"deere" poems
like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore
reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)
bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
*blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!*
duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields
meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)
baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.
Why, that building knew your folks, the children,
watched generations come and go thru that door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.
It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)
And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.
Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)
A great way to end the week!
The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day this appeared on the door:
"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri
copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
Next week, I’ll be 61 years
working the same 93 acres.
The furthest field back
and the 2 joining Peter Burke’s
always been meadows.
Since before my time —
today it takes just 4 hours
to cut, bale and wrap.
Dad and the men wouldn’t’ve
half the first headland cut in that length.
I’d go back with Mom,
with tea and sandwiches;
brown bread and something sweet.
No more higher than the handle of the scythe —
I would try to swing.
Nearly took my leg off the first time.
When it was done, all saved
that was my favourite bit.
There’d be a gathering in the house.
Food, porter … the craic.
Someone would pull out a fiddle
or a tin whistle, the women would dance
it was beautiful — meaningful.
Friends, neighbours. Thankful.
The closest thing to expressing our feelings.
And us kids allowed to stay up late,
what a treat; a very rich treat.
I never did grow tall enough
to wield the scythe.
When it was my turn,
machines had been invented.
Lucky I was told I was.
They lightened the work
and lessened the men.
Horse followed horsepower.
Bigger, heavier.
But there was time for tea,
there’s always time for tea.
The scythes rotted;
the horses rotted;
kids flown into the city;
neighbours dead, don’t care or are foreign.
It’s just one man now doing all the work.
One man called John Deere
who has no time for tea.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.
Why, that building knew your folks, children,
watched generations come thru the door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.
It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)
And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.
Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)
A great way to end the week!
The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day, this appeared on the door:
"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri
copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015
My father, for 20 years, was a game warden for the State of Texas. I would often ride with him on weekends throughout his 6 county district, stopping at many of these small, rural, unincorporated communities. It was, as we say, "a real hoot!"
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Spray paint still stains the driveway
From that gift I sent you
Boxed up in the red white and blue
And 'MERICA, welcome to the USA.
Who could have guessed that the paint
Would be more permanent than you.
You can shove the Budweiser t-shirt and
John Deere trucker hat I sent at the top
Of your closet and forget about them,
But I can't scrub the spot off my driveway.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
The artist chose concrete to sculpt The Kiss.
Playfully made the woman taller than the man,
his gaze uplifted, filled with total captivation ---
lemur eyes, mustached smile, desire unmistakable.
Her arm about the nape of neck, hand caressing cheek,
certainly she cherishes him, intentionally stokes his passion.
Concrete the perfect medium for immortality.
This image implanted firmly, as I take my morning walk,
when it hits me, somewhere between Key Bank,
7-11 across the street, and John Deere lawn equipment,
why it is, women place such importance upon relationships,
why they love us, despite flaws numerous as wharf rats.
They have an unremitting need for romance.
That's what the sculptor knew and finally I do too.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.
Why, that building knew your folks, children,
watched generations come thru the door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.
It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)
And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.
Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)
A great way to end the week!
The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day, this appeared on the door:
"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri
copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015
My father, for 20 years, was a game warden for the State of Texas. I would often ride with him on weekends throughout his 6 county district, stopping at many of these small, rural, unincorporated communities. It was, as we say, "a real hoot!"
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
Hiiiii....u knw what aaj ky hai....
aaj bhot special prsn ka bday hai...
meli bestieee.... kaaa
paglu ka
bhot special tu duffr mere lyee...
&
chalo kuch meethi meethi yaade yaad dilata hu...
apni....
yaaad hai jab humari fst tym baaat hui thi....wo cmnt k rply me
ladai se hui thi startng
ki pata tha itne impo ** jaynge ek dusre k lye
fr wo humara din bhar choti choti si baat pr ladna
manana
fr draaame dikhana ki tu lunch ni kalega to b ni kalungi....
tu gannna ...tu gannniii
hihihihihi
bhot misss krta hu m bo ladaiyaaa
punishment b inni pyali ki galti krne ka man kre
....
school se aate hi beg rakhne se phle....mobile on krna...
net on hone se phle whatsappp pr msz type krna....
agr ek mint b reply late hua to bawal ,machana...
fr shaq wali nigaaho se dekhnaaa.....
hihihi binna galti k es masssom bacheee se solly bulbana.....
pure pure din baat krke b pet ni bharta tha
deere deere baat krte krte special one bn gyi merelyee....
fr kisi se b baat ni kalta tha m
muujhe aaj b yaad hai wo din
8/4/1999 mela bday gifttt
maine tainu 1st tym dekha tha...
hihihihi...
apni yaari ese hi bni rahe hamesha....
bs yadi pray krni hai... mainu...rab se.....
i love u my....bestieee...... happy bday tooo.....uuuuuuuu...
ab bta babu ky gift chaahiye teko.
.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
(a repost for everyone who lives in rural areas)
It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.
Why, that building knew your folks, children,
watched generations come thru the door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.
It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)
And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.
Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)
A great way to end the week!
The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day, this appeared on the door:
"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri
copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015
My father, for 20 years, was a game warden for the State of Texas. I would often ride with him on weekends throughout his 6 county district, stopping at many of these small, rural, unincorporated communities. It was, as we say, "a real hoot!" A photo of that old bldg. is on my banner.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 6:45 AM UTC
*Old barns with 'See Rock City' painted
on clapboard sides
'White washed' antique 'Smokehouses' with hand dug Water-wells are monuments celebrating another time
Pole barns with RC Cola thermometers -
and Red Man chewing tobacco signs , tin -
roofs and dirt floors with hay lofts and -
old John Deere tractors inside*
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss your timing.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.
I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor to have been
A gift, now long ago.
I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.
Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.
Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant
Be ******
A stroke was taking down another man.
A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.
You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month.
Your children ordered oak, solid and strong,
Wheat sheaves bedeck the top,
Inlaid and waiting,
Ready for the coming harvest.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
a repost for everyone who lives in rural areas
It's an old, run-down, brick building-
with some pickup trucks, and a John Deere tractor-parked in front-
It has been there for many years-
with many memories in its 'font.
Why, that building knew your folks, children,
watched generations come thru the door-
It waved good-bye to new recruits
as they left to go to war.
It became a sort of, "meet and greet"
Where folks would come , take a seat-
the coffee urn, filled to the brim
for those waiting to get a trim.
(and for anyone else who wandered in)
And the stories! Oh Lord, the stories!
One would start with an anecdote-
another followed with a joke-
then another, each trying to top the other.
Folks would laugh so hard, you'd think they were die'n-
for there was no way to know
Who was telling a truth,
and who was lie'n-
(a determination that never could be made)
A great way to end the week!
The building had no signs, because everyone knew what it was,
so why spend the money to tell folks something they already knew.
Then, one day, this appeared on the door:
"Welcome Stranger! Come in and see!"
"The One and Only Barbershop"
"Where the BS flows like the River Nile, and the coffee's always free!"
(Open on Saturdays 7-3)
Closed Mon-Fri
copyright: richard riddle January 27, 2015
My father, for 20 years, was a game warden for the State of Texas. I would often ride with him on weekends throughout his 6 county district, stopping at many of these small, rural, unincorporated communities. It was, as we say, "a real hoot!"
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
The **** on the steeple
Proclaimed and denied to
Four corners, looked down,
And twisted.
Old men in green suits with crow's eyes
And alabaster covered bones push open doors
With wooden feet.
The postman, empty-kneed, rides his Deere
Over green fields with rabbits,
Laughing to himself.
Rentals in drives plan the day's jaunts
To ****** or Kenmare.
Shops carry faded signs:
Donovan, O'Sullivan, Finnegan.
The crow drops on the roof of Holy Cross
Which doubles as a retirement home;
Its clients plaint palms skyward with the wind.
Five hundred leave each week:
"Ireland's best... so fresh it's famous."
The laggers serve tea and scones,
Or ply in shops they may someday own.
There are no slow boats here.
The green suits leave naturally,
Others by air.
This is no country for the young
With their hillside tilting windmills of power.
Below, a young woman eats, holding
Her knife like her father, eating,
Silent, staring.
Crow and rabbit inhabit,
Stones tumble and lay for a hundred years.
Each day a new apocalypse offering
One opening. No wrappings,
No ointments, no fresh water.
No throne to approach, no voice calling
Them home.
No seventh son to dip his finger in the well
And soothe.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.
I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.
I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.
Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.
Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******
A stroke was taking down another man.
A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.
You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.
Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
Tractor humming happily
In the dim daylight
Seeping through heavy clouds.
The soil out here needs water,
Rains are welcome for now.
I kiss fresh coffee by the
Window, listening to the drizzle
And swallows whistling past.
Yes, she's on my mind.
I breathe in the humid scents of
Early country Summer,
Feeling soft arms reach around
Me from behind; her forehead
Against the back of my neck.
Something whispered.
*Soon. You'll see me soon.
Hear my voice. Soon. You'll
Meet me. Soon.*
I shrug off the fantasies and
Walk my cup back to the
Table.
I know who she is.
She has no idea I exist.
For now.
**** I love this juvenile
Feeling of infatuation with a
Stranger,
Stealing glanzes at her Facebook
Pictures, grinning to myself about
Acting like a stalker,
Not even feeling guilty;
I stand for my innocent intentions.
She'll never hear a word from
Me. No friend request or desperate
Attempts at contact.
She has a room in my Palace of
Imagination-
Where she sometimes comes out
To wander around and
Bless me with her presence.
So impossibly beautiful.
Supernova smile,
Elegant tattoos.
Eyes full of kindness, like two
Soothing suns. Night sky hair.
Real, yet invisible until I
Close my eyes and taste the skin
Of her temple as she leans her
Head against mine and points
Towards the horizon.
*Look how green everything has
Become...*
I know.
It's so breathtaking I even
Imagine sharing it with someone
I love.
Then she's gone again,
And I am alone with the rain and
The nestbound swallows. And the
Purring of a distant John Deere
Outside an open window where
We stood in love, as vividly
As within a really real dream.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:42 PM UTC
Some names stay familiar a whole life even when
you know not much about them. Such is Touchet.
Did I ever stop here? No, I don't think for a minute,
but it's a place I passed going to see grandparents,
where there was farm and cousins and grandpa driving his
Deere tractor in the usual pheasant-corn field,
where life went on a thousand years for one who is
six or eight. I could pretend to smell hot rolls in
grandma's wood-burning stove beside the kitchen,
a picture of the Lord holding a sheep that wandered off
the prairie, and barn of jumping lofts and hay piled
high enough to feed the calves and fill the air with dust.
Touchet was not worth the effort to stop. It was the
half-way spot to somewhere else. "Where are we now?"
I'd ask. "Touchet", then fall into the custom sleep,
no need yet to lift my head and guess how far
the miles to go. A placeholder of mind, a pause
in the beat of an eager heart. No pretty little
settled town with river running along the main;
Why is there such a place as Touchet?
It's not really hardly there, sort of a theological
holding tank to explain the empty space between
our house and grandma's. It could be on a map,
but why? I never saw a Touchet boundary,
only a sign on the empty railroad track. Poorly-
stacked buildings holding each other up in
drunken tango, the whole place hoboing a ride
on the Northern Pacific line. Even a runaway
train would not choose to make this stop
since nobody is there. Nothing is right. In
the middle of nowhere. If you would stop
nobody would notice you or care, as nothing
happened here and you couldn't really call
yourself alive and it would be a mistake to
think so, unless you were a road-flattened
dog or coyote or snake looking for a place
to hide from the hot prairie sun, or gave up
running and wanted the moon and stars to
find you. Then you might crawl beside one
of the tilted buildings, slump against the wall
with boot tips pointed up and spurs clenching
the hard ground while waiting for the hostile heat
and smelly sage brush, but since my grandparents
died I miss seeing Touchet pass through my mind.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
we're whipping through the backroads
without seat belts, kicking up the dust--
the Sangre De Cristos looming with chalky
crowns above the hills, riddled with fence
posts and battered lean-tos, homes with
green shingles and matching john deere
tractors--the mountains, the mountains.
you go around every corner like it's a straightaway
I still see you smiling at me through locked doors
cradling me like a baby bird and hoping I might
throw caution out when all around your heart
there's these warning signs on big yellow placards
glinting in the night.
there are a dozen thoughts, all equally crippling--
staggered images of you squinting up at me on
the hill above the barn in that wrinkled white t-shirt,
a gray murdoch's hat pushed high up on your forehead,
hip cocked out with your hands twitching at your sides
rubbing brake fluid between your fingers
brooke, it is pointless to you. That's so obvious to me.
they tell you to stay down when shot, play dead when
in danger, but i've been seeking solace in your neck
trying to keep myself from telling you that I love you, feeling
it at the back of my lips ready to spill over, overcome
by your gentleness, asking God *why, why can't I just
love him?*
it's so obvious to you? that i've spent a month telling myself that it's okay, that you're right, that you're harmless, that things can work
out, so pointless goes on ringing in my ears, clattering down the
airways into my heart where i love you still hangs loosely by a
thread, or maybe a rope, maybe an industrial wire ready to bring
the house down with its weight, a marble for each day, a stone, a
boulder.
county road 255 seems a whole lot shorter,
I'm preoccupied with the dry shrubs the color of verdigris, the color
of your laugh, how i can't see through the tangle of my own emotions, how i really do want you to be the one, the one person that just happens to be right--it's so obvious, you said.
so obvious.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
all us good ole' boys
in Bamalama
got to fight for
the right to kiss
these southern Belle misses,
It's slim pickens and farmers daughters
guarded by big corn fed brothers
daddies shotgun, here, in Dixie.
I don't have a John Deere or a jacked up
four wheel drive pickup,
my accent is acquired from all the years,
to them sounds unnatural,
my drawl.
Hell, I don't do nothin'
no more, but fight,
it's like a civil war, I wear
a smile, you know, cause the
farmer's daughters,
fortunately are curious.
I wear a black eye
and red lipstick mark,
on my collar.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC
*Guitar buried in effects
Women mired in makeup
Men wrapped in ego
Woodwork dripping with shellac
Seafood dipped in breading
Carpet drowning in dust
The baptized cleansed in water
The son copying the father
A publican garnering trust
A 62' John Deere seized with rust
The dead becoming dust
A poker hand royal flush
An over and under combination
A gods abomination
Traipsing the woodline for a spell
A five o'clock trip from hell* ...
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
It's early and a bit too noisy
I haven't opened my eyes yet
I hear the early bird in hunt of a worm
Maybe I too should get out of bed
Still laying here, I complain, about laying here
Criticism is nothing I like to hear
Then there's this other sound
A neighbor starting up his John deere
moving forward, I pretend I'm dreaming
With so much motivation I still slumber
To ignore my thoughts I think less
Slowly, I count number by number
Not long after I begin to think
To be or not to be at my bathroom sink?
Where I wash my face
Then brush my teeth
Hangovers are the worst
I disapprove of them in every way
I drink because I hate my job, but
Last night was because I knew today was the day before monday.
I work on Monday's...
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
Growing up country...A day in the life ©
I lay on my bed awake staring at the ceiling
No need for an alarm cause I have two
One is brooster the rooster and the is
A holler I call “father”
And then there it is the shout from below
“Get up you slugs we have things to do and places to go”
I leap out of bed toss on some clothes no need to be picky
For we ain’t likely to see nobody this way today
The race down the stairs is on, only three brothers to beat
Getting to the kitchen table to get a seat and grub to eat
The smell of bacon permeates the air
And mom is at the bottom stair to give a hug right there
As we chow down we all look around at each other
Knowing full well the list and which one we druthers
There’s tillin the garden with a *** muckin the pens with its stench,
Fence mendin with barb wire or ridein that metal steed named Deere
And on this day through luck of the draw or Dad’s decision
I create furrow after furrow with precision and after awhile
And many circles complete the mind tends to wander into a haze
As you slide from side to side on that hard seat amidst a glaze
What will this fall harvest bring after the chores are complete
A trip to the fair and rodeo to compete and there I will be the winner
In that girl’s blue eyes as I lift up that grand prize
She’ll notice me then, that pretty little thing and proudly wear my ring
The old John Deere will transform from a metal steed to a pickup I will need
For those kids who will be taught to heed, respect their elders and lay seed
We’ll live on a farm just like this one built on strong backs from generation
To generation hoping to build a better nation
Andreas Simic©
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
*Competing sounds turn
to white noise
Headlights sail down the Mill Road
An airplane off to Chicago
Southern railcars whine in route to
New Orleans
Big trucks on the four way , cars on the blacktop ,
firetrucks on the valley road , pickups on the highland ,
concrete thoroughfares , northsiders pay their tolls , commuter
rails scream from above
Jetliners mingle with the stars , a church for every bar ,
a lightning bug for every jar , a ne'er -do -well for every cop
car , white lightning for granny's "fruit jars"
The view of the Milky Way , the beginning of another day ,
deceased wildlife on the motorway , a new dog having his
day
John Deere's turning fields , poor folks making payments on
their light bill , newspeople in the know , laying hens all in a row
White noise divided specifically , chained pits growling maliciously , townsfolk stocking outdoor shelves , government
gorging on mans wealth* ...
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC
Have you ever done enjoyable work,
But toward supper time,
After a long, long day,
A satisfaction sets in,
Almost a fullness,
A readiness to stop for the day...
I know this feeling.
I understand Robert Frost's poem,
"After Apple Picking."
I loved haying on the ranch,
But after 14 hours' roaring up and down
Long alfalfa fields,
I was content,
Ready to shut down for the day,
Ready to climb down from the old John Deere,
Ready to walk, dusty, to the old truck
Waiting in growing darkness.
I recall listening for sounds of night coming on:
Crickets rasping against the cooling day,
Nighthawks' screeching, veering for insects,
Soul-mourning cries of coyotes,
All teamed against the ghosts of day:
Tractor's roaring echo in my ears,
Thumping memory of lurching over clods,
Dust clogging my itching eyes and throat....
The old tractor, too, was content
Sitting silently,
Cooling in the twilight.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 6:38 PM UTC