Long Farm(a) Poems
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In the morning light, a milk bottle stands,
A relic of bygone days, in my trembling hands.
Embossed with nostalgia, a link to the past,
From the dairy farm, where memories last.
As a little girl, I'd wait with glee,
For the sound of the milkman, with bottles three.
Clad in white, with a smile so kind,
Bringing fresh milk, a treasure to find.
The clink of glass, the cool touch of the jar,
Filled with creamy goodness, from cows afar.
A cap of foil, a symbol of care,
Delivered with love, from the dairy farm fair.
Each morning ritual, a simple delight,
The taste of fresh milk, a pure delight.
In that old bottle, a story untold,
Of days gone by, of memories bold.
Now the milkman is gone, the farm a memory,
Yet in that bottle, lives a legacy.
Of childhood moments, of innocence so sweet,
In the simple act of milk delivery, a connection complete.
I was on summer vacation
San Francisco was the destination
The warm breeze, spring in the air
All looked bright and fair
The crooked street
I so wanted to meet
And drive thru the China bazaar
Looking at exotic filled jars
The cable car was an instant hit
It was hard to get in and fit
The heather farm a heavenly abode
Where flowers grew all along the road
Napa valley took my heart
From the wines I didn’t want to part
But it was the awesome Golden Gate Bridge
And its green overlooking ridge
That was the star of the tour
Left me asking for more
A vacation forever in my mind
For the tender memories left behind
(Probably more a short story than free verse
In any case it’s true,
seen through my eyes as a child)
He was a heavy smoker sat by the fire
Coughing and wheezing hacking up phlegm
spitting it into the blazing hearth,
that hissed back contemptuously upon contact
On a rare occasion when he’d miss,
the dog would lick up the gooey mass
with a determined exuberance
A filthy habit I heard some say behind his back,
but he was always happy,
didn’t care less what others thought of him,
a real character,
anyway my whole family and I liked him
He was our uncle from rural Ireland,
we visited him and his wife
on their small farm a couple of times each year,
probably more so, when my Dad had a car that worked,
My sister and I used to make grossed out faces
at each other when he expectorated into the open
hearth of the fire,
we thought it was pretty cool, and grotesquely funny
One spit in particular is legendary,
he spat out a stringy length of gunk
but needed his fingers to help pull it away from his mouth
and direct it towards the fire,
some actually made the distance,
amazingly the dog raised his head
and caught the rest of it, happily wolfing it down,
I mean come on!
we were still in tears laughing, on the way home in the car
On later visits it seemed bits of his face
were disappearing or bandaged,
still he never complained,
his voice was almost gone anyway,
and most unusually he wasn’t smoking
I was only a kid and in those days
you weren’t supposed to ask questions,
but it didn’t stop me asking my dad,
what was happening to uncle?
He told me uncle had cancer of the mouth,
and part of his tongue and lips had to be cut away,
warning me never to smoke,
even though he had one lighting in his hand
Innocent me thought uncle’s face would grow back
and he’d be ok,
but unfortunately he died pretty soon afterwards,
Damn I used to be spellbound
watching him trying to catch his breath
and hoofing viscous gunk upon the fire,
even more so when he missed
I tried to copy him on a visit to my aunt
just after he passed away,
of course I missed the fire on purpose,
The dog never budged
My sister shook her head
I was truly ashamed!
By
David Kavanagh
Him:
I came with trembling hands, afraid to speak,
A life of battles, losses deep.
I’ve lost my friends, my wealth, my name,
Yet still I rise through ash and flame.
Me:
I see the storms you’ve walked alone,
A heavy heart, a breaking tone.
But stranger, trust — you’re not unseen,
There’s purpose carved in what has been.
Him:
I’ve been betrayed by those I loved,
Robbed at gunpoint, stripped of trust.
Two cars, two dreams, a farm, a house,
Depression’s grip, a silent spouse.
Me:
You’ve walked through fire, yet you stand,
With faith still burning in your hand.
Romans four, hope against hope —
That’s not the end, but strength to cope.
Him:
Sometimes I fear to reach, to speak,
To strangers’ inboxes, shy and meek.
But something drew me to your light,
A world of courage in my night.
Me:
And I am honored you came to me,
Your story’s pain, your honesty.
This path you walk may feel so steep,
But seeds you plant, your soul will reap.
Him:
I choose no bitterness, though I bleed,
I cut off harm but still sow seeds.
My heart’s been broken, yet I still love,
A fool? No — a child of God above.
Me:
You’re not a fool, you’re forged, refined,
Your scars are maps, your faith a sign.
Keep walking, stranger, you’re not lost,
God builds new homes from what was cost.
Him:
I feared to die but choose to live,
My breath’s a chance, my gift to give.
Though walking lonely feels like stone,
A shoulder, a word — I’m not alone.
Me:
And here you are, your truth laid bare,
A stranger’s trust, a holy prayer.
You’re on the right path — don’t be afraid,
Your light will shine from what you’ve prayed.
Shotgun shells, fireworks, an empty casing,
Burnt gunpowder sensed with imagined smell,
Bring a smile as the mind begins onward racing,
Of times past and grand stories to retell,
Hunts to remember; 4th of Julys raising hell.
Even the repugnant is remembered with glee,
Fresh swine manure upon beds of loose straw,
Time on the farm, a boy’s life lived carefree,
Fishing, hunting, and building with grandpa,
Learning gun safety and how to hammer and saw.
A favorite to this day is corn cut fresh,
Dust in the air with stalked rows piled,
Behind the red tractor and an 8 row thresh.
Memories overflow of that innocent child
Of the fun that was had, a boy in the wild.
in a pensive mood strolling down the road,
rustling leaves keep a count of my steps,
a curious finch eyes me close,
an unwelcome intruder pacing past her abode,
I return the glance with a knowing smile,
slowly step away to cause her no further concerns,
such is the equation of our lives,
good old doctrine of live and let live.
life is a complex play of light and shadows,
a woven network of happiness and sorrows,
like shades of intricate patterns on the ground,
that the trees filtered rays have thrown!
my stroll takes me past a farm, a river,
but the trees keep their company all the way,
as if to remind me of the days we strolled,
along the same path, in years gone by.
in those patterns I see your face,
perhaps your eyes looking at me,
through that black satin veil that you wore,
to shield your fair skin from the summer Sun!
your fingers holding your long gown,
and the other leaning on me for love.
there is peace in these woods,
where memories live,
where nature strives to revive past days,
each step through shadows and light,
are like each step through life I took,
some steps were wrong and some were right.
these woven arboreal patterns, that I walk,
I shall walk over and over again!
in each of these daily strolls,
I walk through days of joy and pain!
Written 12/11/2023
Free verse
Komorebi poetry contest.
Craig Cornish sponsored
A soft bed, a good book, a big brother
Listening to stories that sweeten dreams
Expressively read to us by Mother
A fishing pole, bobber, and muddy streams
Catching grasshoppers and earthworms for bait
Walking with Father by lantern light beams
A cousin, a friend, a fun playtime date
Catching horny toads for spending money
Buying balloons – a few coppers bought eight
A peanut farm, a beehive, sweet honey
Eggs fresh from the nest, chicken off the block
Life much simpler then, it all seems sunny
Today I slow down, reminisce, take stock
How sweet my childhood, how fast-paced the clock
First light of dawn
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five, milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
Respect the life
Respect the life, oh my life! Respect my life! Oh my platonic exlove!
You know, how I loved you. I became decadent and lost. You saw all
You don’t know, how I loved you. Satan is crying, lifted me off the ground
My life is demonic, I am a hell rider on Earth, without a life, alone in life
My love, you dropped my love, you trapped my love, but my heart beating
No owner of my heart, but he is not yours, you had enough time. Loved you
Please, respect a life. A life, that loved you. Please, don't put more poison…
… into my life of way…, … and way of life…
Emma, please. I ask you kindly and nicely. Please, please. Still loving you
Let me step out from your memory; my life wants to live his life. He loved you
Beautiful linguist, I needed to work for you. More than two years passed by you
My memory still feels you, he is a very big heavy burden, and he still lives in me
Everything is your mistake, your psychologists drove you. The result is yours. Eat it.
I needed just a normal life. A simple, but great life. A farm, a house, a family, children, and a wife.
Yes. This was my life object. Lifegoal. But nothing is realized in my life because you killed my life.
You and your psychologists' friends destroyed my life. Hmm. But I am still alive. Youth is my life.
Someone is coming
Goodbye
Almond Tree and Prisoners
As a child, I lived near a farm, a farm that was
next door to a prison camp. Russian prisoners
marched up and down trying to keep warm
It was January with much frost, the year 1945
I thought of this today on my walk past my
An almond tree that is situated so well that it catches
most of the westerly sun, yet hidden behind
a Holm oak protected by Nordic wind blasts.
My tree is already flowering, and it has pink petals
shivers a bit dressed in a delicate nightdress.
The Russians had to wait longer for their spring
When it came, it was a false one; they were sent
home and put in prison camps for surrendering
to the enemy. For some, winter is endless.