Scales on bodies
Of that of farmers
Sun bares no harm,
On swinging charmers
A drop of a bit
Gives no smiles
To the hand that feeds
That walk for many miles
Cracks flap, mudcakes
Steaming heat rise won't stop
Children doing rain dance
While egg fries on roof top
Clear sky, bathes no cloud
Just stroke of heavy rays
Heatwaves tants the skin
Bad are these days...



©sim

"Wala pay sulod atong sako Nay.”*

Sack of rice is empty
Stomach rumbling mercilessly
Mind is hazy, breathing sporadically
Cold porridge is a feast.

“Go home!” says Mama sternly
Frantic, frightened, panicky
Rocks hurled, bullets fly
Blood splatters; running aimlessly

We dodge our way to safety
Cold porridge is a feast.

“I will not,” I say adamantly
She looks at the sack mournfully
Empty. Devoid of sanity.
Cold porridge is a feast.

“We’ll get some soon. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I feel weak, I am crabby
I’m staying despite this misery
Cold porridge is a feast.

Childlike will, piety of soul
Purity of intention, pursuit of living whole

Cold porridge is a feast.

over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

businessmen
remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *

The Heat, and not the sports team
Has come here for a while
It's enough to set some records
And to **** the farmers smiles

Humidity and high temperatures
Add to make our life like hell
It's drying up our creeks and streams
There's no water in our wells

We do not use our ovens
To cook our meals, not now at least
We just leave meat on the counter
The outside heat will cook the beast

Our lawns are brown and dormant
But the weeds are growing strong
There is chickweed and crabgrass where once
Green grass did once belong

The splash pads are on overtime
To help keep people cool
We've cooling centers everywhere
They're in all of the schools

In order to cool down at home
I have my a/c set to freeze
And if at times this doesn't work
I watch Christmas DVD's

Remember hats and sunscreen
to keep the heat off of your head
In fact it is so god ****** hot
I tan while I'm in bed

I remember as a child
Summer never got as hot as this
Compared to recent temperatures
Is like a ******* to a kiss

We pray for heat in winter
And in the summer, the reverse
I know I would like the snow
The heat is much, much, worse

Instead of just complaining
I should just take it, brave the heat
But for now, I'll watch my movies
Sing my carols, cool my feet

I know that come this winter
I'll be crying for the heat
Just remind me of this little poem
And I'll shut up, and take my seat.

On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.
Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.

Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a *punch line.

The church we visited
Today for pastor's round table
Was set like the scene
Of a Grant Wood painting.

The fields were stretched 
For miles upon miles,
The view enhanced 
By gently rolling hills.

The tin-roofed-and-sided church,
Once a barn, now renovated,
Sits in the middle of a farmers field.
A treasure once hidden, now found.

In that building we discussed
The move of God across
Our nation and our state,
Building unity amongst us, 

Those who till the earth 
And spread the seed,
Waiting for God to 
Bring the increase.

For as the rain falls
Down from the sky,
It waters the earth
And causes our seed

To sprout and produce fruit.
So we must be patient now,
Being faithful farmers waiting
For the seed we've sown 

To receive the nutrition 
It needs to spring forth
And yield the harvest 
We have always desired.

The house that wind, and time tear down  
Watch the stories fall down
It changes every time we come around
Echos
Rich dirt buried our memories
We were once  the seed
were we once laid down
little toys for something sweet
and then beaten down to her knees
Invoke the spirit onto this place
Running in just to run away
Beauty hidden in a shattered display
This hole were the stoners play
Casa Dela Morte
The farmers dark secret is crippling
the sadness left by the offspring
Dancing with your ***** doll
Every structure soon will fall
Bringing out your demons within
Question this was created from what sin

Farmers shattered dark secret demons question crippling sin
Invoke sweet toys. Rich dirt seed laid down. Echos every time we come around. memories sadness left by offspring. Every structure soon will fall. ****** to death against the wall.

The shadows dance to distract from malevolent beast.
To think  this place is no more
The'll be No more morbid rituals and stoner feast.

The house that wind, and time tear down  
Watch the stories fall down
It changes every time we come around
Echos

Can you hear them?
Yes, they are crying.
Can you see them?
Yes, the farmers, yes.
No, I mean,
The blood, the blood.
Each grain is pregnant.
With blood, with blood.
No! let’s fill the rice fields.
Let’s plant bullets.
No, with blood, with blood.
When will they learn?
Why? Is there something to learn?
Why is there something to learn?
Why, is there something--
They can no longer learn.
They can no longer hear.
They can no longer see.
Why? I demand an answer!
Why do I demand an answer?
Why?
You killed them.

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.

Ten O'Clock, day after tomorrow,
Henry Nilson's funeral's almost  here,
I hate to but I really have to go
Cause we've been friends for sixty years

Rode twelve years on the same old bus
Made memories by the dozens
Played sports, chased girls and learned to cuss,
Married sweethearts who were cousins....

Adjoining acres, ranched and farmed
Never had a fight or angry word,
Kept each other's backs from harm,
Old Henry's death just seems absurd.

Melva loved to worry on about the kids and weather
And when the television doctors said
"Go get a physical," she said, "We'd better!"
And then commenced the journey of the dead.

Old Henry'd never had a use for hospitals,
Said only sick people should go, and he'd
No time for such a waste of time at all...
Besides, he wasn't even sick, by gee.

But Melva kept the pressure up, and she
Though never tall, was never short with words
'Til poor ol' Henry finally gave in to her plea
And let her make a date with Dr. Wards.

He  grumbled to me afterwards, about the big to-do,
"They put me on a fast the day before, not even water!
Couldn't have a cup of joe, nor pinch of chew!
And when we got there, the nurse looked like our daughter!

Old Henry seldom saw the sun below his tee-shirt line,
So when she handed him a gown, he  struggled for a time
Before  he put the ****** thing on, "minus any clothes"
And wondered how to cinch it up...the fasteners  were  behind.

Old Dr. Ward gave cautious smile on entering the room,
"How long's it been, Mr. Nilson, since your last  physical?
I  don't have a record of your charts, so I assume
You've doctored elsewhere?" He looked up, quizzical.

Henry cleared his throat and said, "I ain't been anywhere!"
(At seventy, such a terse statement is something to be said.)
"Wal...that 'ent exactly true, I guess. There  was a couple times
I came for stitches or a broke arm"... his face was weathered red.

What happened  next, old Henry wouldn't speak a word...
Results were good, surprised the doc and Melva, too.
"You'll make a hundred at this rate," the doctor purred,
And  Henry saddled up and  left all in a stew.

A week or so went by, and Henry's medical triumph
Made the rounds of gossips in church and at the bar;
"A waste of time!" was all old Henry humphed.
And the next day, a heart attack took him in the car.

No moral now will end this sad old story,
No fancy shibboleths or speculation;
I notice though, the clinic's in less glory,
From physicals, I'm taking a vacation.