#acres
oooooooooooooo
I bet I could be an oak
if I tried hard enough
Extend my roots
maybe branch out a little
lead with my leaves
Reach for the sky!
Let my bark ring true
through the sea of trees
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Lima bean farms
are good places to forget a dream.
They grow shin-length.
Just tall enough to ignore, but still definite,
unmistakable. The soil is damp,
fed by tin planes and farmer pilots
who take pride in their acres.
A family of worms have their brunch
while buzzards circle in line.
Waiting and pointing out the roadkill doe
that stumbled here last night.
If I keep walking towards
my father's bloodstained
Ford pickup, she'll be there.
Eyes glistening
and dead, aware
of our harvest-green property.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
And the farm endured
seven fields to forty acres
the days of my father
saw grass and crops rotate
his toiling obsession now spent
gave way to a bigger scale
the old house storeyed
by one and a half
the bedroom where I slept
in the shadow of an older brother
the roof of grey slate
the peak of my world
reached my childhood sky
the overgrown garden
the consequence of labours elsewhere
the sycamore tree
my view of a world outside
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
And the farm endured
seven fields to forty acres
the days of my father
saw grass and crops rotate
his toiling obsession now spent
gave way to a bigger scale
the old house storeyed
by one and a half
the bedroom where I slept
in the shadow of an older brother
the roof of grey slate
the peak of my world
reached my childhood sky
the overgrown garden
the consequence of labours elsewhere
the sycamore tree
my view of a world outside
the patch of monkshood remained
where I trapped bees in a jar
the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick
and **** nectar from within
the old dirt track road
the start of a jouney far beyond
the realm of a farm
and the dreams of a boy
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
A small man with a big smell
when his seldom washed clothes were drying after rain.
Stubble chin, fish eye, loose lip
but always ready for0 the tankard's rim,
especially if you were buying.
One of the dark ones, relics of the Bronze Age,
whose ancestors had thrown their seed,
thin grain upon the small and bitter acres that he worked.
Only the rocks grow well in the fields of the grey hills!
At first I thought him diminished,
crushed by the land itself,
it's possession a cancer devouring
and defeat an old coat lashed round his middle with wire.
But drunk once, on a market day,
lowing and jammed like stalled beasts
into the FARMERS bar, he stumbled,
hugged me close to steady himself
and roared out loud to the heedless herd,
with arm outstretched, two fingers to the world,
****** you boys! I am still here!
Nobody heard but me,
whose ear was riven by that yell
and sprayed with rich spittle.
True though, despite the braggadocio of beer,
with the grain of him deep and compacted
like the rocks he fought, he did endure.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 6:48 AM UTC