Long Tractor Poems
Long Tractor Poems. Below are the most popular long Tractor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tractor poems by poem length and keyword.
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
When I was a lad in the 50s, there lived a man named Mr. Mac. He resided in a farming community in Northern Mississippi. Two of his sons are the source of a story living in my heart. It's a story of two brothers who may never grace the pages of a book. However, their memory is in my heart, and lest they are forgotten, I must tell you of them.
They would best be remembered for their ability to drive tractors and handle farm machinery. As in history, so presently, the grand old market economy remains in motion. With few exceptions, whatever the market will bear is what will be paid. Also, back then, labor laws never applied to the people I knew. Billy and Bubba were very productive and knowledgable in their field of endeavor, but simply farmworkers.
But they were more than simply field hands and tractor drivers; more than merely brothers who worked hard and drank liquor. I'm certain some remember the truth of their lifestyles. But there was so much more to Billy and Bubba than cultivating fields and drinking liquor for cheap thrills; more than cotton planters in spring and harvesters in the fall. If one simply saw them sitting on combines or drinking wine and whiskey to wash away their pains, then they never really saw them giving themselves so graciously to others.
The demons attempted to destroy, wreck, and ruin their lives, but they were blessed with a praying mother whose prayers never fell on deaf ears. In their valleys of drunkenness, when overwhelmed by their enemy, their troubled souls found no other source to cast away their pain and ease their sorrows. Even so, the light of goodness managed to shine through. The devil's darkness never cast a shadow over their mother's prayers.
Somewhere between their home and the cotton fields; between dirt roads and cornfields; between tractors and liquor stores; between birth and burial; Billy and Bubba were gentlemen with caring hearts and kind spirits. They were men who smiled without force and greeted with respect. Tall and handsome men, mild, gentle, and harmless. If or when the history books of the 'B' brothers are opened, let it be said that there were two good brothers named Billy and Bubba.11012007PoSpCtest, Strand Select L, Brian Strand. 3P
Posted072817
The Florida of My Youth
By Franklin Price
10/12/2019
The Florida of long ago
The one when I was born
Was the one that I remember
And the one for which I mourn
Was a simple life back then
Merritt Island was my home
My youth was spent exploring
Through the orange groves I would roam
My dad worked for the Navy
Soon to be an Air Force Base
My mother was a housewife
Was long before we went to space
My father had converted
A tractor barn into a house
It was the place in which we lived
Sometimes shared it with a mouse
That did not come from Disney
If that's maybe what you thought
There was no magic kingdom
No “E” tickets could be bought
The milkman brought the bottles
With the cream trapped at the top
Had to shake it first to use it
Then remove the cardboard stop
The rooster crowed to wake us up
There were layers in the coop
The eggs were there collected
While avoiding chicken poop
Beside the coop a wash house
Where our clothes were washed and rung
In the yard were lines to dry them
They were pinned and not just flung
The ocean breezes dried them
To provde a smell good sheet
The fresh air not polluted
My childhood days could not be beat
There was no trash collection
No large mountains of discard
We dug some holes to bury waste
That we covered in our yard
Once we dug a large hole
Which we turned into a fort
Made the roof out of a car top
Was a fun place to report
When we were finished with it
It became our newest dump
Did I forget to mention,
Our water came from well and pump
Our waste went to a septic tank
Waste field to cleanse and drain
My sisters preferred to wash their hair
With water captured from the rain
Only one school was available
Had a place for every grade
We rode the bus to get there
To go, I never was afraid
I was the youngest of the children
Four sisters and three guys
Got on the bus together
Even school had family ties
To get there left the Island
Had to cross a wooden bridge
One more thing that I should tell you
We had no ice box, had a fridge
I could go on forever
About my early childhood time
When discipline was rendered
And there was very little crime
You can tell I am digressing
As the past flows through my brain
Maybe next time I will tell you
Of my travels on the train
A gentle rainfall, of emotions,
whispered by the sea.
The stage aligned as her gaze meets mine,
a golden treasure to me.
A cave of solitude,
she will find me, for a spell
she will bind to me,
nestle to-of warm by and by a sea shore in a shell.
She is my nemesis, of a God scourned, my eternal punishment burn.
So on and on, we chase, of my yearn- her
strange land to taste,
my wasteland, ruin,
gemscaped, sojourned continuum.
By lapping tractor beams, dressed in the private
night of exclusivity, gown of huntress
to preying emnity key of the unknown,
scale of medusa, justice,
raptors of Valkyri, dawning crown,
of day, rays
of proximity to speak in unimpede, as she may,
mongrel fish as she please.
I am for her, and she freely shines for me.
She is a revelation- as shadows play-peek aboo
behind the scenes, Lyred puppetry
spread upon the wall,
looking back in grin and thrall,
she does not recede, in fact not at all.
Time, she bends, over and overture,
draping like a bowed music, seed of heaven,
caricature of my completeness,
seven times seven.
In the theater of twilight, where whispers entwine,
a tapestry of emotion, your heart meets mine.
As gentle rains murmur their secrets to seas,
in our silent impediment,
dance on the edge of eternity’s ease, of we.
Your gaze, a constellation, draws me in tight,
while lapping waves beckon, a soft, secret, contrite.
Dressed in the velvet of night’s soft embrace,
the dawn conspires your beauty, in a luminous grace.
For in this moment, I am wholly for you,
the sun it is in your laughter, the stars in your view.
You are a revelation, a canvas where I am rushed anew,
with shadows that frolic, and dreams brushed through.
Lyred puppetry sways, casting stories so grand,
and the walls of our hearts weave a world,
grand halls, a throne at hand in hand.
Time, a silken thread, weaves its opulent spell,
as the music of longing in mind like a siren's wail.
Here in this dreamscape, surrender your fears,
in the soft glow of day, intrigues the old seers.
As the cloak of the inevitable draws me close,
and the moment does ring,
does yoke,
know forever, my dear, you are my everything,
with rhyme, but not a slight, jest or joke.
The cold wind of the Antarctic
Cut any warmth from the sun
We have come to measure the world warming
That has been melting the ice away
A satellite had mapped the whole of the continent
And had found something strange in the Trans-Antarctic Mountains
So an expedition was put together from the Mawson Station
I volunteered to be part of the expedition crew
We had flown to the mountains by a Hercules transport plane
And loaded our snow tractors high with provisions
So we set off in our two snow tractors
As the morning sky was lit by a low lying sun
As we neared the Trans-antarctic Mountain
We could see the snow was melting away from everything
Curiously there were stone structures revealing themselves
These were odd shaped buildings not modern in nature
So we drew lots to see who would go
To explore the stone structures we found
And I drew one of the winners
So I prepared wondering what was in store
We drove to one of the stone buildings
And approached what looked like an entrance
We walked through into what looked like a laboratory perfectly preserved
There were alien looking contraptions everywhere
We decided not to touch anything until we could have it studied
I noted that there appeared to be some things missing
We videotaped all we could see in the room
And left it all as we as had found it
On the way out I noticed some footprints in the snow
These footprints led to snow tractor tracks
We quickly radioed base and a drone to seek out the other snow tractor was sent up
We quickly returned to our base
The drone found the snow tractor after following the tracks
As the camera focused in on the the cabin
We saw that the crew was Chinese and they were armed
And they were heading for an Xi'an Y-20 aeroplane parked in the snow
They stopped at the plane and they stepped out
Then taking a heavy box out of the tractor
The box was quickly loaded on the plane and the tractor as well
In no time the plane took off and flew away
We reported this incident to Canberra
It was about six months after what was the Antarctic Incident
When reports started to come out of Wuhan in China
Of a new disease that started to spread and kill
I wondered what they had found in the Trans-antarctic Mountain Range.
© Paul Warren Poetry
You think you're Godzilla
but you're just a Gorilla,
that's what happens when you've got gonorrhea,
my skin colours vanilla
my skills are killa and real
you're run of the mill, a fail
can't you tell you didn't do well,
that Kartel manure smell
of Kountry music don't sell,
a wannabe that wants to be on X Factor
in a field riding a wrecked tractor,
tracks that no mind will capture,
you're no rapper, a can't act actor and no rhyme writer
with poor rhyming from your core
the fact is you naturally bore,
getting done by amateurs
that means s**t for sure and below my stature,
take a step back and see the big picture,
there's no record label coming for your signature,
you should turn around and head for the door
and not turn this battle rap into a war,
snore, pass out snore music,
20 years and there's still no use for it,
your rhymes are insignificant
your average skill's no different
stop thinking you're magnificent
and realise you're just a hunt.
Yet you think you're good,
umm missing a nail or screw
let's face facts your music is poo,
can you not make a beat with flow?
Your music makes me sit in a seat depressed and low
through ignorance your skill's seen no grow,
so excuse my rant but your music is pants,
professional status, you've got no clucking chance.
You're so unlikely to upstage my quickly written
lickety split thermonuclear lit quick wit
with whatever you pick
to pull out your bag of tricks
because I'll make it unstick
quicker than thumbs can click through your music,
making videos in which you go on the phone,
cliche prone, stereotype replica
look at ya forever inferior,
making out you've golden interior,
but Postman Pat out delivers letters
and is better with more under the hat
you've empty space where your brain sat,
writing rubbish, getting fat,
one year in I'm getting published
you skank like a grandad with one wish
you long to be served a contract,
take note of the situation
you've been rhyming for a generation,
and you'll never be a sensation,
just a symbol of humiliation,
........ cus Rosko thinks he's the dogs bollocks,
while the rest of us just think he's bollocks.
That's all bossco, that's all I have to country cartel you.
Over and out, they call me Sue.
Oh, yes, angels are real ...
Late fall of 1974, just after Halloween -
I was driving home from prep school one Friday afternoon,
After a long week of intense studies and soccer ...
On Interstate 295 between Yarmouth and Falmouth.
I had just pulled into the left lane to pass a tractor-trailer truck,
And ... BAM!!
A loud bang like a shot gun!
The car was immediately uncontrollable,
So I knew at once I'd blown the left front tire ...
I slammed on the brakes and pulled into the median strip,
Far enough so it wouldn't bother traffic,
But with enough shoulder that I could still change the tire,
(Which I had done more than once before).
Only as soon as I opened the trunk and checked,
I discovered, to my chagrin, that the "spare" tire was flat also!
I knew then I was in for a long, tiring afternoon,
So I put out two markers, left the trunk open so folks would know,
Turned on the emergency flashers, locked it up,
And started my long walk back to town, (about three miles).
Oh, people still hitch-hiked a lot in those days,
But I'd been raised to believe it was dangerous,
So I kept my thumbs tucked into my straight-leg corduroys.
All-in-all it took almost three hours to walk back,
Call home for a ride, wait for my mom to come after me,
And get back to where the car was on the highway ...
But when we finally DID get to the car, there was a surprise ...
Waiting to greet me was a brand new tire, already installed on the car,
Another new tire in the trunk where the spare had been,
And when I went to get into the car and head home,
A fifty-dollar-bill had been stuffed up into the door handle!!
With only a Christian fish symbol written on it!
I ran an ad in the local paper the following week,
Then they did a small story on it,
But I NEVER found out who had blessed me that day.
Yet, I never forgot it, either, and to this day ...
I always pay for the two-or-three cars behind me,
Whenever I go through the toll booth on the highway ...
And when I DO, I think of that angel ...
And I say a prayer for them ...
For I know they got as much of a blessing from it as I did ...
Well ... maybe not QUITE as much! ;-)
Now that time is getting shorter for the arrival of my new home it has put quite a
stress on Shirlee and Fred. They have had to do rearranging out at their place in order to
accommodate my permanent cabin, besides working their full time jobs.
Friday Shirlee was off and there were some fittings on the skelgas tank that had
to be replaced before it could be put to use. (Now my days on the Nebraska and South
Dakota plains I seem to remember our source of heat was called skelgas even though it was
actually propane. Well that was a day ago I think) We also had errands pertaining to the
mobile home so I went out and picked her up and we went from there. Actually she has just
started working 4 days a week, ten hours a hours a day with Friday's off so we usually have
this day together anyway.
I started the day with a light breakfast (so we could eat in town) and loaded the
things I needed to take along and pulled out of the driveway. As I reached the end of our
street and was gazing into the sun waiting for the cross traffic to pass I was startled by a
sight in the distance. Probably a quarter mile ahead of me was a lake and as a large truck
passed by on the interstate I was shocked to see... The Loch Ness Monster slowly working his
way horizontal with the lake shore. Totally stunned I was then confused as to which road I
should take out to Shirlee's. Finally I decided I would take the interstate. As I passed under
the interstate to reach my turn off I breathed a sigh of relief as the monster turned out to be
a tractor with double appendages raised in the air and a cab with a rounded top. I started
laughing so hard I almost missed the turn off and had barely gained control as I reached the
house. After greeting the dogs I proceeded to do a little chore as Shirlee went outside to do
some of her chores. When she returned I was all but rolling on the floor reliving the earlier
scene. I had shared it with the dog while she was out. After urging I finally told her of the
incident. Eye brows raised she said, " I wondered for a minute as I didn't realize they were
land animals too." With that we departed for town.
What makes a child feel closer to one parent rather than to the other?
Although love bound me to the heart of my mother,
it was to my Father's side that I chose to cling.
He was always the first up in the morning, even before the sun.
He knew as a farmer, his work in the fields was never done.
I remember my first day of school. He was the bus driver.
Timid little me, I looked out the window and there he was,
peering back at me. I ran from the room and into his arms.
After a hug he looked me in the eye and said. "Don't cry."
I thought I was home free,
but my Dad took me by the hand and walked me back to my desk.
My Dad, he always knew how to handle me.
I wanted no part of housework.
To the fields I followed him after school.
It was our time to talk about our dreams, problems, whatever was on our minds.
He never stopped, not even after open heart surgery...twice.
It slowed him down, but never made him quit.
I watched the strength in him fade away,
day after day he lost the battle of ill health.
His kidneys were shutting down and he finally lost his will to live.
The last time he opened his eyes I kissed him goodbye and he could only smile.
That night he went into a coma and I prayed to God that He let him die.
I've never felt guilty about those prayers.
I'd already lost my Father to sleep.
I have no bad memories of my Dad.
He was never the one to dole out a spanking.
He was my buddy; my hero in every sense of the over used word.
We hunted together~ he taught me to drive a tractor ~ I could go on.
He loved me as much as I still love him.
I was blessed to have such a wonderful father, and grandfather to my children.
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December 31st, 2015 Tell About your Dad Contest: Sponsor: Judy Konos
On the anvil that’s the dorp
The noon-day sun beats down.
So between twelve and two
Life in the place is suspended.
Doors to the stores are ‘toe’
And in their dusty windows cheap
Mannequins sleep with open eyes.
The air is still and heavy.
So in the sparse foliage
Of small pepper trees
Feathered creatures perch,
With beaks agape,
And wings spread wide,
Trying to beat the heat.
At the door to the bar
Of the ‘Royal’ Hotel,
In a sliver of shade,
A mastiff lies panting.
Inside the trade is slow.
Manne on barstools
Nurse brandy-and-coke.
House windows are closed.
In the darkened interiors,
Hidden from sight by
Slatted wooden shutters,
People flop on chairs,
Avoid all movement, in
Attempts to beat the heat.
At two a slight sputter of life.
It is ‘government’ employees
Returning to work.
The magistrate and two clerks
Dawdle back to the court.
The post-master and staff
Re-enter the GPO.
It’s still quiet at the ‘Royal’ Hotel.
With no shoppers the doors
Of the stores remain closed.
Under the shade of pepper trees,
Outside the shuttered Co-op,
And alongside the ‘Prokureur’s,
A bakkie and tractor are parked.
The ‘garage’ is deserted
Save for its two Caltex pumps.
From all sun-baked surfaces.
Hot, dry, and dusty air rises.
So every now and then
The wind-pump in my yard
Creaks as it turns a little.
In school classrooms
Pupils slump on desks.
Teachers no longer teach;
“Lees jul voorgeskrewe boek.”
Two-thirty! At last!
The school-day’s over
And also the worst of the heat.
Now en masse
Pupils scurry out,
Head for home, then
After something to eat
It’s back for athletics
On a grass-free track, or
Tennis on concrete courts.
Eventually the glowering sun
Sends streaks of colour
Across the western sky
As it slowly dips out of sight.
Then when twilight is over
The moon is bright and bathes
The town in silvery hues.
By nine o’clock
It’s cool and still
Save for the flutter of moths
Around the outside lights.
And I lie on a bed
Outside on the stoep
With my dog at my feet.