And so it goes down through the ages
The bigger and taller devour the littler and smaller
Monkeys, bears, fish, tigers, turtles, ants
All species find their food at hand
Only man has to dig, fertilize, plow and water the land
Why, for Heaven’s sake? Well, that’s just it
Heaven is interested in man’s entreaties
He wants man to grow closer and closer to Him
~ as well as eat His Wheaties
Driving along steel on the road
look in the mirror
salt falls from my load
Moving just as swift as I can
Look at me
I'm the snow plow man
Snow piles high as it moves off my plow
push back corners
the kids scream WOW
working round the clock all through the night
Clearing the roads
With determination an might
Road to road as fast as I can
Look at me
I'm the snow plow man
This little voice keeps telling me to
keep my head down and plow forward.
The further I go, the more debris clogs the road.
It is broken in some places
Gale-force winds are ever-present.
Sheer drop-offs on either side.
The sky spits blue ice most of the time.
The voice also tells me to dress the soul in layers.
But one can only layer up and plow so much.
The heart will overheat
and the soul comes to an abrupt stop...
When the voice becomes too hoarse to comprehend.
Maybe this is when God coddles the reins.
Guiding this swayback toward the light
and toward St. Peter's gate.
Winter sun is yellow gold
Making mud run of melting snow
And Carolina clay is frozen hill
Where kids sled and play at will
Frosted sky with cotton cloud
In the eye of guy driving snow plow
He’s hard at work while we all play
All school kids search for snowy days
I tell myself to look away as I seek to avoid the truth
But even when I close my eyes I find that it’s no use
Seems there’s no escaping from the memories of my past
I see now it was foolish to think those days would last
So here I am I spend my days remembering how to forget
The memory of our glory years and joy of time we spent
How could it be those hours have so quickly slipped away
What kind of fool was I to think they were here to stay
But now I’m told I must move on and learn to pull a plow
Set aside my youthful ways and forget my dreams somehow
A well-water pump cranks out its iron-water
crooked wire remains -- once, sturdy chicken coops
The brackish, muddy area over there, the cowshed
some withered trees dot the hills, bereft now of their fruit
A few young lads herd goats, or perhaps they are living skeletons?
cows with ribs exposed, horses with manes as limp as rags ...
Some day they'll come again, the strong, determined youth
to bale the hay, to turn the rocks over, to plow and seed relentlessly ...
Can't you see the big snow flakes coming down The wind is blowing the snow on frozen ground Sitting at the door are you wanting to go out How loud the word no do you want me to shout
It's piling up real fast making big snow banks Staying in this warm house you should give thanks One paw out that door and you would quickly disappear Wait until the Mr. plows a path to make the way clear
Please stop fussing while I wrap you in this warm sweater And you may not like it but this hat makes it even better Your the one snow cat that wants to go out in this blizzard It sure would make me happy if you would just reconsider
Author Eileen Clark 2022
I look down the hill and see the plague in the valley
Ravaging farmer, field and crop alike
Where the bundles are stored and young children are carried
Every motion they take, they go farther from light
All that can help them is the plow of compassion
It too has a memory, it too can yield
May it help them cross rivers of poisonous passion
May its fair irrigation revive every field
I look in the news for one sign of improvement
A chance that conditions have stabilized
The faithful and hopeful are all-too-human
They seed their land to adapt and survive
All that can help them is the plow of compassion
It too has a memory, it too can yield
May it help them cross rivers of poisonous passion
May its fair irrigation revive every field
I check in on the children before my own nightly struggle
Their faces untarnished by the slightest corruption
What weapons have I to protect them from trouble?
What lessons have I to teach them life’s repercussions?
All that can help them is the plow of compassion
It too has a memory, it too can yield
May it help them cross rivers of poisonous passion
May its fair irrigation revive every field.
A plow horse woman without ribbons or accolades
outworking the glittering high-stepping
show horse parade.
She'll never get promotion; she doesn't play their game,
She just puts in an honest forty- eight
lays another callus on the day.
You'll never see cherries on her knees.
From climbing slippery corporate ladders.
There's no aces up her tattered sleeve.
Her conscience is free from clutter and clatter.
Year after year she mans the boats and rows.
Making "the man"-another pot of gold.
Her sparkling soul is made of blood and sweat.
Not from stabbing flanks or tossing stones.
In the fading season when all crops are in.
She's earned that dapple of golden shade.
The show horses are parading plastic ribbons.
While wiping her blood from their muzzles
without a bit of guilt or a hint of shame.
Don’t wait for that perfect poem
to appear
It lives in the seeds of your
imperfection
Waiting for new furrows of wonder
and strife
To flower in soil you have yet
to plow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
alone he stands behind the plow
in footrace with the lengthened dawn
a shadow figure in the now
pursues the where and when and how
of unseen reins so slowly drawn
alone he stands behind the plow
each furrow’s end a prayerful bow
an homage paid – dark soil turned fawn
a shadow figure in the now
a twisted plowmans daily prowl
his dream - horizon’s distant pawn
alone he stands behind the plow
as rutted field and furrowed brow
leave in the mist the endless song
a shadow figure in the now
in answer to where, when, and how
sweet memories dark furrows spawn
alone he stands behind the plow
a shadow figure in the now
©1/16/2018
Contest: Villanelle Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
The roadside implement left without attendant,
an objective lesson of technology progression.
Long lacking use, should be rot and rust.
Yet is anything but, even years without digging rut.
A hand once guided, a horse once dragged.
Hung up like the harness, and the feed bag.
So roadside it sits, repainted and new.
A plow, a tool of a past we honor, that men would use.
Historic and remembered, now a monument,
to the hard working farmer and time that he spent.
Snow
Cold and white
Like clouds in a sky
Lots of it on the ground
Surrounding me
As I go
For my morning walk
I see an Amish man go by
On his snow plow
Pulled by horses
With a dog following
On the ground
And soon a path
Is being made
So that people
Can get to and from town
In the Amish community
Emily Krauss
Don’t wait for that perfect poem
to appear
It lives in the seeds of your
imperfection
Waiting for new furrows of wonder
and strife
To flower in soil you have yet
to plow
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
I have managed to muddle through life somehow.
It seems I have constantly pulled a plow.
Tilling the soil to plant some seed,
I have had many an obligation and need.
I share the same burdens with my neighbor.
What happened to the fruits of my labor?
They were all harvested, consumed, and spent.
Sometimes I wonder where it all went
.
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