Long Soybeans Poems
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Like Thoreau I sought out Walden’s Pond
For me, it was my grandmother’s field of soybeans
Lost in the bowels of a small gray shed I fancied a cabin
I stumbled on it when I was eight, an explorer, in the summer.
It became mine almost immediately, and I dragged in pillows.
If it had been closer to the house I might have brought a chair,
But it was not in the back forty, it was in the back two hundred.
So I brought a pillow, a notebook, pencils, and my lunch.
You should have taken a clock, Grandma later told me.
Many times, for I was late for supper every single evening.
So caught up in writing about the frogs, bogs, hogs, and other wonders
I found on my grandparent’s farm.
I have six notebooks full of that summer.
When I was nine, my mother signed me up for soccer,
But I never forgot the summer I was eight and how much
like Thoreau I was.
I loved every single second in that gray “cabin”, my personal sanctuary
Where I splayed myself over a pillow and simply wrote my heart out.
Have you seen what the hens and chicks have added? She asked me.
I had no idea, but I was going to be going to the succulent forest for tea.
When I arrived, I was amazed at what I found.
A mommy duck and her two ducklings swimming around.
Where did they come from? I asked the forest, but the wind laughed.
I want some too, I said to them. All I have is a stubborn giraffe!
The wind would not tell me, and the oak trees were numb.
The hens and the chicks pretended to be deaf and dumb.
Come on! I implored them. Please let me know where to find.
My own mommy duck, please have mercy; be kind.
We had her flown in from Iowa, they told me. it’s winter up there.
I asked them for the address, and boy did those hens and chicks stare.
You cannot say where you got it, they warned me with scorn.
Those farmers are tough in the land of the soybeans and corn.
They struck a hard bargain too, but I got rid of the giraffe.
So, in a way I got the very last laugh.
*Henry Ford developed plastic from soybeans for cars. It degrades!
Art As Activism II
Imagine no longer the sounds of seagulls squawking
or splashing through frothy foam in cool ocean waves
receding as your toes grip onto the wet white sand
Embracing the warmth of the yolk yellow sun
as the sea breeze gusts and the tide gently flows
Shores of majestic sandcastles neath burnt orange sunsets
Now imagine this scene as burnt orange polluted skylines
Alas, owing to the bacteria battles in wastewater spiking our oceans
Beach erosion that finally cannot self-correct
Imagine oceans as deserts and deserts soiled oceans
Tropical storms reshaping their landscapes
Sandy seafloors brusquely barren
Imagine telling your grandchildren
that once upon a time we fished in pristine streams
The ocean waters sublime sparkled in turquoise blues
In June the moon shone in bright pink hues
Big blue sky from rich cobalt to azure ignited
That the ebb tide was a fervent seaward flow
and a bird called albatross never digested debris
in his own home by the sea
That almost every piece of plastic ever made
still exists
That we’ve violated our seas with sea litter
via ocean liners dumping into deep waters
That our actions befouled the oceans
That you the inheritors, the next wave of nature protectors
have nothing left to protect
Gone earth’s beauty
Along the shoreline erodes the walk
The cause climate change, the effect risen sea levels
Harsher storms of vengeful severity,
nuclear testing melting sand
into gritty green glass
Clarity
Earth has given plastic turtle shells and rubber trees
Qualities we can mimic*organic and pollutant free
Tallies tell tales of more plastic
than fish in the sea,
Futile! Floating refuse tripling
crippling wildlife
Manmade warming undeniable,
unconscionable and irreversible
Mariner your actions perilous
Plastic found in fish
In us!
Eureka of Archimedes was part of his daydream,
Thomas Edison nurtured his dream in bright light like gleam;
Could sleep ever overwhelm Alexander Graham Bell,
Till he heard the noise from the other and fell in a spell...?
George Washington Carver, who found in peanuts and soybeans,
Utilizations, like treasures, hidden abundant gleans;
Eli Whitney's constant daydreams gave birth to cotton gin,
That separated seeds, hulls and wastes; hearts of all did win...!
Johannes Gutenberg’s innovative printing machine,
Or John Logie Baird's mechanical television sheen;
Benjamin Franklin's lightning rod and the iron furnace,
Or Henry Ford's ventures into automobile sternness...
No invention has found its sphere devoid of day-dreaming,
This should be coalescence of action-vision creaming;
Together with concentration-shift toward internals,
Should bring forth spiritually resonant externals...!
21 November 2022
Don't Quit Your Daydream Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
The Look of a Giant Monster Who Eats Children and Puppies
Gnashing and slashing he crashes into my world
Taking over my soul, or trying to.
His sharp claws are scary to others
I have seen giant monsters before, and I will again.
I have tamed two, I am not bragging. It is merely fact.
His spikes are deeply purple, tinged with red,
He has a look about his eyes that says "Old school".
I can see why most of the neighbors have driven away
Fearful for their children, and their elderly parents
This monster has the look of a giant monster who has eaten
Buckets of children, and washed them down with
A large drink of blended puppies and bunnies.
I look at his bigness, and his close set eyes,
And I wonder. Have I seen any monster similar?
No, but he does bear a close resemblance to the
Ancient Stegosaurus who only ate plants.
I put out two meals. Beef and Pork on one plate.
Plants on the other.
He dives into the plant plate, snorting and flailing.
He cannot get enough of the plants.
I lead him to my husband's soybean field
Where he makes short work of the soybeans.
I will explain to my husband later what happened.
He will not believe me, for I do lie.
But this is the truth as I see it, and if you do not believe
Look at the neighbor's corn field. It is disappearing rapidly.
No rain so far,
nor stormy weather.
It's late July on a
quite afternoon.
A canopy of blue, and bright
Sun light is shining through.
An oasis of white with pockets
of grey and open sky, the kind
of sky through which eagles love to soar. Gentle wind,
though tamed and shallow;
Never does it go unnoticed.
Free of Fires; smoke-free and crystal clear.
Crops of soybeans are having a very good year.
Of course, it's hot, but that's not new, nor does
it alter or hurt the changing views of the clouds.
Earthtones, more than a few; amassed with green.
Smog-free with air that's noticeably clean.
To take this for granted, I wouldn't dare.
There's so much domain in which to stare.
And too much beauty not to share.
072922PS
I am not made for these modern times
Missouri mud runs through my veins
unspoiled country air flows through my lungs.
my roots are intertwined in the bedrock
of culture, traditions and folklore
of a pioneer Midwest
My heart beats with the rhythm
of wind through oak trees
the sway of golden wheat
steady fall of summer rain
on metal porch roofs
My voice is the sound
of pickup trucks on gravel roads
tractors plowing through gumbo
hoot of owls from leaning red barns.
yip of foxes or the howl of coyotes from
across green pastures under full moon’s glow
trumpeting of roosters greeting the day
song of blue jays, cardinals,
red wing blackbirds
caw of crows pecking through early snow
on harvested corn fields
beat of horse hooves
lazy bawling of cows
My nostrils are filled
with the smell of
wildflower meadows,
fresh baled hay
alfalfa, soybeans,
and apple blossoms
I am lightning bugs on summer’s eve
coon hounds asleep on sunlit porches
family picnics on red checkered tablecloths
horseshoes, freeze tag and kick the can
I am unlocked doors and open windows
rocking chairs and back porch swings
I am outdated
Sir Lavalier joined the Crusades as a young blade.
Living the life of a vagabond in many a new glade.
Curling up with more than one pretty maid.
Until he met his match in Miss Everglade.
He wanted to settle down, but this was not to be.
She told everyone “I think he wants to marry me!”
But he was called away, and was gone for three.
By the time he returned, she had two babies, wee.
Sir Lavalier was broken hearted with despair.
He traveled to every altercation and took every dare.
He never forgot the love he had for his lady fair,
But he poured his enthusiasm into all Christian care.
Trying to make all others turn to the faith in which he was born.
He did not care about their ideas or ideals, his faith never torn.
He loved this lass, whose father had raised soybeans and corn.
Forever after his heart would lament and mourn….
Sir Lavalier’s soul was never the same, to tell the truth.
His dreams always returned to the love for his Ruth.
He never fought again with the enthusiasm of his youth.
Tainted and torn, he turned to vermouth.
Late in the day or afternoon
From windows in our living room
We watch deer begin to gather
Leaping over fences in fields
Searching eagerly for their meals
To our front porch they meander
Mothers protective of their fawn
Will hide them in brush all day long
Clear skies or inclement weather
They watch us and nearer venture
On alert for signs of danger
Beginning March to September
Late in the day or afternoon
Unless noise scares them off soon
Some two to twelve whitetailed deer
Nibble tender sprouts of green grass
Or fresh-cut hay and sassafrass
It's common for them to appear
In gardens or fields of soybeans
Or frozen in our headlight beams
Which can cause us panic and fear
If it is in the dead of night
Or maybe right before daylight
Forcing vehicles to steer clear
Running deer are graceful and swift
Depends on how contact is made
Both a delight and a real risk
May 14, 2018
Hutinashro Contest by Connor Lotts - Iambic Tetrameter
2 stanzas 12 lines each 8 syllable lines AABCCBDDBEEB
3rd stanza ABA
Cornbelt residents rise with the sun,
Seeking geometry in soybeans.
Space aliens zoomed through the galaxy,
Just to crease someone’s corn flakes.
Intelligent life from distant stars
Avoids the formal radio waves.
They use advanced crop wrinkles
To converse with good ol’ Mother Earth.
Galactic wayfarers don’t stop at NASA,
They etch their figures in farrow.
A communication from outer space,
Which could be wiped away by a combine.
Two small-town farmers named Dave and Roy,
Armed with flashlights and sheets of plywood,
Chuckling quietly into their beers,
Designing an entirely new universe.
UFO investigators tote their gear,
Science-ing the folded wheat.
Either the universe is trying to talk to us,
Or the bar kicked them out too early.