#hay
Hey, how are you?
Are you grateful for this year?
Or are you mad because you can't go anywhere
because of the invincible disease that's floating everywhere
The disease that hinders your freedom
Or are you thankful because you had the chance
to know yourself more,
the chance to make up for the lost time with your loved ones
Or are you alone by yourself with nothing to do but
listen to the tick of the clock, the beat of your heart and
the classic beep of pure silence
Or does the loneliness that engulfs you acts as a therapy for your
broken soul,
Or is it just the fuel that feeds the monster inside
The monster that makes you vulnerable to your emotions,
The monster that keeps you up all night weeping,
The monster that's slowly drifting you away from being sane,
The monster who everyone calls a “phase”
But you call it depression.
Because no one understands the agonizing misery you’re going thorough
And instead of fighting for being in control
you just gave up and let it roam
because you are now tired of their judgment,
of their criticism,
of their endless complaints.
But don’t worry you’ll get through this
You’ll make It through this.
Because you’re a warrior who survived war even without weapons.
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 11:28 PM UTC
The dry day came
The baler the same
Walking behind they magically pop out
We march to the call and gurn to the shout
The lift is swift
And the landing is firm
On the steel trailer bed
Nothing more to be said
Off to the yard
To the pile at the top
We hide our protest
Man, this is hot
I can't see for the dust
The smell of the hay
Makes us lift faster
I'll remember this day
A neat puzzle is made
My energy will fade
Every bale must fit
Every lift, one of grit
The sweat and the heat
This job is not complete
Once more to the field
To gather the yield
Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 5:36 AM UTC
Sumer is icumen in
a modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is an update of an old classic for those of us who suffer with hay fever and other allergies ...
Sumer is icumen in
Lhude sing achu!
Groweth sed
And bloweth hed
And buyeth med?
Cuccu!
Keywords/Tags: spring, summer, hay fever, seeds, pollen, med, meds, medicine, achoo, stuffy, nose, blowing, ragweed, congestion
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 5:21 AM UTC
Have you ever longed for a stranger?
Do you find yourself zoning out, looking forward to remembering their mannerisms and quirks?
Writing of memories from a time yet to come—it's both hopeless and hopeful at the same time.
To get excited about something or someone coming from a time and place of uncertainty, that should make me feel something else aside from excitement itself.
Fear? I fear not. It's all anticipation running around my haywire of a head.
When you see me or when I see you for the first time,
What will you be wearing? In what color?
Would I be sad and sober? Or would I be happy-drunk?
As embarassing as it would be, we know we'll have to talk to each other, exchange a few words or we could say things enough for both of us to fall in love with each other right then and there.
Would I passively tell you how I hate that week or would I start to tell you about my contradicting dreams of setting out a life of restless travels
and living in a quaint little apartment that sees a good amount of morning light and how it's going to be filled with wilted flowers, antiques and fifteen cats?
I know I would want both although it's careless and contradicting. But this is just one and I have a house full of them.
Do you even think dreams have to be logical?
Do you believe that we have to be careful in order to get to our dreams or do we go the exact opposite way?
I hope you'd share some of your dreams, too. The more careless, the better.
Would my heart still be beaten up to a pulp by then or would it beat foolishly once more like a brand new snare?
How about you? I wonder how your heart would sound, even now.
Is it punk rock one minute and classical the next or perhaps Disney when you're spacing out?
And I can only wish you're not even half of the lunatic that I am, because I know I need a bit of a balance in my life right now but hey, whatever and whoever you are, come as you are anyway. It's just a wishful thought.
Would I even get lucky enough to come inside your room to dance and spill my last ounces of colors in every corner?
To splatter your walls with my poorly-written poems would be another careless dream to add up on my long list.
Would we like the same music? Would you like drunk dancing as much as I do? Would you prefer watching the moonlight or basking in the setting of the sun? Would you fancy my humor? Would we romanticize escaping reality and the city because we know it imprisons us like nothing and nowhere else? Would I hesitate or anticipate seeing you for the second time? Would you anticipate seeing me over and over again even after seeing me cry because I'm too drunk or too sad or too happy or everything at once? Would we surf with the currents or confine to the safety of the shore?
Or do we stay friends?
Or do we stay friends for only a night?
Or do we become strangers, just strangers?
Or do we become strangers again after being fiercely in love with each other for so long, after being there for each other through the sunny days and storms, after being friends, after we were strangers?
If you see me for the first time, I hope my made-up face and my ever unruly, hand-combed crazy hair would make up for my much crazier mind, to say the least.
But may we hurry up a little if we can, answer these careless questions before they pile up.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Isang buwan ko rin hinangad mabuhay
Mundo ko ay pinuno mo ng kulay
Gusto sana mahawakan ang iyong kamay
Huli na ang halat, kasal mo ang patunay
Ngayon gusto ko nalang mahimlay
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
The shadowy wall potently pays
Tribute to an open door.
Because the door will know
How to shut itself,
While the wall is just
A bean stalk with the gift
Of making a bit
Of shadow.
The low witch would walk
Distinctly away
from the Concrete bean stalk
As the wall would burn
And the shadow would turn
The witch's own shadow
Into a mice meadow.
And the witch hates mice
When throwing the dice
On the shadowy floor
Of the room with no door,
With no lock
To the dock
Where the concrete bean stalk
Has popped.
So the witch stays away
From the mice and the hay
Of her meadow-growing
Steps of annoying
Rhymes yours truly
Has made to undress
A reader's curiosity.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 5:28 AM UTC
Morning smells of Lilacs rapture me,
Taking me back to Kinderhooks Chatham Street….June 21st 1961……not a cloud in the sky.
Lying in bed I open my eyes to the hum of a window fan.
And in the distance I hear a Hudson River barge blast its horn.
This moment in time, well it brings tears to my eyes.
Eleven years old, brown hair, hazel eyes, a toothy smile,
Grins in the mirror, hoping to find a whisker or two…
My cat Oscar sits there on the sink purring out his contentment.
“Oscar” I say, “today I leave for the Freedom Farm”
The Freedom Farm is the one place where I’m free to be me
Without the fear of a negative comment or a boot in my ***
I climb aboard the Greyhound bus with suitcase in hand, And looking down at Mom and Dad....I wave…. So Long Suckers!!
Walton NY, June 22nd, Dunk Hill Road, the smell of cow ****
The land of Milk and Honey, Fields of four leaf clovers and 10’ corn stalks.
It was here that all my friends lived, Shorty the horse, Mrs Blue the Holstein,
And there was Uncle Ike, Aunt Minnie and 9 Cousins. I loved them all!
On this little dairy farm……my potential was unlimited,
Uncle Ike taught me to drive the Tractor, water the heifers,
Milk the cows, shovel **** spread manure and have some **** fun!
Hell Uncle Ike even let me try a piece of his plug tobacco... (Note to self…Just say No Thanks next time)
A summer filled with character building experiences and an eight year olds understanding of work ethic.
But we still had plenty of time for fun and cousin bonding.
My Cousin Tom taught me to ride the cows and honed my spitting skills.
And in my downtime I'd perfect the finer points of armpit farting,
Four weeks of heaven on earth where nothing was impossible.
*Once you work on a farm you get dirt in your shoes. And when you get dirt in your shoes, you can never get it out!"
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
It was raining
so Jane and I
ran to the hay barn
and got inside for shelter
the door was open
so we stared out
at the downpour
do you remember
we came here
and other kids
were playing in here?
I said
she looked back
into the barn
and said
yes it was dry that day
and I was shy
and you sat with me
as we watched
the others play
she looked at me
then said
we must not
tell my mother
we came in here
out of the rain
why not?
I said
it won't sound good
she said
what coming in here
out of the rain
to stay dry?
I said
she looked at me
more intensely
no because some
might think
we did things
she said
did things
what do you mean
did things?
I said
I looked away
from her
and out
at the pouring rain
heavy and dense
it then occurred to me
what she meant
if I was in here
(God forbid)
with Lizbeth
she would have been
undoing my buttons
by now wanting ***
on one of the hay bales
we wouldn't
I said to Jane
turning to look at her
I know we wouldn't
she said
but other people might
I frowned
what other people?
she sighed
people say horrible things
if they saw us
or if we tell people
we were in here
I'll say nothing
to anyone
I said
it's best
she said
she leaned closer to me
and kissed my cheek
best not to say
she said
after the kiss
would your parents
think we had
if they found out
we were in here?
I said
no of course not
but other people might
suggest we had
and my mother
would feel upset
that people could think that
I touched her hand
and held it
(Lizbeth would never
be content with just
a held hand
she would want more)
she kissed me again
then we both stared out
at the rain
that was beginning to stop
and we watched
the sky grey
become blue again
and hoped
for the end of rain.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
We were mixing our affections
Kissing Dixie cups of wine
Laughing at the passing time
Our fingertips touching
And wishing for another
Chapter to be read
We were down at the barn
Where the horses stay
We were hanging around
messing around in the hay
You dropped your Dixie cup
I threw mine away
You smiled and said what the hey
The moon came harvesting
The stars were laughing
And we had our day that night
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
An Elephant In Gray, A Pear In Hay.
Met Each Other On This Day.
An Elephant Pulled Out A Knife, A Pear Without A Wife.
Met Together With A Strife.
An Elephant In Gray, No Pear In Hay.
Left Each Other On This Day.
But The Pear Would Return...
In The Month of May
Ex Parte.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Outside, the house looked dank and grey,
A pipe had sprung a leak;
The paint was peeling off the wall
From some old daubed graffiti scrawl,
Yet on the path were bales of hay
And someone with a beak!
Rita bustled up with pride
And set about to work;
She took the hay and laid it straight,
She mended pipe and fixed the gate,
And when she'd done, she went inside
But still she didn't shirk!
Plucking feathers from her back,
She tied them to a stick;
Then with her new self-fashioned broom,
She set about and swept each room,
She lifted rugs to give a 'THWACK!'
And dusted every brick!
When the day came to a close
She lay on sheets of foam;
Beneath the glow of candlelight,
Most everything was clean and bright;
She settled down for her repose,
So proud of her new home!
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
All day making hay, we watched the empty sky.
Summer heat, clinging shirts soaked, powder caked in dust.
Though we worked a Montana field,
I knew when my father said,
"Hurricane weather."
By two or so, a few small clouds, high and innocent,
Were forming to the west; we did not stop to rest;
A field of second cutting hay down,
Windrows of perfect hay
Fed the tireless machines we rode.
By supper time, a line of gray progressed,
Menacing from north to south and moving east.
"Supper'll have to wait, boys," and Dad was right.
We raced the sky and quickly coming night.
Unnatural calm and breathless air held dust above our rows;
We pressed on, knowing that the winds were on their way.
Bright bolts began to stab across the plain;
We guessed the storm was half an hour away.
The race was nearly finished, our baling nearly done,
When lightning struck around us, sure as any gun.
We looked for Dad, and he baled on, so what to do but follow?
But when the rain and hail fell, our work was done.
Laughing as we ran, we piled into a truck;
Let the tractors stand to face the storm alone
As rain and hail poured anger at our bales,
And we, the merry balers, headed home.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC