"farmed" poems
a cup of coffee
makes difference on
how you manage to make it
put your love into the cup of coffee
it makes it sweet
put a bit of hate and it becomes sour
every cup of coffee defines you and your personality
the way i make my coffee maybe different for you
but the coffee beans, the the milk, the way i make is same as you
but the chances of making the same coffee as i make is a zero because
every style, every cup makes a difference
every smell of the coffee,the style,the amount you put
everything is different
but you never realize the fact that
the cup of coffee
is
the same cup of coffee
whether you add something or remove
it remains the same cup of coffee
you never know how hard it is to make a cup of coffee
and yet you bark about it being bad
because you never seem to understand their people's hardwork
unless you feel it
even if its a cup of coffee
you enjoy it with a passionate love and care
HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR CUP OF COFFEE
because it's the same cup of coffee
that has been made by a diligent hardworker
putting his love and affection to his work
the very same coffee beans
that has been farmed by a diligent hardworking farmer
the very same milk that has been brought to you by hardworking milkman
you never cease to understand
how hard it is to make a cup of coffee with a smiley on it
because you never tried that
but but but you will still bark about it
even if its your fault
even if you know that
you should've hold the cup firmness
you understand everything once,
you throw your selfishness and
wait to admire the hard work ,the love,affection,the care that one cup of coffee brings you
and you realize that
a cup of coffee is not a cup of coffee
it's a world on how you decide to see it
Jul 5, 2018
Jul 5, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
upon the elephant rode a boy prince,
his royal command, he was there to evince.
dark with grace and dripping with youth.
bringing his men, his crown and his couth.
town after town he strode fierce through the gates.
and any detractors were left to cruel fates.
and on one windy day, as they strode into town.
the faces where tenfold and a hush passed around
the grey of the creature with knowing black eyes
swayed left towards the crowd as if to capsize.
and the mass gasped in horror; bairns seized by their mam.
men flung at young ladies, babes pulled from the pram.
the bewildered and flustered
tired elephant sat.
in the center of all on the bald pastors hat.
the old pastor looked stunned to see such a disgrace.
until he remembered, and composed his face.
'your highness' he bowed. his manners restored.
but the poor prince was toppled his mighty seat floored.
they gasped for the prince, just really a child
dressed in fine silks on this elephant wild.
pastor said, 'here now' extending an arm
hand wrinkled and gnarled from the land that he farmed.
then the guards sprung to life as if sudden awake
guns point to the man of whose life they would take.
and just as they squinted their eye for the aim
a boy sang out sweetly, 'sire he's not to blame!'
and the prince from street where he lay in pool
held up his hand and recovered his rule.
he looked at the crowd and he said 'boy now speak'
the boy said, 'prince it is the prayers that you seek.
the prayers that you'd visit. the prayers that you'd stay.
lord must of heard them and granted this way.'
his eyes wide with truth and the love of his church
the prince laughed a beautiful belly filled lurch.
the carriage was called as the prince shared a feast.
and even some water was splashed on the beast.
such a good time as he danced and he spun
till the horses arrived in the dust of a run.
to thank the town and the lovely haired boy
the young prince gave up his own precious toy.
the beast stays quite put in the center of town...
but prayers said no more...so the prince won't fall down.
sahn
04/10/2014
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
In the land of the practical
There lived an ornamental
A desert rose.
A farmers wife
Planted her
To break up
The graveled nap
Of gray caliche
And from the time
She pushed her first shoot up
She knew she
Didn’t look like
The other plants.
The land could not
Be farmed
There was no oil
So the farmer and his wife
Moved On
Leaving the rose alone
Amongst the desert cabbage
And the other wild succulents.
At first she tried
To blend
Curl her velvety leaves
Into a cabbage
Fodder
For the desert fauna
But the animals avoided her
Because she looked odd.
They worried that she was poisonous
So she crawled back
Underground.
But still she longed
For light on her face
So she stuck another shoot up
Conserving all her energy
For her stems
She didn't want to frighten anyone
But her stems grew thick and woodsy
Like a thorny fig vine
And after a hiker
Cut his leg
She curled up
And crawled underground.
Years passed
Until she was as frozen
As the ground
Then one day
She sensed movement
Above her.
She pushed a shoot up
And standing above her
Smiling
Was a young woman
- There you are
The woman cried
- Why are you hiding away
My grandmother told me
All About you.
You were the one bright spot
Of color in her garden
She could smell your perfume
From her window
And it reminded her that
Beauty could survive
Even in such
A drab place.
And the rose blossomed.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
I looked and saw frost on the pumpkin
Strange because it's July
I don't understand the frosted pumpkin
Can someone tell me why?
I've never seen it this cold in summer
Our old lows are now our new high
I looked and saw frost on the pumpkin
I still cannot figure out why
Birds flying over my back yard
Drop from the sky, all stone dead
There's no reason for this strange occurrence
So, I blame global warming instead
Crows and pigeons drop like missles
Hitting ground and just missing my head
What with this morning cold frost on the pumpkin
and now birds are dropping stone dead
You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head
A spot has appeared on my rib cage
Just a spot, nothing much, nothing strange
but, since I saw frost on the pumpkin
I keep watching the spot for a change
I used to play out in the sunshine
Now there is a scale, a safe range
I've a spot that just seems to get bigger
I think that my spot's started to change
Water is bottled in plastics
It's not safe to drink out of the tap
the rivers and streams are all dry now
And the trees hardly have any sap
The fish are all farmed in a warehouse
Where they don't swim upstream they swim laps
You can't swim around all the beaches
For the oil wells may blow a cap
You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head
My grass is a nice shade of brown now
I used to know my grass as green
But, they ban using water in May so,
The weeds are the only green thing that's seen
Pesticides, they are all natural
The government does not say what it means
You can go to the Parliament buildings
Because that's the only grass that is green
Dead birds and frosted up pumpkins
Dry rivers and lakes and dead grass
Say a prayer for them all this next Sunday
and an extra one too at the mass
There is no reason I know of
Don't worry, it will come to pass
That you will have to go to a museum
To see a live bird and green grass
You ask and they tell you don't worry
There's nothing to fear in the sky
It's normal that things like this happen
Things are all born just to die
Global Warming you must be quite crazy
It's a fallacy, it's all in your head
Don't worry about the stock market
Worry about birds hitting your head
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Yehudit stood
by the window
of the bedroom
looking out
at the garden below
Baruch lay
on the bed
taking in
her figure
standing there
after having
made love
in his bed
I like your apple orchard
she said
the blossom
makes it
so beautiful
not as beautiful
as you
he said
taking in
her nakedness
the sunlight touching
her profile
she smiled
the blossom
is more beautiful
than I am
she said
come back to bed
he said
she turned
and walked back
to the bed
and lay beside him
I’ll have to go soon
she said
your mother
will be returning
from her work soon
he watched her eyes
the flush
about her skin
I know
he said
guess we best
get dressed
and I’ll walk you
back home
she kissed him
and he caressed her
and she ran a hand
along his thigh
shame we have to go
she said
he kissed her
and said
can't risk being here
when Mother returns
or she'll put
2 +2 and come up
with 5
Yehudit sighed
and moved off
the bed
and began to dress
into her underclothes
and orange flower
patterned dress
he got up
and began to get dressed
looking at her nakedness
disappear into clothes
the memory
of their love making
fresh in his mind
her apple scent
her body supple
her peasant look
her simplicity
the kissing
the holding
the bodies interacting
ready?
he asked
she nodded
and they went down
the stairs
and out the back door
and along the path
by the apple orchard
and out the back gate
into the woods
there was birdsong
and a warm air
and smell of the farm
beyond the woods
back to work tomorrow
she said
my half day
spent making love
they kissed
and he walked her
through the woods
to her house
along the small road
at the edge of the field
by the farmed land
he holding her
peasant
warm hand.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
a polish pork head terrine?
my ******* god...
how can the jews and the muslims
take to culinary criticism of
their own, respective gods?
ever watch the t.v. show
billions? where they're having
breadcrumbs fried pork
ears?
last time i heard...
the best pork is encapsulated
within the pig cranium....
all that excess cartilage?
yummy finger licking good...
seems funny though...
it's not exactly discussing bone marrow...
it's pork head...
all that excess cartilage...
and mingled with sweet & sour
gherkins...
just my idea of Anastasia...
a porky's head...
chicken hearts / chicken livers....
raw Baltic herrings?
who the, **** needs to glorify
american hamburgers...
if not some jerking-off
megalomaniac?
you eat, what is given,
you don't ask for nuances,
you don't make excuses...
you eat what is on the plate..
you **** the omnivore "gimmick"...
pork head flesh,
meat mixed with cartilage?
tasty as ****
so why would islam
or the partial strand of judaism
be so critical concerning the most
economic carnivore animal being
farmed, herded, industrialised?
the monotheistic celebration of god...
within the confines of a criticism,
so trivial would make a god laugh...
it would appear the dogma was written as a joke...
earthquake and hurricane
are o.k., but pork?
the ******* bubonic plague!
i love how "god" is celebrated,
but at the same time,
kept under a critical acclaim
of having one of his creations,
namely pork...
given a punching bag status of criticism...
since, what is so ******* pristine,
and spectacular, about chicken, lamb
or beef meat?
according to islam... mad cow disease
never happened.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
We wring our veins
write to the stars
fight under the moon
words of passion tune
We write about love
when it seduced
then it wrestled
words of tension swim
Our words of time
moments gone and farmed
sorrows that overload
happiness that swoon
Prime time in the lonely time
when contentment permits
when heaven is locked
and when hell is unlatched
Prime time my bold friends
keep the pen readily primed
undoubtedly trust the script
It will lead to ultimate freedom
A dedication to all the poets here at HP
We write these words on and on, we capture moments, swim the
oceans, object in the courts, run free in the forests. We are not hexed
just keep writing for one time the primetime will be ours
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 3:56 AM UTC
In the midweek of twelves months I torched blunts and choked on wet smoke and chamomile tea.
Fretting the niggling giblets of a queasy disrememberance of a sober stroll through your tossed hair salad.
I managed to mangle the marvelous gross lust of our impending
delirium. i farmed bok choy to annoy our local siege. our muskets were polished with misdeeds.
our demons barked, all coy and ravenous in the sweet diffuse of our useless aplomb.
ginger rockets in our thespian numb. you Dis-Oriental surrogate Mom.
You.... flame folding cranes, like a Japanese cancer
with opposable thumbs.
Unstoppable in the dead wink
of an awkward eye
upon your heaving *******
You burn regardless.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
We were, almost, inseparable
They thought us twins
Before I went off to school
Leaving you behind
We had adventures
Wondering wild
All around our tiny home town.
We farmed monster *****
We carted around
Building them dams
In someone's muddy back yard.
You put the garden fork
Right through your foot
And ran all the way home
On your own.
I wonder if there is still a mark there.
I'd ask if we still spoke
Of anything other
than the weather like adults.
I'd ask
If you remember
The creature in the dam
That roared up out of the dark water
But turned into the quivering old bull
Who fell in.
He was still magical
And caught us that fat fish
we took home
And cooked up for supper
Hoofprint and all.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 2:17 AM UTC
oh i'm pretty sure on the Islamic
term: denier,
it's a prefix,
dis-,
dis- -ease:
which implies negation...
the negation of ease...
but i'm not interested in this...
nope...
i know what Islam
says about the, deniers,
the non-affiliate...
what, does, Islam,
call, the wavering hearts?
you heard me.
the doubters,
i do know what a prefix intends...
but do you?
camel jockey...
really?
what do you call a wandering heart?
a Shiite?!
******* Sunni ****
no; no what?!
what do, you, call,
doubters, in the Islamic faith?
i didn't, say, deniers,
i said, doubters....
what do you call, a doubter,
within, the confines,
of the, Islamic, faith?!
am i talking Hindi to you?
you're looking pretty *******
stupid to me, "auto-"suggesting,
that i expect an Arabic reply...
what, do you, call,
a doubter, of, Islam?
i know what a denier is...
what, do, you, call,
someone, who, doubts,
the faith, of, Islam?!
i'm simply asking...
tell me, the difference...
between someone
who doubts...
and someone,
who denies...
tell me...
what, is, the, difference...
oh **** me... and when i woke up,
people implied that all the people
were literate... like **** they were!
like a bunch of industrially
farmed pigs,
educated in the "arithmetic"
of the onomatopoeia of... OINK
i'm crazy enough, crazy plenty...
i fall asleep to
slayer's... raining blood...
give me a ******* tank
and i'm all stampede...
where?
where's where?!
if the "where" is nowhere
other than death?!
the "there" is, there!
and the "there"?!
is some-where...
you don't want to be,
here to fathom!
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC
Kathleen Avenue still has houses,
But people left, and trees were felled;
The canopy across the street
Has lost some limbs
And many feet
Of children
Playing hide and seek.
One house, a brown-shingled frame
Is aging there as are our names;
The front yard doesn't boast corn
That Daddy grew
When first we landed;
Not knowing neighbours were offended
With farming behind green picket fences.
so corn, cabbage and turnip too
were left to rot. Daddy knew to strike
when hot.
The locals weren't too much impressed
When Daddy taught them some respect.
The human smell of decaying turnip
Keeps my nose from turning up.
the front was never farmed again.
Recently, I passed that yard,
The picket fences gone;
And someone has a garden there,
The new arrivals,
If they care,
Really see the wisdom there.
I give a nod
To my Old Man,
An immigrant
Before his time.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Chaos, oh Chaos
May you bloom in the midst of summer
As a carnivorous flower
I would burn to see you
to see you catch fire
I would perish to see you
To see you melt our concrete hives
and our asphalt gardens
Would that your petals soar
would that your pollen melt
and your stem detach.
A nebula risen from the mud,
infused with anger and grafted with hatred.
May your desperation feed your flame
that its magnificence would grow and fulminate.
Finally to explode
and consume this miserable plantation
where order is farmed and harvested
like a common fruit.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
I know of a man who sells flowers-
cut with a sharp knife
they do not live too long, after that.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
The raging ram roaming realms
A bittersweet tale if I say so myself
That ***** got a demon's tail
it ain't good for your health
That dude uses it as a flail
prevail is what is exhaled
That young ram spits heat
Aint talking about rapping
I speak literally
That young ram eyes red
But he ain't high
Stony past burning hooves
He smoky,
but it ain't the cannabis smell or shroud
It's the smell of hell
The young ram got a plan yeah to hustle
The young ram got a plan realm rustle
The young ram glides from land
to land to land
to empower some sort of man
or men or man
and I don't understand about this young lamb
he got a demon in his face
and he goes against the grain of sand
maiming himself just for the wealth
owning everything
coming out from stealth
the burning ram says retreat
or don't...
I eat I am elite
the burning ram says hold still
ill ****
a mill
the burning ram finds your mam
put it in her ****
hotter than the slavery of sam
the burning ram was foreseen by am.
the plan?
the men have ran, words spoken in a tablet somewhere.
Desolation, we are bare,
the ram looks at us in disgust
we are the crust on the earth
core exploding opening doors
the ram will be adored
pity because it represents disorder,
chaos, chaos,
killing says it once and the days are hazing
the ram bending the realm of man
mentally what a riot.
In the end, the ram is lost in the density of infinity.
An exploding croft farmed for human thought.
Far out
Fantasy
Mars droughts
Deseret land
Bars found
Feathered fans
of flames burnings lands
rays coming from the skies
Imploding,
Arising
Exploding
Mantle
Core
Arising
Like a
Titanic
Phoenix
Coming alive
Wicked eyes
Burning song
Live long
Live long
Another cycle
Ressurection
Recurring
Spirit in a dream
Molded by the first impression
Aroma tremendous
Weighs heavy on the pretentious
Live and learn and get burned
Breaking crust, core spewing lava as I arise
Hypnotised by my flow, I smirk when they say I am going to die
**** em now eat em later, chronic masturbater
Dilated eyes, 3 in which I don't mind, I own the mind I own the mind
Shove a trident down her spine and blow herb till the pine grime off here behind
Put the pedal to the extreme for miles on end gotta make my ends gotta make my ends till the end my friend oh friend oh
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
I did not look back following the light.
As copper chimed in the rooting cellar
Of the morn, my heart muffled in delight,
Still in shroud, my father farmed the water.
Set his son to love and the kindred waters,
That man of fire swelled, plumbed with pride,
Made of self, stride and hollow pipes to solder
His starry hands and elbows panicle the sky,
But I, being water sign, a young Orpheus
Born in the underworld, found music and words
And maidens of air and earth and wanderlust
To the sun I ran, my fathers call not heard.
I did not look back following the light
Until my love called delivering the night.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
I did not look back following the light.
As copper chimed in the rooting cellar
Of the morn, my heart muffled in delight,
Still in shroud, my father farmed the water.
Set his son to love and the kindred waters,
That man of fire swelled, plumbed with pride,
Made of self, stride and hollow pipes to solder
His starry hands and elbows panicle the sky,
But I, being water sign, a young Orpheus
Born in the underworld, found music and words
And maidens of air and earth and wanderlust
To the sun I ran, my fathers call not heard.
I did not look back following the light
Until my love called delivering the night.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
we're starched,
ironed, tailored
and hemmed,
expunged of
the extraneous.
cut down to size,
sprayed through
a stencil, and
molded to fit.
stamped and
cookie-cut,
branded
and broken.
no place for a square
in a city of circles.
no, no place at all.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:36 AM UTC
Doctored in genetic cauldrons
for wine seeking solace in perfection
engineered tactfully within testtubes
of formulae
extracted and compressed
its testicles removed
the grape rendered impotent.
how strange
that we surgically implant
and speak to inner workings
to consumerise
everything we need.
chickens battery farmed
cows turf grassed
pigs in poultry cages
men in monkey suits
playing god in the paddocks of doom.
maybe we should
just leave things alone
and nature will be fine.
Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:25 PM UTC
i value
GOD
as the source of our knowledge
and take their
slanders
with a pinch of salt
knowing for full sure and certain
HE is real
HIS WORD makes MATTER so
for knowledge
where else would one go?
but to the ONE who KNOW
LOVE LOVE LOVE
ALL WE NEED IS GOD TO LOVE
LOVE OF GOD
THANKS SO MUCH
FOR EVERYTHING
in this beautiful garden
valley of tears
energising inanimate objects in which i type with mud and water on mud on water
flowering out of this mud
farmed to eat the mulberry bush
for the secret i on
LOVELOVELOVE
May 22, 2023
May 22, 2023 at 11:38 AM UTC
( Sonnet )
I did not look back following the light.
As copper chimed in the rooting cellar
Of the morn, my heart muffled in delight,
Still in shroud, my father farmed the water.
Set his son to love and the kindred waters,
That man of fire swelled, plumbed with pride,
Made of self, stride and hollow pipes to solder
His starry hands and elbows panicle the sky,
But I, being water sign, a young Orpheus
Born in the underworld, found music and words
And maidens of air and earth and wanderlust
To the sun I ran, my fathers call not heard.
I did not look back following the light
Until my love called delivering the night.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
An early twentieth century kind of thing
But sometimes my hope feels like
a battery hen, factory farmed
Nearly featherless, since molting makes
her produce more eggs
Crowded so she cannot move
De-beaked so she cannot defend herself
A slow death for about three
years until she is gassed
in a small container
A product, not an animal
a unit, not a senseate being
Hope is a thing with feathers
But when all the feathers are gone
only the hope of rescue remains
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
at a glimpse i clock the sky
a curtain's been draped
and we are all shaded
all of nature shares one direction
narrowing on the horror :
a munking and blotted violation
the sun has filled with dark ink
an embolism out of the order of life
voiding over us
over the city
the world described beyond
all voided over
i fall
dropped
and shucked
the people around me go simple
dumb and bound with crimple gawps
we are mugged by the sight
i feel like a farmed over minefield
furrows being turned
trotted out
anointed fears climb my throat
it is a show sung ill
sol
darker sunk
than its surrounding leadened soak
yet ringed tightly with an annihilating halo
practical thought becomes clotted
and my primal processor is tinkered with
evil witterings squirrel about in my thinker
my being is topped up with depravity
i must surely **** someone ?
but who..
(that kid with drool ? /
that business suit with brand name trainers ?)
and for what reason ?
i madly stare about
look at them ; so human and null
potential victims all
raking in snapshots of this ecliptic venom
adding to the vat collective online
Prune The Brutes !
it is The Eighth Day and I know my role
Ha !
such livid thoughts scheme
i shall wait out this exposure looked down upon
take some pics with the others
perpetrate goodly behaviour
mimic the tossers
pass through the ordeal
with communal protection
and live another day
happy slapped
with fresh mad
thought
Apr 18, 2022
Apr 18, 2022 at 12:28 PM UTC
( Sonnet )
I did not look back following the light.
As copper chimed in the rooting cellar
Of the morn, my heart muffled in delight,
Still in shroud, my father farmed the water.
Set his son to love and the kindred waters,
That man of fire swelled, plumbed with pride,
Made of self, stride and hollow pipes to solder
His starry hands and elbows panicle the sky,
But I, being water sign, a young Orpheus
Born in underworld, found music and words
And maidens of air and earth and wanderlust
To the sun I ran, my fathers call not heard.
I did not look back following the light
Until my love called delivering the night.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC