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David Hutton Dec 2018
It has been there for days, wasting away.
Bugs are summoned by the smell of decay.
Furry growth in a moist state,
Flies regurgitate.
Buzz, buzz, buzz all over the Charolais.
Sherry Asbury Nov 2018
Living in a big city is not who I am
but life doesn't always give us what we want
I remember Grandma's Montana farm
and I go there in my mind when things are rough
Grandma was a little thing, not five feet tall,
but she had the courage of a lion all her years
We went there to live when I was five years old
I was dying from the coastal air and was very frail
My brother was a baby and the apple of my eye
We rode there in a chartreuse Ford, bundled
into blankets...there were no seatbelts back then
The wonder of all that 100 acres to roam and play
Chickens so sweet clucked round my little feet
The geese, Candy and Dandy, were terrorists,
hiding behind the root cellar and darting out
to chase me to the outhouse beyond the shed
Rosie the runaway horse chased cars
Grandpa made flapjacks and those not eaten
were put on the cupboard and I ate them cold...
Maybe heaven will be my Grandma's farm...
Maybe it will be heaven
High on'a farm,
make a needle biscuits
water-up sits creek
jostle potatoes,
pan-*** boiling
-with carrot cake.

Purple sky,
tractor runnin'
time of day,
sun low.

E'er body say,

"Why dou'a on'a farm?"

entered-dat du da future;
not Ford'ed fields.
Face it dou'a future,

"Dat future know it's place."

Sweet devils singin' to me,
sweetened tongue a' beautiful place. . .

"E'erthing set in place, ***** wit I say,

-dinner on-ma tray."

James Study Oct 2018
It was it's own little world in it's day
But in this time forty acres not much
Old house and out buildings hauled away
Just something to plow around treated as such
What once was here the plow can't touch
  
A tear in the dirt a cry in the wind
As the big field machines move now
Dust sting my face when the plow begin
As if to say you should not allow
More than dirt went under the plow
duncan Oct 2018
i ask how the boyfriend is
and you say he
leaves flowers around the house
because he knows you
like them.

but i already know
about the screaming matches
and the nights spent
locked in the bathroom.
drunk and afraid
alone but together.

i dont know what it is
about people. we let the trail
control the journey.
one bad apple and we
bleach the ******* farm.

so when i ask about
the boyfriend and you tell me
about the flowers i know
exactly what you mean.
i know exactly what
youre scared of.
Willow Sep 2018
A Once stranger told me
The story of how she got here
The moment she realized she knew
This is where she was meant to be.

A meaningful memory passed on from us
One she had known all her life.
While wandering in the woods one day
A regular routine
Became an amazing awakening.

She stood in a new weathered barnyard
Fulfilled with effortless emotion
The air became the adhesive
Between the energy and her soul.

Two feet on the dirt
Two hands lifted to the trees
Two eyes opened wider than ever
One heart
Ready to heal.
SRO
kevin hamilton Sep 2018
break me on the wheel
while the wheel spins
argentia road
and all i see are crows
gorging in the open field
severed cornstalks everywhere

burned your clothes
beneath the palest stars
like a contagion
cherry embers in my bed
love, i dreamed of empty graves
and the undivided moon

such a fragile thing
to sigh for the sake of breathing
no more, no more
i am claimed by blood-soaked hands
and my resolve is dead
Zeleyha Mata Sep 2018
Here I stood with ***** crystals beneath my feet and waited for the sky to turn golden.
Here I laughed into the echoing tunnel under my home as wet earth dripped on my skin.
Here I learned about parenthood among feathers and little eggs and ungodly morning crows.
Here I gloated about the manhood which sprouted from under my arms and in my mischievous thoughts.
Here I waited till dark to meet him in secret all the while dreading the sound of tires on gravel.
Here I buzzed with excitement as the boys had their lazy Sunday afternoon.
Here his freckles came close to mine as he softly said "you're so beautiful" with Bruno Mars playing in the background.
Here I said I would never grow up.
Here I comforted her with my pain because I had to be brave.
Here I forgot that being called "muddy children who act like savages " was considered an insult.
Here I cried into the stars for reasons I didn't understand.
Here I walked on hands and feet with happy little scratches and silent giggles.
Here only the sound of our beating hearts and delicate pride could be heard as I held him close.
Here I sang at the top of my favorite tree and waited for the words to hurt him as much as he hurt me.
Here the glow of a flashlight illuminated our tent as I asked her if she liked me like that.
Here a little piece of me was left sitting on a branch waiting to capture the next magical heart.
Here I wrote "I love you" on a mango leaf only to realize that he spelled love differently.
Here I sat beneath bright green trees and pondered my not-so-complicated life.
Here my words came out blurry and my stomach swayed like a sail boat out on a windy morning.
Here my hands went numb as I raced to the end of his life.
Here I visit through pictures and messy journals to remember the little things that are now so so big.
Here I left muddy footprints now covered with grass, but here they will stay.
Little poem about my childhood life on a farm.
Stephe Watson Aug 2018
The ****** plugged the culvert.
Overnight.
Again.
New growth, cut short.  Chewed short.
Grasses.  Mud.  Stones.
Branches and leaves and muck.
Roots from the far-below.

And this time.
A lotus flower.  Sprinkled in dirt.
But alabaster otherwise.
Atop the waterstop.
Brilliant as a clear mind.  White as an,
an as an an an anything overexposed to the point of
newness.

Bees in the rain.  Tending to purple
spires that no one planted.

A hawk in the birch again.
Green heron plummets toward the pond’s
edge.

10:08
Outdoor shower in thunder.  It calls.  She calls.

Poem ends.
For Sarah Noble
Terry Collett Aug 2018
I walked beside the cowman across grass
Sodden by the morning dew. "What do you
Want to do when you leave school?" He asked me.

"Want to be a cowman like you," I said.

He stared at me sideways on."No, my lad,
You want to get yourself a proper job."

He said no more and disappeared inside
His farm cottage tied to the farm estate.

I walked on puzzled by his blunt reply.
I was, as he knew, a London boy, fresh
From the smoke and crowded streets, not used to
The way of the countryside and manners.

In my bedroom, in a glass case, I kept
Bird's eggs, chalk fossils, and a rabbit's skull
Salvaged from the woodland floor on the Downs.

Hanging from the ceiling by bits of string
A model Spitfire moved in the wind.

And taped to the walls were pictures of tanks
Or racing cars with all the parts numbered,
And a chalk model of a Crusader
With sword and shield with red cross of St George.

From my window I could see the whole farm
Where I'd been to fetch the milk before school.

Maybe I'd not work on the farm at all.
Autobiographical poem. I loved the farm and worked there after school and at weekends for free. But we moved away and I worked as my first job in a garage in 1963.
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