And then he reaches for another day-old scone.


Donal Mahoney

Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Robert Candler | Details

Two's Magic Nose

Such a nose had Ol’ Blue.
Best in south Missouri... everybody knew.
Could smell a pheasant across the plain.
Could point a covey in a hurricane.
That’s the way the legend goes.
Ol’ Blue had a “magic nose.”
 
As Blue got older, his master’s mind would drift away
To a place where he and young Blue used to play. 
In the mornings, sitting over his coffee cup
He found it sad there were no pups.
He thought it would be such a shame
If the only memory was Ol’ Blue’s name.
 
So, Jim was compelled and full of pride;
He made a search, far and wide,
To find Ol’ Blue a suitable mate.
No doubt, his offspring would be great.
It seemed likely, he supposed,
At least one pup would have his “magic nose.”
 
She was a Champion Miss from New Orleans,
A beautiful “red” named Cajun Queen.
But Blue suddenly passed away, before the pups were born.
Jim was broken hearted.  He and “Queenie” mourned.
Then came the litter, but there was only one.
Jim struggled for hope; after all, he was Ol’ Blue’s son.
 
Dappled and lanky, a handsome little cuss,
He looked just like Blue.  Jim made such a fuss.
Naming this pup would require no ado.
It was obvious.  Officially, he would be “Blue Two.”
Oh yes, these were mighty large tracks to fill.
“Can he?”, folks asked.  Jim would say, “Heck yes he will!”

So his nickname became “Two” and he seemed to be smart.
Soon it was time for his training to start.
The basics went well, but Jim’s outlook grew very dim
When, instead of pointing, Two would wag and jump and bark at him.
Oh, Two seemed to be trying; but try as he might,
He just could not seem to ever get it right.

“Blue’s son or not, he’s got to go!”
Jim found Two a “pet home” far away, in Tupelo.
On his way back, he stopped in Texarkana.
Been too long a time since he’d seen his sister Hannah.
Six days and six pounds later, he was back on his way.
Work at the farm was callin’ and he’d be drivin’ all day.
 
He thought about Ol’ Blue and wondered if and when
He’d ever have a birddog as good as Blue again.
Oh, he knew another “magic nose” was just a far off dream;
After all, it wasn’t something any man could scheme.
A “magic nose” was a gift from God, only given to a few;
And he was proud and very lucky just to have known Ol’ Blue.
 
As he turned into his drive, he broke into a smile.
“Why… I can’t believe it!  It…It must be 300 miles!”
Two was on the porch, thin and dirty; but he struck a handsome pose.
Jim ran and hugged Two hard.  “How’d you get back?  Lord only knows!”
Suddenly Jim realized; and struck with awe, he slowly rose.
A tear trickled to his smile.  “Why Two… you have a “magic nose!”
 
Two and Jim are best of friends, together everywhere.
From milkin’ cows to bedtime, Two is always there.
Jim doesn’t hunt much anymore, now Two’s a rescue dog.
Just last month, he saved a little girl lost in Cooley’s Bog.
Jim struts and tells proud, heroic stories;
While Two wags and jumps and barks, and shares his glory.
 
Jim boasts, “Like father, like son!”, then speaks fondly of Blue;
But all know the largest tracks to fill are those of Two.
His deeds are known far and wide,
And fill Jim’s heart with love and pride.
For with every rescue, the legend grows;
About a dog named Two, and his “magic nose.”

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Long poem by Gerald Dillenbeck | Details

Beyond Death's Honor and Disgrace

Alpha

To live beyond death
we must know life beyond honor and disgrace.

Not "must" in the injunctive sense of "thou shalt"
but a more dusty must of logical integrity.

Midway

Those who know do not speak
beyond communication as active listening.
Those who only speak, without listening, do not know.
Fill up knowing's silent apertures,
Close logic's open-systemic doors,
Dull awareness of smooth-structured double-boundaries,
edges,
Untie double-knotted tangles of conscience,
Soften comprehensive consciousness
to radiate co-encultural bleaching light--
This is co-arising with co-decaying unitarian mysticism.

Then love and hatred cannot change our ecoing egoselves,
Profit and loss cannot overwhelm polycultured Earth Tribe.
Honor and disgrace cannot effect and affect and defect us.
Therefore we eternally co-mentor power-optimizing regeneration.

Omega

How do permacultural farmers respond to bad environmental karma
arcing back across all four seasons
inviting devolution's sometimes too personal demise
of crops, nutrients, healthy wealth of resources,
seeds of hope?

Why do darkness and death stalk,
shadow us,
cast dusky gloom across culture's future expectations,
declaring each alien,
too egocentric for life's eternal repurposing
of economic probabilities,
rationally co-redeeming praxis?

What can we do,
how can we respond to sub-optimizing stimuli
advancing in our ego hearts,
private minds,
personal body-enculturation,
weeding our language?

Nutritional inflow and outflow streams
intentionally co-optimize economics,
willing systems of hopeful eccentric Win-Lose ecologies,
consumption of mortality dissonant from infinite production,
decomposition without active, yet peacefully contented, designs
for regenerative response,
ignoring co-redemptive resonance of co-arising universal intelligence.

Monocultural intentions and pretensions
seek total exponential supremacy
withour our self/other marginalizing boundary
where and when and why polycultural ecotherapy
seeks zero-summed integrity
of mutual mentoring primal relationships--
between id and supereco,
between yinyin and yang,
between right-inductive and left-deductive hemispheres,
between physical-human Self
and metaphysical-sacred synergizing Self/Other.

Death's monopolistic economic assumptions,
like monocultural ecological identity,
more fruitfully and forcefully revolutioned
as polycultural challenges
to re-ligion re-sonant balance
harmonic frequencies of non-dual revolutions
reconnect dissonant decay with confluent cay,
disformation with information
where we have already become
polyculturally found outside silos of over-specialized blind alleys,
with what remains of inductive integrity's co-analogical potential.

To live beyond death
we must know life as eco-logical integrity.
To regenerate as eco-identity
we must decompose, release, redeem ego-id-entity.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by arthur vaso | Details

Chapter and Verse a live poetry recital

Good evening Ladies 
May I say, I am honored and privileged
As this is the first ever time
I have read in front of a woman’s only group
And a fine group of bovine beauties you are

I truly hope you have enjoyed dinner
The poetry portion of your evening is about to begin
First I wish to thank Betsy for inviting me
She mooooed me over from day one
I must also offer my sincere apologies
If I have eaten any of your relatives
A simple but tasty misunderstanding at beast, ops best

This evening’s poetry reading will have background music
Lyrcial Jazz music is like the spice to my gourmet poetry
Richard here is on Sax, and Dave will play the guitar
So feel free to sit or stand, rain or shine
Graze upon this artistic feast of cultural poetry

I shall recite four movements here, thus to allow you
Breaks for your own movements so to speak
I wish you an udderly fantastic evening


This piece is called “Chapter and Verse”

Part 1)

Borrowed words


Overdue loans
On faded words
Tears melting ink
Wisdom's die 
Collection time
Bankrupt soul
With no words to share


Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooo


You gals are sooooo  Mooovarlous

Now for Part 2)


Overdue books

Wine splashes the pages
Of my mind
Melancholy whispers to me
Here, here 
The past sings me a song
Withered books 
Our collective memories
Buried in the pages of history


Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos

Oh My God really stop it
You Gals are udderly amazing
Thank you so much

I really appreciate your Cowcil


On to Part 3 Ladies

Sad Chapters

I danced 
I drank
Love and wine
Penelope Sosa
Stole heart and mind
Debts paid
Her beauty refined
Lonely betrayal
I dine on sad chapters

Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos

You gals really are overdoing it
However I do have a part 4, you are such a great audience
For fans like you, I am willing to milk this poem to the end


The last Verse

Mathematical potions
Equations that dream
A soft kiss lade upon my sleeping heart
Is it you? Is it you that lightens my soul?
Spread your wings for me
I shall smell the sweet scent
Of your poetic juices
As we lay entwined
Inside the last verse

Standing Mooooooooovations
Moooooo mooooooo Mooooooo 
Mooo Mooooooo Mooooooo Moooooo
Cow bells jingle
More Moooos moooo moooooos


Well I must thank you dearly
I confess I was somewhat Cowardly to perform
However you gals where just great
I will be signing autographs back at the barn!!!!!!


Note: This poem was sponsored by Dr Doo Little

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Long Poems