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Amanda Nov 2019
The rooster crows when the day begins
He yells "****-a-doodle-doo!"
Awakening not just the farm animals
But the farmer and his tired wife too
Day 13: Write a short poem a child would like
Mark Toney Oct 2019
A farmer who was looking for change
Produced limericks that were free-range
He achieved great success
His limericks were best
And gluten-free -isn't that strange?
11/3/2018 - Poetry form: Limerick - I'm cooking up some poetry2go including free-range limericks, antibiotic free and gluten-free. Isn't that strange? - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Quacky little bird sound
When you hear it coming duck!
If farmer Ted is after you
You're running out of luck

Totin' shotgun and bird shot,
Son, he's aiming not to please
He's sneaking close behind you bird
You better hold your sneeze

Cuz your feathers are a tickler
Your bill is orange and bright
While the farmer is a stickler
He will sup on bird tonight

Lord love a duck!
Of him you mustn't run a fowl
Pain from your freshly plucked feathers
Will be enough to make you howl!
7/17/2019 - Poetry form: Light Verse - This is the first poem in my new e-book "Bird Beaks & Bee's Knees", a collection of bird-brained poems that attempt to answer the following question:  What can you do when you're as busy as a bee and life bugs you to the point where you cry fowl?  And there you go, barking at the geese, ducks and swans, swatting carpenter bees with your tennis racket and drowning ants with your water hose as if that will help.  The Woodpecker Gazette calls it "A silly, idiotic and unintelligent must-read." So as not to run afoul of the grammar police, please understand that my poetic license is up to date, misspelled words are intentional and the use of puns is clearly authorized. Why in the world would I use puns? To make it more punny, of course! Ok, I'll stop now. Maybe...
sir humbug Jun 2018
wear gloves on your hands,
leaving your eyes free to speculate
and your mind to record
the life of the plant;
and the life of the one who nurtures and tends

follow-from the fallow soil
to my edible plated consumption,
from the baby bud nipping
to sharp crack shot at picking,
to my tongue licking
both your produce and you

you may feed me poems
when the real harvesting is done,
grown in your own private plot,
from you, my good fellow,
follow with love delivered to
my expecting fallow-soul,
awaiting your seeding me,
and I,  
you...
Julia Apr 2019
i’m figuring out my sway
how to center night and day
like the first steps of a trembling fawn
or the breaking of the dawn

i’m testing out my bpm
counting my minutes for Them
i’m getting licensed now
it’s the only way we know how

i’m deepening my roots
putting nicks in my new boots
i’m feeding from the gem
sacrificing zero femme

i’m reaching harvest soon
just in time for harvest moon
sweetest peaches tell
Him how to understand my spell
Star BG Jan 2019
I am a farmer
cultivating the self within.
I breath and cleanse my thoughts,
root my steps,
balance in heart.

I breath and reach out hand,
dance on land
connect to universe
harvest crop of love.

I am a gardner
moving in field of earth
the place I choose to be.
First poem of Day
Purcy Flaherty Mar 2018
I heard the footsteps as they came across the road;
The snap of hurried feet outside the house.
Shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.    
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two boys stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang! ~ set them running.
I cut them down; I cut them down!
I heard the sirens as the cops sped off the road;
The squeal of hurried wheels outside the house.
shapes in the moonlight, a voice in the darkness,
A knock at the door, I heard the dogs barking.
The bleating of the flock,
The chatter of the birds amongst the trees,
I recall the whisper of the morning breeze;
Hyphening the broken silence as two cops stole about the house;
It was midnight in August 99.
Two cops set out to chase the bang; Bang!
I put my hands up and the cops took me down!

Judge I’m guilty, it’s true for everything they said I did; I did!
But there were reasons, don’t you see:
These boys; they were bullying me!
I called the cops on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, came round again; still no one came; drove me insane;

Two sparks set out to chase the bang!
Bang set them running; I cut them down!
Two cops set out to chase the bang!
Bang! Yes, I put my hands up!
and the cops took me down!

But Mr Wolf gave me twenty,
and the circus came to town;
for as a victim I was lonely;
but as a killer; as a killer; I was crowned.
Newsworthy, top of the heap, the talk of the town!
Here is the song link
https://youtu.be/j9whsrQCaIE
The color of mud,
they live underground.
Only coming up
when they want to be found.

Oh, woe is me,
a mere farmer,
that I produce
a product as ugly as me.

It can't help its
oblong nature,
bland taste
or simple denature.

‘Tis but a spud
of different types,
colors, and shapes,
yet still manages to have a bud.

A simple starch,
that much is known,
but when added to things,
it brings in a life all its own.
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