I was walking along the brook,
landed in one of them corn mazes from the books.
I started running,
started funning,
'till I gone and ran into a corn stalk,
I hit it so hard I forgot how to talk,
I could barely walk.
It don't matter,
just started going faster.
Well I found my way to the end,
but across the field I saw a radish bend.
Ah well, I guess its the weekend,
and Id rather run the radishes than come to an end.
And I ran,
oh yes I ran.
I ran here,
I ran there,
in the sky,
nearly trampled a guy...

Yeah he was yellin',
at me,
I said whats up.
And then he says this, he says:
I own these here radishes,
Go on ***, get outta mah FaRm.
Then, I dunno, I guess I was just really cool,
I was able to convince him, that this here, was my farm.
And that's the story of my farm.

I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon

Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes

You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)

it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel

They brought them
from the hollar
to the barge
to the field ~
into the wallows
in prayer
skinny little pinkers
cropped by ivory gates
buzzed with hot wire
hooked on bug worm
whistling dixie
around scrummers
and **** pen

peckers squawk
down eden lane
(nipping at jean lint
and fraystring)
deep in the hollows
a mad crow
(with steady tap)
the snouts high
on grunters
and squealers
stomping past
the feather pack

folded fingers
on the gatekeeper
(an engineer by
trade they'd say)
pigtails and
slack line
down the dusty lane
a snap of the jawbone
and lawn chairs settle
(facing north)
the bold script
and chimes
uneasy

To all the Christmases behind me
I remember how you used to be
Sitting around the Christmas tree
Listening to stories of wise men three

Of all the Christmases gone by
I remember crystal skys
And sparkling grape juice in the ice
The pungent smells of Christmas wine

For all the Christmases I've seen
I recall the Christmas dream
Of gifts and sweets beneath the tree
And stuffed stockings waiting for me

And all the Christmases I've reached
I feel the sand beneath my feet
All those games down at the beach
And tossing bread out to the sheep

And all the Christmases end
By decorating ginger bread
And laying down our heavy heads
On feather pillows on our beds

Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.

The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!

Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.

Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!

Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?

Squeals cry out as the ax smashes her guts

Dog barks loudly in multiple fears.

The man shouts, "Shut up you little mut!"

Her last breaths are heard as her eyes form crystal tears

A week later passes, the man notices his dog no longer runs

A month passes, his dog skips meals

"Papa, we must take Enzo to the vet!"cries ones of his sons

"It is obvious your dog is mourning from a loss and is suffering from PTSD" the veterinarian reveals  

The worried man looks away in guilt

He quivers to continue the dialogue

Tears shed down his face as he remembers gripping the tilt

"They were best friends. Oceana and the dog. At times she surprised me for a pig how she could outsmart a dog."

A year later...

"Come along Enzo and Denver, supper's ready!"

The new piglet of the family snorts happily as the dog and his new best friend munch on their meal

"You did the right thing Papa." as his son yawns grasping his teddy

The former farmer kisses his son goodnight as he goes back to work
on his new zeal

A sign written, "Animals have a heart and soul just like humans. End all animal abuse for their kingdom is just as precious as ours."

A bottle beneath her cab in a pick-up truck
or the fifth caught here behind the wheel
If pride wouldn't don a cat about this vision wholly refined again
and like a goat with a kid tied this climb atop the land
and she found with her chickens in this ford or a pig there
to book the dance with them all backstage
and now her life was still full of assuage even so she sings
the finer things in life here with that ***** in his belt.

Behind the barn in late afternoon
Uncle Ray lifts my brother
to the seat of a harrower
abandoned now
and rusted to this field of family
tilted and monumental
plunging its tines into memory
of broken earth
behind this life of the workhorses they were
My father and my Uncle Ray—talking
Scattered conversation
in hushed tones

...as skyscraping thunderheads
slashed through their heights
by arrows of fire
light the pumpkins
between hay bundles
of time golden

Bright green fields
And a brighter blue sky
Tractors moving
As the clouds float by

Tent's pitched
Kinda quick,
Fire's lit
No wood on it

Guitars strum
Then uku joins along
But my phone is singing
The song

Playing football
With the farmers dog
Then go back to
Burning logs

As night falls
On the fields around
The gentleness of the
Guitar is the only sound.

We ...
Are The Architects of Our Fate
we build the walls
all these gates
We construct solid walls
they take them down
let them fall
then look around
for Solid Ground
until it's found
I plant my feet

Take a seat
share a story
of honored Glory
My Father was a Carpenter
a Master Builder they would say
And I see his buildings
every day
Arts and craftsman
my kind of build
houses filled
engrossing skill
amazing will
holes were drilled
handhewn milled
beams
intricate details

imparted to me
you can see
by carving
wooden
weathered
leather hands

It's good to admire
though I do not aspire
to live in one now

I miss the farm
in  simple charms
A time exsist my  memories

Queen Abigail of Chelsea
a border collie
she was our dog
Willamina a hog
or the name of a pig
rooting earth she'd happily dig
a silly gig
She never was a meal
Her funny squeal
Saved her life

had a horse  named Cochise
no wool from lamb
that we could fleece
you could not ride
but would stand on hind
legs
and beg
for marshmallows!

I miss the Farm
all the time
it taught me
life is worth living
to keep on giving
what I can.


Cherie Nolan © 2016