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.
The sun was creeping through the windowpane
I lifted my head to see sparkling dewdrops from the rain
And in the fields, I saw someone slowly walking
He almost looked familiar, yet his face was shocking
As he came ever nearer,
The realities of the war at hand were never clearer
My son’s right eye was simply no more
And his left eye was shyly cast down to the floor
He embraced me, sobbing, but relieved
To be so courteously and kindly received
The day my son returned was the day my husband died
It was the day when all my family sat there and cried
Sheets of tears from both eye sockets
Were seen on the soldier’s cheeks as he put his hands in his pockets
I told him gently that Dad was proud of him
His expression was grim…
The clouds ever looming over our home
He talks so little; he’ll contemplate and roam
The farm is tended to and the garden does flourish
The fruits and vegetables of our harvest will nourish
But as we are easily healthy and fed,
My son is stricken in panic and dread
He wakes up in the middle of the night
Clutching onto Dad’s photograph for dear life
The horrors he has witnessed I shall never know
And the gardens of his remaining youth shall never grow
Limping in the evening, he cleans his plate without complaint
I miss the days he used to pick on me—calling my main dishes plain
I miss his personality, his wit, his SOUL
I must learn now to rake his remnants across the coal
In the brink of sadness and stillness…
The bomb hits me to the innermost core
I HAD LOST HIM IN THE WAR
For miles, nothing came remotely close that rivaled her attraction.
No one ever told us, but she looked like some kind of smoke stack,
utilized for burning debris or unwanted materials from the large farm.
We were just poor kids growing up on a large farm, underprivileged and
overworked. If there were child labor laws back then, no one told us.
Perhaps they did not apply to us or maybe no one cared to abide. We were
underserved without playground equipment or even playgrounds for playing sports. Rather than complain about not having a swimming pool, we found creeks and jumped in. The angels must have watched over us, because no one told us about pollution. This is not meant to be a sad poor me story. It's simply a childhood memory, and that tall tower was a great part of that memory. In one sense, she symbolized a place where we took our painful experiences and buried them, a place where we took our bitter lemons, made sweet lemonade and drank to our heart's desire.
Anyway, she was a place of play and fun, and we cared not what she used to be. She stood strong as a high towering giant among midgets-human and other wise. As kids, we never heard nor were ever interested in the 'why or how' of things. We only knew that her services were not only curtailed but totally abandoned.
High up about midway were the imprinted words, 'The Orange Crust' which we came to suspect such was an ad for the 'soft drink'. But really, what was that to us? She did not look the part, but for us, she was a play-station, a get-away, a hide-away. One of our favorite things to do was to yell, holler, and shout at the top of our voices. We only played by day and departed by nightfall. Our little farming community got real dark at night and darker still inside the tower. We had no interest in heroes. Our 'pay-dirt' were the echoes.
072820PS
We made the base for the grave out the farm,
Where our dad can now rest his head
Forever more, in his favourite spot,
The place of dad’s harmonious bed.
We mixed the buckets of water with concrete,
Then shovelled this to the square,
Levelled flat with rake, trowel and a spade,
We let it harden up in the air.
It’s on top of the hill, with a beautiful view of the farm,
A peaceful spot with the sheep,
A peaceful place where the birds sing all day,
And dad can now peacefully sleep.
We made a base for the grave out the farm,
Using concrete, bricks and stone,
Where dad can rest, forever more,
And we can visit him each day, all alone.
Just an old lady
Who had just an old man.
They didn't have much,
Just each other's hands.
They used them for hard work,
For wiping sweat off their brow.
Not a whisper of complaint
In their voice could be found.
They used them to love
All those who were born.
Making sweet memories
Is what brought them joy.
They used them to pray,
Anointing and giving,
Spreading the Gospel
To all who were living.
When his hands went to Heaven,
Hers, unexpectedly, alone,
All that was left
Was his name on a stone.
Just an old lady
Who now has her old man,
Reunited in Heaven,
On golden streets, hand in hand.
They dug a deep hole and
Made a tunnel at the end
They made a
large woodchimmey
And covered the hole
With logs and covered
The logs with iron plates
The had six vents that
Came to the surface
They used bobcats
And frontend loaders
To make the field have
Depth
Walking from the back
Of the circle you felt
Like you were walking
In the Roman Collusium
They made the statium using logs
Two by fours steel beams
Pvc pipes
They sewed together
Ten large tents to make the
Top of the ceiling
They wanted a uniform
Top, the engereeners
Would be awarded for
There craftiness
This might be the beganning
Of some of these guys careers
We want to have this type
Of night for all to remember
We used folding chairs
The heat coming from the
Ground wasbscented
By hickory. They had
Grills below
Were some folks
Cooked bbq
Generates made lights
And the soundmen for the evening
In the morning, innocent lamb left the farm
Behind his master, moved to the meadow
A treacherous chapman loomed him
In his purity, he listened to chap’s distorted words
As sweet as honey, they lead him astray his master
Naively, guiltless lamb was led into a deep hole.
Up and down, lamb looked; this is life as well.
He sat in the fleapit all day long like a mole
But never thought of a dump but another dwell
Mother sheep baabed to lamb’s deaf ear in hell.
Lamb’s meekness has been exploited to death
And in the deep hole, safe he believes he is
As time comes, he’ll be on knees to look up
For God to unbolt his mind and unclutter his ears
To remember many hearts, he has snubbed.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
animals are such a gift
we can share love and devotion
with their lives as part of ours
Mom said they were God's gifts
and she kept the law
they were to eat first
of course, she was from the farm
where they were morning's chore
before the family returned
to the breakfast table
I keep that law close to my heart
the morning begins the clack of her bowl
brings Abby meowing at my feet
she is anxious to begin her day
while I struggle with wakefulness
and at this age balance is a concern
she will have a choice of meats
later on I will add a treat
I will have coffee and computer time
before I make my meal
then we settle into writing
or listening to some lecture
on some subjects, I wish to study
and she will adorn my lap
we spend the day loving each other
Descartes believed animals' biological machines
sad his mother never taught him
they are precious gifts from God
he missed out on life's great pleasure
the love and devotion that is life
in those paws waiting for me
as morning calls the duty
who must eat first
Oregon 6/23
The farmer sent his son to agricultural school for an education,
To see if he could learn anything about an agrarian vocation.
Professors filled his head with ideas about operating a farm.
Such nonsense caused the old man raging headaches and alarm!
"Son, when it comes to farmin', them perfessors ain't got a clue.
I've been farmin' nigh on fifty years and I'm a-tellin' you,
Yer book-larnin' and them silly ideas is all outta whack;
This here farm is run by the moon and the Farmer's Almanac!"
"Now, when you plant pertaters, one thing is very plain.
You plow and sow 'em when the moon is on the wane.
When it comes to makin' hay, don't never cut it too soon;
Wait til it's a-bloomin' and mow in the full of the moon."
"When butcherin' hogs, you must do it when it's opportune,
And that means you kill 'em at the right time of the moon.
Let the Farmer's Almanac be yer guide when plantin' seeds.
It's also helpful fer prunin' trees and killin' noxious weeds."
"There'll be platoons of county agents a-tellin' me what to do.
Them fellers can talk all they want til their face is blue!
They'll try to change my ways, but I ain't hummin' that old tune.
This here place is run by the Almanac and hangin' of the moon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Bushels of apples are in tubs and bins all over the place
A variety of kinds, yellows, reds, none a disgrace
We cut out the bad spots and turn them into pie
Fresh applesauce smells make the harvest men sigh
Let’s make some cobbler says Gran as she rolls out the dough
She sprinkles it with sugar and love, making it just so.
I ask if I can fork the top and she says “I cannot see why not”.
But after a few piercings she yells out “now, stop!”
Apple cider is made along with apple butter for Gramps.
He brings home some farm workers, some of them look like tramps.
They use polite words and say “thank you” again and again.
Some leave with an extra piece of pie, wearing a great big grin.
The blinking downing sun of August
adorns the very tall stalks of wheat
with his last golden warm sunrays...
as the green kernels bend on stems.
The grasshoppers rest on soft leaves,
awaiting more wafts of cooler breezes;
black ants carry wicks in small droves,
until they reach the fragrant groves.
It's two months before harvest time,
the eyes of the farmer show no dire;
he can't wait for the kernels to ripen,
in mid October he will know his gain.
Delve in his mind, his thankfulness
is gratitude for a year well-earned;
sweat has paid off with huge profits,
the wheat field is a frontier of gold.