Farm Poetry
from issue: 32-2
Farm Poetry
What the Farm Is
by Paul Hunter of Seattle, WA
The farm is not its barn or house or shed nor tractor wagon horses oxen mules not hay nor seed
corn not its workshop tools not canning jars nor graveyard for its dead
but land grown used to working down the years its rolling open fields its acreage some left in
pasture woods along each edge where crops leave off where wilderness appears
and all we do in time what’s gathered in is weighed against what’s waiting to be done yet farming
doesn’t waste a mouthful where what molders by the way or in the bin is shoveled under spread
around the one abundance always craving some repair
Farm Wife
by Uncle Will Cleek of McMinnville, OR
for Rosemary JG
She lives in the city now,
but in body only.
Her spirit still sways in time with the seasons.
It knows it’s home.
Once she was one with nature:
tilling, planting, reaping,
nourishing her body, while in partnership
with god who created it all, including herself.
Homesick, every cell longing, but
thankful for husband and sons.
Learned how to be happy wherever sunrise found her,
almost content.
When life was looking the other way, she dreamed of
chickens struttin in her yard.
Red, brown, white, regal with
their heads held high.
“Wouldn’t it be fun for my sons to collect eggs?
We could even name the chickens.
What shall we call them
my little men?”
She sighed, leaned against the Bus Stop sign.
If only…
She felt the warmth of the small hand holder hers,
the one who calls her Mother.
Her sweet smile hid her recurring dream.
“I love you, son”
“I love you too, Mommy.”
Could life on a farm be happier?
I don’t know, if only…
Cows Running
by Todd Davis of Altoona, PA
More than forty Holsteins are running across this early field:
stalks of dame’s rocket scattered along its edges, the small petaled
saucers of its purple and white flowers turned up. At the field’s center
hooves collide in a cacophony of clover and timothy, black and white
chests rolled like barrels, udders swaying with promise. The bulk
of these bodies nearly knock everything in the field from its feet.
Grace seldom moves gracefully, and these bovine joggers are no different,
their dance no more or less comely for having inertia on its side.
Their large, dark eyes are fixed upon the finish line of the pasture’s
southeastern corner, and improbably they are running all at once—
some passing, some lagging behind, all of them labored but all of them
running just the same. Fear plays no part in this race: no coyotes or dogs
pushing from behind. Nor does hunger use its sharp-toothed prod
to urge them forward. After all, this is early May and everything is green.
Tomorrow half the pasture will be closed by an electric fence, hay’s first
cutting filling the air. It’s been a long winter with nothing but stanchions,
the short shuffle to the milking machines, and a length of winter’s gray
tied to the tail of night. If you’ve run, you know this feeling; the way flexion
leads to extension, the way sun streams down your back, across your flanks,
the way it rolls over and away from you, almost lifting your legs for you.
For the Birds
by David Feela of Cortez, CO
When our apricot trees plunge heavy with fruit,
the birds rise rather sluggishly
as they see me coming, settling on the power lines
for my stroll through the yard.
We have an understanding, the feathered masses
and me: they fill their bellies;
I pretend the birds belong to me.
All winter the dry limbs scratch at the sun
like ancient arthritic fingers.
As blossoms appear I fear another late frost.
But the birds are still migrations away,
singing fluted praises to the soft apricot flesh
that catches in their brains,
not even my shadow leaning across their perfect sleep.
As I pass I count their silhouettes
diving from the wire, appetites renewed,
light as the air:
brick-red breasted Robin,
Western Tanager,
Hooded Oriole,
their names sweet as the apricots.
Drifter
by David Feela of Cortez, CO
Charles decided to leave his field
fallow, first time in forty years.
It’s not that he’s found the yield
unrewarding—though his wife fears
they’ll sell another acre or two
to a family who owns a trailer—
but that he’s grown fond of the view
where disked dirt ripples like water,
echoing out to the horizon.
Charles didn’t even buy seeds
but sits contented as the sun
sets behind his tractor tilling weeds
to keep the contours in his mind.
He clicks back and forth like a synapse
in the brain, habitually inclined
to turn things over and perhaps
to ruminate on a different career.
For the first time in forty years
he sees himself as a sailor
but says nothing about the surf he hears.
Retired
by Bob Artley of Winter Haven, FL
He stands at the fence by the barn
gazing out over the same fields
that have been his life for all of his eighty years,
just as they were his father’s
and his grandfather’s before him.
Now someone younger is hurrying back and forth
across that fertile land
in an air-conditioned tractor cab
sealed off from the fragrance and sounds
of the spring-filled air.
The roar of the powerful engine and its fumes
blocking out the good smell of the freshly turned loam
and the sounds of pebbles grating against
the steel disk blades and the birds
warbling their spring songs.
And he thinks back to when he was young
perched on the stamped steel seat
on the sixteen foot disk holding the lines
that drove the four gentle Belgians
plodding in a slower but steady pace across these fields.
Then he sees his wife and children
Walking across the grass headland
coming to bring some refreshment,
a cold drink from the well
and a bit of cake to tide him over ‘til supper time.
They chat a while, he and his wife,
with the youngest tad upon his dusty lap
tugging at the reins pretending to be driving
(the same one now running the tractor in yonder field)
and then they, his family, return the way they had come
His wife has now been gone for many years
to where he too will be joining her before long
and his children, except for his young farmer son,
are scattered over the country
pursuing their varied, fulfilling lives,
So as he now stands there by the barnyard fence
in his faded blue shirt and patched bib overalls
hanging loosely from his tall, slightly stooped spare frame
he turns to resume putting in the garden,
his farm-weathered face furrowed with lines of contentment.
Feeding Time
by Chloe Molner of Blanch, NC
I’m going out to feed the horses hay;
Never mind it’s several hours past day.
The friendly night is friendlier still, because
Four horses in it nicker soft, and pause
Behind the wooden bars, and wait for me.
A bale of meadow grass I scatter round,
Then draw another close and sit me down.
A jeweled star I see is sudden-gone;
And in its place a silhouette is drawn;
A noble head is lowered close to me.
The whiskered breath has brushed aside my hair;
A velvet nose caresses cheek; and there
For one brief spell it lingers – leaves behind
A wonder at this moment: Trust defined
In understanding ‘tween my horse and me.
I’m finished now. I’ve fed the horses hay.
And now it’s more than several hours past day.
The friendly night was friendlier still, because
Four horses in it nicker soft and pause
Behind the wooden bars to wait for me.
