"farmhands" poems
There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. Dorothy's Kansas never looked so comforting, her black and white world never so safe--never so flat, so barren.
Didn't she learn her lessons? She caused such trouble! She gave Auntie Emm such a fright! That bump on the head must have caused her brain damage. After the "big storm" was only a memory, and the terrible twister only a town tale, Dorothy did it again.
She ventured out on her own.
Yet Mrs. Gulch was still a witch. And Dorothy's "nasty, little dog" still got into the garden. The sheriff was ready to track her down and clamp down on her for good! Running home frantically for help, Dorothy realized that Auntie Emm was still too busy ******** at her shiftless farmhands, henpecking tired, old Uncle Henry,
and he was just too cranky to care. The farmhands were supposed to be her friends, but they just started crabbing at her again.
They soon gave her what for. "Dot, didn't you learn a thing in life?" "Didn't we rescue you once from a pigpen?" "That heart of yours leads you in the wrong direction! " "Where are your brains, anyway?"
Heartbroken, naive Dorothy realized something that was quite profound. Her heart was always in the right place--she just needed the courage, the courage to know she was smart enough to make it on her own. So Dorothy packed her bags, especially remembering her red ruby slippers. She would never forget her loyal friend and sidekick, her beloved pooch, Toto. If she was going, he was going with her.
So there she stood, suitcases in hand, in her bleak, little, colorless world. Terrified, she stood upon the precipice. Fear or faith? And all of a sudden she was noticed again! Just what was she doing? Who did she think she was fooling? Was she crazy!?
"You'll never make it!", they all warned. "You don't know the first thing about how to live in a Technicolor world!"
"Sorry, I do love you", Dorothy answered back. "But I disagree and I will forward you my new address". So off she went finding the path down the yellow brick road.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 3:54 AM UTC
East Hall Coop purrs, caged
in tough chicken wire. Third story Beta beaks cluck from their nest, threatening crickets nestled
in the humid grass finding shelter
from rowdy farmhands marching
the birds to slaughter. Cattail stems, moonshine bottles, even colored gloves straight from the box lie in the grass.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Walking through a field of kale
Jane in front and you following behind
brushing on your hands over
the dew damp leaves
breathing in the morning air
she looking around
in case the farmer
or one of his farmhands
sees you wander
through the tall kale
you notice she has a slight wiggle
as she walks ahead
not intentional
not like some of the girls at school
you put on the wiggling hips
to attract the boy’s searching eyes
it’s just a natural movement
and you watch and take in
the decisive tread she makes
maybe in fear of mouse
or just cautious of doing damage
to the kale’s green stems
then she pauses and turns around
facing you and says
I come here sometimes
and sit amongst the kale
just to be alone and away
from the pressures
and eyes of others
you nod and say
it gets like that sometimes
and as you speak
your eyes move over her face
and at her eyes
and the way her hair
is neatly brushed
and her lips parted slightly
as if about to speak
mother warmed me of boys
she says looking over your shoulder
at the farm beyond
she says they’re not to be trusted
then she pauses
and looks you in the eyes
and oh you mutter inwardly
the way she looks
the way her eyes
move over me like an artist’s brush
and you sense
a kiss waiting to happen
lips paused to press
tongues ready to explore
each other’s orifice
warm and wet
but nothing happens
and you both walk on
through the dew damp kale
hoping for another time
another fresh dawn
another sexier now.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:02 AM UTC
thunder cackles in the morning
a witch is a woman
with any amount of wisdom
your words are as bland as coffee
and the dandelions are talking
for i am permanently amused
by vicissitudes and antelopes
and aggregates of moods
feelings and isotopes
hanging by psychotropic ropes
firmly financed by our fingertips
lifetimes triangulated in transitions
farm the fallow fields
and try to heal the poppies
dropping numbers
and putting aside our copies
a simulacrum of similes and shortages
as field mice and farmhands
dance on saturn’s rings
despite all of jupiter’s complexities
your complexion is never shallow
and i swallow seawater
to embrace the sweet finality of life
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 9:27 PM UTC
Sparse farmlands spread out below
scattered popcornish clouds;
a farmer's harrow;
his sun-baked, callous-caked hands;
two or three farmhands idling.
One hundred thousand rectangles:
property lines
from a 737's window.
West Illinois looks legal
from 30,000 feet.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 6:23 PM UTC
Tension builds on the western front
The Slopes moan in horrific altitude
Sorry to break the news.
Tension slaps the western
Face, the soil is moldy
The planets forming in ghastly trace.
Everyone knows it though noone sais it.
We're doomed, keeping a shotgun on the side keeping the suns
Memory in my mind, I've got a bunker, trust me, its better then bombs and gloom. I have come to the diddly widdly conclusion, I wont be trapped on the governments map, I won't be
In confusion. They'll bring us delusion, pin others against mothers, the west has seen this coming a long time comin. Lock and load boys, let the second amendment be kept to its name, light the matches, light the torches, darkfall will plague our land, were already plagued. Many things to be staged, farmhands are losing their lands, ranches are being stolen, golden tongues from hypocritical bums, will make some dumbed in conclusion. This old flesh will stay loosened, knock knock who's there? Gramps! Get out#theres noone here.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC
I come from the low-downs,
The after parties and the mornings,
Tough to wake up from.
I come from fast, domestic cars
Driving ninety miles per hour
Away from problems
Down country back roads in Saxesville;
I come from beaten children.
I come from down under and up top-
Places where it would literally be
A miracle
To meet anyone new.
I come from a son and a daughter,
A brother and a sister- Friends
But only from a distance.
I come from moments where, suddenly,
It gets serious and quiet
And everyone stares.
I come from falling phonebooks
And martini glasses,
Dry, with two olives.
I came to accompany my brother.
I came from farmhands and family babies
First borns and middle borns
I came from children who grew up
Too fast.
I came from a man and a woman
And I came to find my own way
In lieu of theirs.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 2:28 PM UTC
Remember when you were a kid
And you would spend the summers at Mama and Papa's?
When ---- was pushing you onto the bed
And you farted in her face?
Remember even further back to Christmas at Uncle ----'s old house
When you headbutted *----
Remember when what was *----'s was yours
And what was yours was *----'s, sometimes?
And *---- always had the cooler toys,
So you'd come out on top anyway
Remember when you visited the Philippines
And all you wanted was to spend time with Lolo
So you did?
You had the farmhands catch a chicken and **** it so that you could cook it.
Then you'd hang out with them and play pool to look cool.
You took a cigarette from a pack of what you now know were Parliaments.
Remember walking down Cochin
And telling Lolo to stop smoking?
He's tell you that it was okay because he was old.
Well now he's still old
And with cancer.
And now you smoke and refuse to stop.
Remember when you promised to stop hurting ----?
But no matter what, you'd end up in her room at night.
You'd call yourself a monster
Make yourself sick
But nothing changed, not until you got caught.
Remember the first time you hit someone?
You got him in the stomach, like the ******* coward you are.
Look even further back , you pounced on that same kid, pinning him to the ground
Remember, in high school, you got into your fist real fight?
Some ******* was throwing ***** in the locker room,
Hit a **** *********
And blamed you.
The **** took the ball and hit you.
Remember seeing red and losing control?
Do you remember? I do.
I remember because I am you.
I am the selfish, violent, sex-crazed machine of a man you have become.
I am the monster that glares back when you look into a mirror.
I am every vice embedded in ever fiber of your being.
I am you, remember?
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
The rich man might just believe
He can buy all he ever wants
But he didn’t do it all alone
No matter how he flaunts.
The factory that bought him
His mansion and his yacht
Exists because he had plain folk
To build him what he’s got.
The litter bearers took him
Wherever he wanted to go.
The farmhands used their strength
To *** fields and make them grow.;
Mechanics and the engineers
Are who made his fine wheels turn.
So, why is this such a hard lesson
For the rich among us to learn?
Without us they are nothing,
Just overdressed blowhards
With rich antecedents and
A stacked deck of cards.
Not every poor person would
Know how to handle great wealth
But maybe could try if it weren't
For their talent and great stealth.
Something happens to rich people
When they deal with the poor.
They forget about their Bible
And what that teaching is for.
Some forget the Torah and
Yet others forget the Quran
As if those who speaks of decency
Are a political also-ran.
So I should be forgiven if I
Wish they fail at their work
And they have to toil in the field
Like those of us they call jerks.
I wish their wives had to
Patch their household clothes
Then pray the place they live in
Is not subject to be foreclosed.
We once had a government
That worked hard in our favor
To rescue us from carpetbaggers
But now they’re a much nastier flavor.
After almost a century of work
To build a nation for the common good
Programs are being thrown out by
A batch of Congressional deadwood.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
Daybreak and weathered men with their fermented drinks,
make way for the morning.
Doorways dimly lit beyond the ruins of lesser worlds,
older boys laughing aloud,
Near the honest sun
and the absent clouds.
The mesa seemed heavy as birds shimmered above-
whats their place in all this land?
Mornings were always cold
even while sunbeams flourish,
The farmhands copper in color, congregate near cattle, pipes in hand, hoping for good days ahead.
Oct 29, 2018
Oct 29, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
Autumn is the priest of pride.
Her shadows lifts a gentle fragrance
that farmhands duly celebrate.
The coffin makers drink a sweet nectar
that lifts their souls.
The milkmaid idolises memories of her first love.
August is this flame
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 4:33 AM UTC