"farmhand" poems
It was the watermelon diet, he said
That's what killed me
A lie as ripe as the freshest rind
Listen to the man
He was there at my deathbed
Though he never cared for my diet
It was the watermelon diet
not some virus
That consigned me to the Gods
The watermelon diet
Why now do they doubt my exotic pallet?
They've turned a blind eye to everything else
until now
For months, I guzzled nothing but sweet watermelon
Fat mounds of flesh between my greedy cheeks
The sheer volume of water left me bloated
Before I shed an immense amount of baggage
What else could be to blame?
Enough of your questions and on to the cremation
We'll see whether watermelon burns immortal
It began in Africa- no lie there
And comes in seedless varieties
I never planted mine
Though I wasn't want for trying
I can still taste the bitter juices as I lay here in my crypt
An artful coroner smelt a rat
Or a chance- to prove his mettle
Never heard of any watermelon diet
This is Palm Springs not Papa Nu Guinea
A sample of tissue foiled our grand conspiracy
Same thing that got Rock Hudson
But they kept a straight face
Kept to the story, mindful of my legacy
I'm not just any ******
Takes something grand and elaborate to dispose of me
An immigrant farmhand once told me “watermelon cure the AIDS”
And I believed him
At least that's what I'd have you believe
End
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Along the lane
towards Diddling
you stopped
and looked
at the church
on the horizon
between
the hedgerows
beneath
the blue
and white
clouded sky
Jane
stood next to you
her hand
holding yours
the softness
of her skin
against yours
her dark hair
tied
by a green ribbon
one of my favourite sights
she said
the church
becoming
more visible
the closer you get
her voice disturbed
birdsong
from the hedgerows
a blue ***
took flight
the flutter
of small wings
we never had hedgerows
in London
you said
no blue *** birds
no wide fields
or Downs
just streets
and houses
and pavement
and grass
around our flats
where pigeons
or sparrows
settled
for thrown out
bread
from windows above
Jane gazed at you
her dark eyes
focusing
I’d hate that
she said
I love my countryside
and fields
and birds
and open sky
she sniffed
the air
and you walked on
along the lane
she pointed out
wildflowers
and hedgerow plants
and talked
of the farmhand
who died
when his tractor
turned over
in a field
and the first time
she remembered
visiting
the small church
and her father
holding her high
above his head
so she could see
the expanse
of the Downs
and you listened
to her words
the language
holding you
and drawing you in
her lips opening
and closing
her summer dress
moving
as she walked
her sandaled feet
treading the lane
you wanted
to captured it all
to recall it
years later
all over
again.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:31 AM UTC
Plant a fertile garden in summer & harvest all of the fruits and vegetables.
PIckle all of the vegetables.
preserve all of the fruits-leave some
Apples for pie.
Place pickles and preserves in the darkness of the root cellar.
Order How to ****** a Farmhand in 10 Days from the book catalogue.
Order the Art of War also just in case
Invite Handsome Jimmy Pike from the neighbouring farm over for pie.
Get Uncle Abe to cover the dirt floor with planks.
As Mama always said a frozen dirt floor is just for the dirt poor.
Bake Pie. Place on windowsill.
Waft the smell
Of hot pie over toward the woodpile where Uncle Abe is chopping wood.
Invite Jimmy to play Gin Rummy the evening when Uncle Abe is mysteriously ill of a stomach complaint and sleeping in the barn.
Show Jimmy Uncle Abe's tongue and groove method of log cabin construction.
Ask Jimmy to show me the **** and pass method of using unmilled logs to **** up against each other without notching.
Spike Jimmy's tea with ***
Show Jimmy the root cellar.
**** up against Jimmy with notching.
WITH LOTS OF NOTCHING.
Fall pregnant.
Tell Uncle Abe and have a shotgun wedding.
Bake another special pie.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
A farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...a jittery candle-lit sun reenters the
chased oils of its pastoral painting.
A teetering haunt fleshed out...to see
through the sense of place...a movement
of images that will never be seen.
An inflection of a voice that will never be
heard...the imperceptible relationship
between opacity and transparency.
Forever to be taken away by *****
merely passing through...passing away...
a farmhand skips the afar of the perceiving
end...open endedly.
A jittery candle-lit sun reenters the chased
oils of its pastoral painting...a bird's ellipse,
counterpointed by amazing graces.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
In this farmhand garden
I spray out words
To be avocados.
Tomatoes. Anything green
Red or yellow. A gaming
Meadow with me as its
Lyrical rancher. I pick out the bad
Roots to be made into weird clothing
And picnic lanterns.
Because you can't have a good picnic
Without the freshness of the growers
Garden..
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Oh follow me now
where the barrels were hid
for these are mistakes,
and the peasants are dead
Listen to gunshots
echo so slow
these are the dead children
of the Future of Old
And if, you lay, me down
stand up beside the lonesome playground.
Speak to the street vendor,
ask for your change.
Pray for the autumn wind to
wash for the rain
Shall I make do
while they're laughing at you?
Throw it away and go
kiss the Sun for blinding fame.
Will you feel the eyeballs
that make you so high?
Throw it back at them,
and you can kiss it goodbye.
Will you forbid
what the graverobber digs
or will you awaken
the farmhand's pigs?
Neptune's white mistress
holds out shattered stone.
She speaks so softly.
This is her new home.
And for forever more
shut your wives out, avoid petty ******
Wash down your happiness
with a cognac of love.
Feel sin around you,
it fits like a glove
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
Last wish
The old guy lay in hospital, his family round the bed;
listening to his dieing wish
& this is what he said.
“I've always been a farmhand & mucked out barn & stable.
I've done my bit, at shiftin' ****
to put food on the table.
You need to know, before I go, don't let me be cremated.
It's something I've thought long about
– a thought I've always hated.
Bury me by the cowshed, among the old bluebells.
There, let me lay, 'til judgement day,
amid the farmyard smells.
Yes, bury me under the dung-heap,
although it seems absurd.
Far better than cremation
-I wish to be inturd!”
Briz 6/6/13
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 9:43 AM UTC
Take a bite of my pie
Gramps will take a
Bite of your
Eye, take a bite of
My apple, my farmhand
Will rip kick tackle.
Take a bite of my
Bird, you will end
Up with my hound
Dogs turds
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
momma said she found me
ten steps from heaven’s porch,
nestled in bloodied saw grass, flickering
fireflies circlin’ like anxious cherubs.
i forgot what i was doing out there—
waist-deep between heaven and hell,
sleeping in Shiloh where bones
rattle and beetle shells fixed with chitin
hum steadily in the dead heat.
“you too young to die,” she says to me,
face all red and sunburned and marred
with tears. sadness becomes a part of her,
alongside mother, and farmhand, and guilt,
and miracle.
my memories slip past me on copper scales,
swimming underneath the current. i am ten
again, wading in the river, pockets full of
rocks and sea glass. i am twenty and the river
has become a fragile stream. i am thirty and
there is nothing but dirt.
i feel my childhood bleeding out of me,
a mix of red crayons, red paper plates
cradling birthday cakes, red kick-balls
at recess, red tulips pressed into my
sister’s cold hands.
momma said she found me
ten steps from heaven’s porch,
just out of reach of the lamplight,
where i left my childhood.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
I had ridden back from work
that Saturday midday
with Milka's brothers
and we parked our bikes
in the farmyard
and Yaakov said
want to come in
for a coffee?
Sela said
and see Milka
while you're there
he laughed
and we all went in
the farm house
and their mother fussed
and asked me
what I would like
and treated me like a son
and said
sit down Benny
and so I sat
and waited
for the boys
to change out
of their work clothes
I have made
a fruit cake Benny
would you like some?
their mother asked
that'd be nice
I said
and watched
as she moved
about in the kitchen
is Milka about?
I asked
she's out with her dad
they've gone to market
o ok
I said
they'll be back soon
she said
she handed me
some cake on a plate
and mug of coffee
Milka likes you
her mother said
but I told her
to take things steady
as she's only 16
and there's plenty
of time ahead of her
I looked at Milka's mother
as she fussed about
in the kitchen
putting a ***
on the stove
clearing away others
yes plenty of time
I said
trying not to think
how Milka and I
nearly got caught
in bed the other week
when I was alone
in the farmhouse
with her
she has all these fancies
about her how much
she wants children
where she wants to live
and so on
the mother said
I told her
Benny's only
a young man yet
he doesn't want
all that at his age
I ate the cake
nodded
and thought of Milka
rushing to get dressed
in her room
while her mother
talked with a farmhand
in the farmyard
or the time
at my place
one Friday
during my lunch hour
at my house
while all others
were out
she lying there
on my single bed
and I kissing her
from neck down
plenty of time
Milka's mother said
they've no sooner
left dolls behind
and they want real babies
she smiled
and I smiled
then ate the cake
and sipped the coffee
while Milka's mother
put some things away
trying to think
of other things
other than Milka lying there
completely bare.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
The feds take my sibs land
The feds take the rural land
The feds steal it right under your nose
You get played, you don't even know.
The feds **** the livestock and cattle
The ranchers are planters being slaughtered in battle.
The FBI murders and kill's my family
The coastlines are barren
Birds fall out of the sky,
Experiment from the administration's control testing.
Property is disappearing
From right under your nose
Better wake up
You'll be the next host.
The FBI is taking my farmhand's good's
The CIA deals green leaf
And ****** mud.
They tell us their helping
They tell us its good.
Would of could of
Do something for good!
Do something now
American public,
We have run out of time
We're broke on the budget.
Take to the flag
By which you once stood.
Take to the grab
Of gun supplies, go to the
Woods.
Take back your homes
Be the knights of your day
Persecution's started
It's not far from your gaze.
Do something now
American kid
Your grandpa was probably once a farmer
And you'll be next on the feds list.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
Jane showed me
the tombstone
of the farmhand
who had fallen
under his tractor
the year before
a few wild flowers
were placed
in a jam jar
in front
his wife and daughter
are still in
the tied cottage
Jane said
but they'll need
to move out soon
once the local council
finds them
somewhere to live
I looked
at the words
on the small stone
I didn't know him well
she added
he was a quiet man
cows mooed
from a nearby field
I looked at Jane
next to me
he was only 35
I said
quite a few men
die in the way he did
on the land
she said
she knelt down
and placed
a few cowslips
in the jam jar
and tapped them
into shape
she stood up
and we walked
around the church
and along the path
onto the narrow road
between
the high hedgerows
birds sang
the sun shone
down on us
how's your father doing?
she asked
he's ok
he likes his work
in the woods
keeps him fit
he says
I said
we stood in
by the hedge
as a tractor
went by
she smelt of apples
as I got close
to her
her dark hair
was tied
in a ponytail
her dark eyes
gazed at me
the tractor sped
along the narrow road
towards the farm
I wanted
to kiss her
but I didn't
I looked at the sky
where rooks flew
overhead
but dreamed
that night
that I kissed her
inside my head.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
“I am that of a rugged farmhand quite,
Adept to love cordially,
As that alone of a man and the sea,
Created in the depths of the ocean floor,
Envisioning you brought me to the earth,
Leaping bounds in wonder of the sunlight you bring,
As if on the back of a blackbird disgorged from his beak,
Adjacent the swampy sand shore with crushing waves,
Body of not a dowager but of a celestial woman,
I could survive this if this was not a delusion,
I could utilize my feelings as a weapon to elude her to me,
She will be in my arms I know when the time is right,
The hour of reprisal abates and I know I love this matron,
I will prevail in the elegance of this beautiful deity,
Darkness falling upon us as I thirst for immutable desire,
A silk white obis garb of roses beneath the garment,
Our voices assessing words and then our merriment of fervor,
As the ennui follows joy jaded our eyes vision of Passion”
By AG 04/26/2018 ©
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 7:01 PM UTC
Get down from there, my old man said,
before you hurt yourself.
Me and Little Sis were playing
in the hayloft where all the bales
were piled up high- so high
they liked to touch the barn roof.
I always liked to play
in the fortress the bales made,
like the castles and forts
in the picture book on Grandma's shelf
in the parlor. Pa and Grandpa
worked all day getting in the hay,
and when the day was done
they would sit in the parlor
and take turns drinking from the jug
on the shelf. After a while they would
start singing and cracking jokes
and acting kind of foolish,
and Grandma would holler at them
and tell them to act their age,
and when they got all tuckered out
Grandma would put the cork back in
the jug and put it back on the shelf.
One time I was out playing in the barn,
and I heard voices in the hayloft,
sort of a rustling sound, and now and then
a giggle, and I looked and saw
Big Sis and the farmhand playing
in the hay, and they saw me and
yelled at me, telling me to go away
and leave them alone. Later on
I saw where Big Sis was getting kind of fat
in the belly, and I said something
about it, and Big Sis got all mad
and threw her milk cup at me.
Pa said something like that's what happens
when girls make hay on their own,
and Grandma said that ain't
the right kind of hay to make,
and Big Sis got kind of red in the face.
I only ever saw Pa and Grandpa
make the hay, and when I asked them
what it all meant, they only chuckled,
and told me to go out and play.
I guess maybe I'll figure it out someday.
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 5:51 PM UTC
***** boy's like ***** toy's, a farmer's hand's pick ***** dirt, a farmer's hand's need the water's squirt. A farmer's hand's pick tomatoes ripe, the farmer's hand's are awake at night.
The farmer's hand's have been places you couldn't imagine going.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
A cottage spell, snail shells
and sycamore leaves under my nails,
I am dreamlike,
Pressed linens reek of lavender.
The mirror on your dresser is cracked~
Was it a stray dove?
Foxgloves press against sugarpanes,
a rose garden bends to listen closer.
This apricot pudding is my third lover.
Swathe me in ****** lambswool,
blush my cheeks with grass stains.
as I say I am, the sky makes me so,
I kiss the farmhand blondly, pinkly,
My eyelashes are tangled and my hairbrush gleams like a dark spider.
And in the morning,
the hills swallow me up,
I want to be at one with stone walls and cow cud.
To stem and bud like a funeral rose,
Loving Ad Infinitum.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 1:29 PM UTC
I knew a farmer once, every day he'd wake at 5
and work til 5 to
His skin grew think on his hands and began to crack,
through here his soul grew.
Little blades of grass pushing out
as if the longing for rest
was forcing itself into the world
as days grew cold and nights longer
the ground became harsh as he shoveled through.
His bones told stories of countless hours worked
and his eyes, cold and tired, left stories behind.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
The farmhand burns the leaves, though the bodies of slaves
Lie at heaven’s impasse in the trees of dying looks, barring them
From peaceful death, the sad emulsified perch of love and heat,
Hung at noon like John Brown untended, bearded of sticky summer,
Heavy-headed swinging noon and the smell of honeysuckle blood,
Fetid day like the coming dirt of graves, the clinging air of disease,
Snake-winding down from the trees with no pleasure of the bitten apple.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 3:19 PM UTC
Under a raw red dusting of sky
stands the old man's dream.
"Colts want breaking, first thing,"
he says, chewing his words like fatback.
The mare stands mute within her stall,
neighing softly for her son.
The old man grabs the bridle of the colt,
leading it down the slope of the corral-
But the beast is having none of it.
Electric is the blood within his breast,
a living wire of flesh. He stampedes
through the dirt, dragging the old man,
the rope's harsh friction slashing at his palms.
I see the colt, now fully charged,
tearing through the fence,
a frail and helpless wire electrified.
"Leroy!" I hear my mother cry behind me
as the old man tumbles in the dust.
*** over teakettle," grunts the farmhand,
gnashing at his plug like fodder.
Ripped and bleeding, the colt's flank lies open.
"Aw hell," my father says, as he lies,
benumbed, covered with dust,
under a raw red dusting of sky.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
They built the thing in the wrong **** direction, you know.
The “sun field” being home plate, and come late afternoons
Every pitch a potential life-and-death experience
For hitter and catcher alike
(One young Mets farmhand, in a fit of sheer exasperation,
Actually came to the plate in full catcher’s garb.)
Still, it was—well, at least once a upon a time—just a short hop
From Pittsfield to The Show, and any old timer
Will gladly talk your ear off about how Kenny Brett,
Barely a year out of high school, don’t you know,
Went straight from here to The Impossible Dream
(Though Kenny, so improbably young in all their memories
Is long since dead now, gone like the boom-times
Before GE shut down,
Leaving nothing behind but poisons in the Housantonic.)
That is all memory, though, the park’s fortunes
Fading hand-in-hand with the city’s,
Inhabited by low-level minor league clubs
Where one player a summer
Might get his Crash Davis moment in the sun,
And later indie-league teams with kids and hangers-on,
All barely good enough to dream.
Now there is only a summer league for low-ceiling college kids,
The old wooden grandstand,
Still standing out of some implausible stubbornness
(Last living World War One veteran,
Some local lifer will invariably say, cackling and spitting
Though their ranks thinned each year
By the siren song of trailer parks in Orlando and hip fractures)
Now dotted with a group of locals,
Quirky minor-league aficionados and a cluster of area scouts,
Who, on the odd occasion of something noteworthy on the field,
Will make a show of pulling out a stopwatch or radar gun
(Though they are aware they are here
With the lowest-common-denominator expectations,
Looking for organizational types,
Middle relievers and fifth outfielders to fill out rosters)
But most of the time, they simply huddle together
Talk quietly,speaking in inaudible tones
The words of some dead and inscrutable language.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 7:47 PM UTC
Love is in the air
It's everywhere
OOO I'm losing you
But we win against ISIS
and I wouldn't worry about certain people
being drips or even our sissis
Not that we really do,
Some of us at least,
Or if there's rhyme or reason
to the rock group Little Feat
I'm sure the dust will clear
on the Jimmy Dean - John Wayne
duel delusions of some of us.
That we'll be more grateful
for simple love demonstrated
and won't feel we have to be registrated
for all the latest raffles
life will be one big successful raffle
and not for us a big hassle
and l'll look up an old Yankees farmhand
that sounded good to me on the Internet
Bobby Lasko
Love, love is in the air.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 3:32 PM UTC