in the little farmers' war.
Don Bouchard
Don Bouchard
Jun 21, 2014

Art Bouchard,
My father,
Never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot...
Recounted fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Art Pribnow,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(Dad was very sure he won).

My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Worn diesel pistons
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps,
Sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.

Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of meadowlarks and robins.

Fifty years later,
Dad laughed in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Started up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out first?'"

Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier
To be the first to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I never heard.

These battling neighbors
Even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore
As early became earlier
in the little farmers' war.

One day in town,
By happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But old Art Pribnow shook his head,
Grabbed my dad's hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness
Before one of us is dead!
I don't know about the hours you keep,
Or what got in our heads,
But I admit, I need my sleep!"

The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a little while,
As, "The Early, Earlier War."

I remember with a smiling sadness this story told by my father, now gone two years, about a little "friendly war" he and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, engaged in during spring planting time. The year would have been around 1959 or 1960, when I was just a baby. The story still makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it.
#friends   #war   #farmers   #tractors  
These farmers go by 'teachers'
Kirsten Lovely
Kirsten Lovely
Dec 31, 2013      Dec 31, 2013

There's this special seed inside of us
That glitters, shines, and grows
Planted by an equally special person
One that everybody knows.
The one that woke up early this morning
And downed their coffee for the day
While you dig out your favorite shirt
And they keep their nerves at bay.
The person that decorates for new children
Hangs up posters and note cards
Tacks up the yearly alphabet trim
And clears the weeds from the school yard.
Stands and greets equally nervous kids
Hands them name tags and a book
And hopes that their anxiety melts away
To be excited like they should.
The history and math books open
Pages are assigned
They're there to help you through it
To make problems easier to find.
To journey across another dimension
Of equations and butterflies alike
That prepares you for ACTs ahead
And tests that you'll probably dislike.
Well, that's all fine and dandy
All these books and passing grades
But what's more important is the seed inside
That's planted in your brain.
The seed that fuels your drive to learn
Creates a light to help you grow
Makes you crave another book
Acquire everything there is to know.
And I know a certain farmer
That specializes in these seeds
Who wants to make you reach the top
So you'll realize everything you can be.
These farmers go by 'teachers'
The most amazing you can find
Because of them, I try to be my best
So I thank my teachers for their time.

May 3, 2014

"Grow up tall,
little kid,"
said grandpa Joe.
And so I did.

The watermelon grow tall too.
The sunflowers look to the sky,
keeping their chins up,
raised real high.

So maybe it's silly,
watching grass grow,
but if you never try,
how could you ever know?

So maybe it's crazy,
chanting for the rain,
but if it never comes,
how could I grow the grain?

I'd prefer to stare at clouds,
than sleep forever like a rock,
skidding by life.
Why, that would just suck!

So, if you ask me to leave this here place,
you better shove it,
before you wake up
in an unknown space,
tied up with lace,
with a disfigured face,
completely full of mace,
and a strange case
of something poisonous.

#life   #sleep   #leave   #why   #unknown   #up   #in   #rain   #of   #space   #real   #if   #i   #the   #strange   #crazy   #clouds   #and   #sky   #this   #too   #could   #you   #me   #a   #completely   #it   #maybe   #its   #for   #to   #but   #never   #than   #ask   #sunflowers   #like   #here   #forever   #face   #grass   #grandpa   #try   #know   #high   #so   #just   #tall   #something   #by   #did   #that   #at   #grow   #suck   #ever   #an   #would   #how   #silly   #kid   #better   #with   #place   #look   #stare   #wake   #full   #rock   #little   #comes   #grain   #watching   #case   #said   #their   #poisonous   #id   #granddaughter   #raised   #tied   #lace   #before   #disfigured   #joe   #chanting   #farmers   #watermelon   #keeping   #chins   #prefer   #skidding   #shove   #mace  
The world farmers day
Amul Malik
Amul Malik
Sep 3, 2014

The world farmers day
We are celebrating valentine and friendship day
It is the time to celebrate world  farmers day
farmer o farmer you are the great worrier
  you feed the world
  you make the world better and you are the great !
Today it’s the time to honor our farmers
It the time to say jai jawan jai kissan
It’s the time give honor to our farmer
Who work for us to get better food .
Today nobody wants to be farmer
Because farmer job people fills cheep
But we have to under stand
Without farmer we cannot live ,
Farmer o farmer you make the world better
You work under the open sky
Today is the time for celebrate world farmers day .

Jai Jawan Jai Kissan mense joy for The Army and the farmers .
This land is for the farmers of smoke;
Rucha Patil
Apr 9, 2013

The wall departed and I saw fog,
A pale touch and it turned into smoke;
The fairy tales wither away,
Found the lost fantasy world at bay;
The nomadic world will never flock,
This land is for the farmers of smoke;

Cultivation of tripy fields,
We wait for the harvest,
Every seed of our fate,
Deep down stored in the locked closet;

The field’s on fire every day, every night,
The inner self at its peak,
With the gods of water we fight;

The fields turn into ashes,
And we rise for a new yield,
Like a phoenix, from the ashes of weed.

No, not a word…
a little red ant.
The blatherskite’s fluent
The charming Prant;
Fervor not here
… for the old discarded fruit.
Produce ;
Leftovers are yours
To nibble on…

Theresa M Rose
Theresa M Rose
Jun 9, 2014


No, not a word…
a little red ant.


The blatherskite’s fluent
The charming Prant;


Fervor not here
… for the old discarded fruit.

Produce ;

Leftovers are yours
To nibble on

I know her intimately and not at all,
Her fragrance infiltrates, chases me,
A whiff off the tips of my fingers,
The smell of her is hunger,
It makes me wont to wolf and devour,
Her flush on the flat of my tongue,
Her angel whisper,
Our quiet choir a pleasure,
A harmony,
A crescendo until we seed and mute.
Between us,
Our damp swap,
A no man’s land,
A moist design,
The map of lust.
The art of love is always,
In its stains.

#dog   #daughters   #farmers   #toads  
To comment on this poem, please log in or create a free account
Log in or register to comment