My brother and I,
while choosing a name for my nephew,
tried hard to think of something unique—
something with variety and charm.
“Tractor” was the first choice,
then came “Tumbler,”
and we fell breathless with laughter,
comparing impossible things—
his eyes to stretching bubblegum.
We joked about how his name
might sound when he grew older.
Laughs and tears rolled down our cheeks.
Let us take a road trip,
now off with bags and zip.
Snow covers the wide road,
no grass here to be mowed.
Cow riding the tractor,
is it a huge actor?
Now late April, and the grassy fields of winter have disappeared
in response to the airplane sprays of very effective weed killers.
The land is moist and brown, seeded for the crops of 2025.
And before long the tender plants will emerge, and the
anticipation of the year's bounty has already begun.
A red tractor sits in the open field, ready and waiting
for its new task. Meanwhile, its clean white rims on its
wheels, as if on display, are so very noticeably beautiful.
Everything truly is beautiful in its own way.
Taking the tractor without permission
He knew it would be trouble
Driving too fast
Luckily he was not hurt
But his dad WILL be pissed
© Poem – XV/VII/MMXXIV
LRET
In the barn turned snack bar,
I scraped the face of my big toe
ascending the stairs. I didn’t care.
Sucrose sweets, summertime treats
belonged between my loosening teeth
Rotting wood, bumblebees
yellow plastic baseball bats
rolling hills flowed in the break of trees
God was shaking the dust out of his welcome mats
At the time He appealed to me, because
sunbeams were his means to call us home,
His warm tender tractor beam
pulling souls wherever they shone
so encapsulating
so intoxicating
so comforting
Please harpoon me my Lord of Light
pull me in, I’m a prize of a catch.
For every day that I stay here, a chipwich
becomes a less appealing snack.
the snow is coming
these chains are a pain indeed
he breaks out grinder
sparks fly all over
waiting for garage to blow
good grief man it's snow
The yard’s a mess and grass has grown.
It’s time for me to mow.
Not hard to figure on one’s own,
Don’t even have to show.
Some don’t agree about my plea.
I’m even given strife.
If you think, who that might be,
That person is my wife.
My tractor is my mistress,
I’m having an affair.
Who’s only living interest,
Is cutting earth’s green hair.
She gets so mad, I have to hide,
And mow when she’s not here.
Alone outside it’s that I ride,
Just me and my John Deere.
Peering out, she watches me,
And peaks between the blinds.
Oh the burning jealousy,
That seeps inside her mind.
I plead with her, said she could try,
And give the thing a spin.
I said I’d even keep an eye,
And damn try not to grin.
And then one day, I went outside,
My mind went oh so nervous.
For it was gone, and then she cried,
She’d hired a lawn service!
The yard’s a mess and grass has grown.
It’s time for me to mow.
Not hard to figure on one’s own,
Don’t even have to show.
Some don’t agree about my plea.
I’m even given strife.
If you think, who that might be,
That person is my wife.
My tractor is my mistress,
I’m having an affair.
Who’s only living interest,
Is cutting earth’s green hair.
She gets so mad, I have to hide,
And mow when she’s not here.
Alone outside it’s that I ride,
Just me and my John Deere.
Peering out, she watches me,
And peaks between the blinds.
Oh the burning jealousy,
That seeps inside her mind.
I plead with her, said she could try,
And give the thing a spin.
I said I’d even keep an eye,
And damn try not to grin.
And then one day, I went outside,
My mind went oh so nervous.
For it was gone, and then she cried,
She’d hired a lawn service!
Living on a farm is never boring
There are cows to milk, bulls, steers, calves to feed
Pigs to slop and chickens to peck the dust
With guineas moving around, exploring
Chasing turkeys through the musical lead
Dance must
Enlightening their lives through adventures
Naught is as soothing a silence, a must
Ensuring life brings contentment, indeed
Knowing we will learn from misadventures
God’s just
The Speaker Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
October 20, 2020
There are people who drive tractors for a living
There are people who ride motorcycles fast
There are times when the two meet
There are times when those meetings are bad
There are times when it's fecking carnage
There are times when the bike rider dies
There are times when he's wrapped round the back wheel
There are times when the bike hits the tractor at 200mph
There are times when both fuel tanks explode
There are times when they miss one another
There are times when the bike drives slowly
There are times when speed limits are respected
There are times when no road laws are broken
There are times when zero accidents take place
There are times when people are sensible
There are times when we all live in fantasy
There are times when we hope this becomes true
F*cking Upside Down In a Blazing Avro Manchester Bomber – Poems from My Life and More
Nick Armbrister
red tractor next door
making your loud engine drones
irritating me
Daddy's shoulders were burned by the sun
as he plowed wheat fields one by one
All his hopes seeded in the soil
His labor fed us with all his toil
Noon would come - he would find a tree
Take his hunchback pail...a moment free
The tractors roar was fierce and strong
He rode it all the daylight long.
He now plows heaven's fields on John Deere
I hear that motor loud and clear
Power to the Plough.
She sits there all used up, a shadow of her past self. The remains of her bodywork, only survive.
Rusting, and decaying into an iron oxide heap. No more use, the old gal is turning into a junk yard art scape.
Mice make homes in her alcoves, spiders spin webs amongst her corroded remains.
The red Fergie has passed her sell by date, a relic from the past.
She had a full and busy life on the farm, powering the plough to turn the earth.
Sowing, planting and rolling the fields.
Reaping the rewards of the harvest, towing trailers of corn, grass, and hay bales in the summer sun. The farmers friend, rugged and dependable, out in all weathers.
After all that she is just a farm vehicle, a tool of the trade. Her days of powering the plough are over now.
Henry, an extraordinary excavator
Would arrive there sooner rather than later.
Using his big cat,
When shown where it was at,
He would dig you an enormous crater.
midsummer sunset
dad's tractor
parked for the night
Published in Bottle Rockets Press #48
Posted on May 31, 2018
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