"farmland" poems
Only on me, the lonely one,
The unending stars of the night shine,
The stone fountain whispers its magic song,
To me alone, to me the lonely one
The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds
Move like dreams over the open countryside.
Neither house nor farmland,
Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me,
What is mine belongs to no one,
The plunging brook behind the veil of the woods,
The frightening sea,
The bird whir of children at play,
The weeping and singing, lonely in the evening, of a man secretly in love.
The temples of the gods are mine also, and mine
the aristocratic groves of the past.
And no less, the luminous
Vault of heaven in the future is my home:
Often in full flight of longing my soul storms upward,
To gaze on the future of blessed men,
Love, overcoming the law, love from people to people.
I find them all again, nobly transformed:
Farmer, king, tradesman, busy sailors,
Shepherd and gardener, all of them
Gratefully celebrate the festival of the future world.
Only the poet is missing,
The lonely one who looks on,
The bearer of human longing, the pale image
Of whom the future, the fulfillment of the world
Has no further need. Many garlands
Wilt on his grave,
But no one remembers him.
9.5k
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
I am prey to the unyielding Sun
here in this open field
void of shade
holding precious pieces
untouched for 140 years
200 acres of Virginia farmland beneath my feet
where bullets flew
where strong men screamed
and the soil looked as if it had rained blood
death can come quickly or painfully slow
A soldier rips the Eagle breastplate from his chest
and throws it to the ground where I am standing
and here in the sweltering heat
of a calm June afternoon
I pull it from its resting place
no longer shining
140 years removed
from the failing heart
beneath it
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 2:11 PM UTC
The left of center
are in north bound throes of a dupe
and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel,
in the morrow
my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal
While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills
a power rain this sobbing has spilled
No longer to be contained based on sheer will
Attacked by neurotic transcending
While sifting through files and photo stacks
Came across multiples of your smiling face
From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back
No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace
Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears
control lost during transport steer
Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest
Could make great sense to don a life vest
Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose
Shattering cascades diamondize the windows
A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake
If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make,
turning tragedy into a foolish mistake
people will curse and laugh
Paved over roads now films unseen
when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed
Elements effected by incidents
Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65
All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
between my thoughts
she streaks like eyes
down lines of farmland
razed for tithes
a naked field
to the nines
dressed up in sunsets
through ribbed spines
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
This song it ain't bout country things
Like pickup trucks and cars
You'll never find me writing
About getting drunk in bars
There's no mention here of Taylor Swift
or The Charlie Daniels Band
I wouldn't write of how the banks
are taking our farmland
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff
like hunting dogs and guns
I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes
showing off some hot babes buns
I won't write 'bout the Opry
I don't know all that stuff
Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones
And Mr. Roy Acuff
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon
or of Racing through the fields
I don't know much about farming
or crop futures or of yields
I listen to The Rolling Stones
Trace Adkins I don't like
Lady A can go away
Kid Rock can ride his bike
You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band
or of food thats Chicken Fried
I might go to a hoedown
If I'd just up and died
My music, it fulfills me
It makes me who I am
But I'll stay away from country
songs, Cause I don't give a ****
No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here
Hank Williams I won't buy
I'll never buy a Dixie Beer
It's a drink I'll never try
I won't sing about Kentucky
or of a Texas Yellow Rose
you know this aint no country song
Good god I hope it shows
There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie
no fishin' in the dark
No Everything is Beautiful
No songs by Terry Clark
I'm really open minded
My friends they are the same
We won't buy country music
To us it's just so lame
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
I won't mention stuff you'll find
in songs by Nashville bands
There's nothing here about
watching football in the stands
I'll never write a country song
Cause country just ain't fun
Oh crap I just read this thing
And I think I just wrote one
This Ain't a ******* Country Song
You know I love my Rock and Roll
I wouldn't write a Country Song
'Cause that's not how I roll
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 10:33 AM UTC
《☆ Ode to Miller Spring ☆》
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since
first I came to be here.
This journey was
my awakening to the
new existence I would step into.
Foreign to me
the illustrious homes.
Dripping willows, old oaks, poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns carved
into lush grass.
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The winds blow at this highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This road, brought me to a
place of solitude...
An open space.
Land of possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first I came to be here.
This road has led me to the new existence
I have stepped into.
Perfectly kept grounds
checkerboard patterns carved
in lush grass.
The wind blows at this
highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from
the center of the Earth.
This Spring, that quenched
my family's thirst.
This Spring, that pulled my
people here,
so many years ago.
A road brought me to
this place of solitude.
An open space.
A land of Dreams.
I wonder,
what Dreams,
this land
will hold for me?
☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆
~July 2014~May 2015~
2nd Edition
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
"Miller Spring" is a pure crystalline-rock aquifer that has been revered by all peoples blessed to live within it's reach. The tribes of the Ojibwe and Lakota shared the spring. It was called the "Sweet Spring of Healing Waters" This spring was also shared with Settlers as they arrived. When the land was owned, the spring has always been made accessible, to All People. It should be noted that this spring water is exceptionally clear,
crisp and has a sweet bright taste
It is delicious!
To this day Miller Spring is available to all.
It's icy cold waters gush forth 24/7~365
days a year out of a well by the side
of the road, down about a mile
from my home.
I actually live in a modest house
on two original acres of this
beautiful land, which is now
bordered by five "illustrious" homes.
We moved here from the
City in the year 2000
Living in the suburbs was the
"New Existence" I had stepped into...
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
A Crop of Lies irrigate farmland
Deception grows and dies
Its corpse sustains
A cycle refrains
Cold, this night is
Cracks open the ground
Revealing a sight
Seeping through with light
Regions were found
To be taken and conquered
Sailors sailed to eat sailors
And they as well ate bread
Sounds of paranormal had
Guided every boat, then plane
Then spaceship, to the inside
Of a toy box they made
“These Crops dictate Truth”
Says Man (or monster)
Every night is cold; cracked
These Crops are impure
Livestock tell stories of their leader
It’s more of saying really
Because they’re ******* livestock
The Truth cannot tell nor talk
Reason slips off their skin
Like water off oil
Harder and harder it is
For Man to let joy soak in
Journeys of discovery
Travel through the television
Crisps, colas, pies, and cakes
Is what ******* does it
Beef pulp, French toast, tomato paste
Is what ******* does it
All we consume is ****
Crying fat morons decompose
“I really like the rain”
Says ****** with pudding stain
And her body melts and pours
As the rain does inexcusably
Great big dogs soak up in the rain
Unlike Man with his walking cane
They are all dying as they retreat
Underneath a roof of sin to replace
Emotional politicians claim they’re drug-free
As they smoke cigs and drink alcohol
Infant babies were torn apart in shopping malls
Did the World set them free?
Man (or monster) propose
To have a war on anything
Must any more children die?
Or can they get high; watch television?
What the **** is wrong with an aspect
Of harmless self-discovery
Can Man wager livestock’s epiphany?
Is it o.k. to live in a subdivision?
Or on a farm, or in the television?
Do these Crops have to dictate
Which victim we choose to mate?
To dictate our truth?
Can the fake astronaut admit?
He got ******* high; watched sitcoms
Ate potato chips, ate cereal out of the box
Never told a soul it was a hoax
Crops soak in the sweet rain
As the political Man weeps
These Crops become true
Dying Men no longer retreat
A Crop of Lies
Become so true
This wisdom is beauty
What we see now
Is as clear as day
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
Where jungles stood
Great cities rise
On desert wasteland
New farmland lies
Where man aspired
To rearrange
He dreamed a dream
And made a change
His mind is such
A shaping force
You wonder why
Man treds a course
Indulging pride
Enslaved to greed
For inexorably
They lead
To mercenary depths
So deep
His God must sit alone
And weep
As man improves
Each varied part
Except for his
Primeval heart
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 8:14 AM UTC
I am not your enemy.
I want to give you a colossal domain.
I want to bottle up the seas for you.
I want to paint you a picture with the sun's rays.
I want to pull down the moon with a chain & tie it to your pretty waist.
I am not your enemy.
I would give you a palace if I could,
or a distant farmland if your tender soul required.
I would found for you a university,
so that the world's young lovers could learn your
proper caresses.
I am not your enemy.
I would catch for you, if I could,
the world's brightest birds, the world's fairest fishes.
I would build you a zoo, then, with an aquarium,
so that you could watch at your leisure
the creatures of your creation.
I am not your enemy.
I will build you a mausoleum, so that I can entomb
you somewhere where only I can visit you,
with flowers in my hand,
and a pretty pearl necklace,
and tears hanging from my
rounded chin.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 10:21 PM UTC
On Sunday, my S.O. and I
Drove to see Chorus Line
At the Stratford Festival.
A matinee. Beautiful day.
We left the Refineries of Sarnia
For fine entertainment.
The Avon flows gently
Buoying white swans gracefully.
Blah... blah... blah.
All very real.
You can see why it's called, Stratford;
There could be no other name.
A good choice.
Best Shakespearean Festival in N.A.
She explained all this to me on the drive.
If contrary people suffer
From low self-esteem, I didn't help
The situation.
As we drove through rich, green farmland,
Grazing cattle.
She asked why some barns
Have ramps leading to the barn doors.
Well, says I,
*The farmers, because of the economy,
Have to sell their livestock in parts,
So the ramps give easy access for the animals
Back to their stalls.*
Huh, said S.O.
That's so thoughtful!
Timing is everything.
Sincerity in voice, critical.
Hurry on to a new topic.
Someday, for sure, she'll tell someone, somewhere
About the considerate farmer.
She will.
Timing.
Like the kick line.
Like a punch line.
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 6:47 AM UTC
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
The city sirens come undone
before the ocean spray
then down the hill to U.S. 1
and thus begins the day
The Pier receding to the South
Will Rogers to the North
Topanga is the turn we seek
as we are going forth
The starkness of the hills and pines
the rivulet below
as Westward the Pacific shines
beneath the morning glow
The twists and turns I still recall
though roads are better now
no unpaved sections left at all
nor farmland for a cow
No Austin Mini Union Jack
the landmarks too have changed
and I so lost since coming back
I almost feel deranged
The Health Food Store with hitching post
the horses canter past
the countryside I love the most
and visit now at last
But on Mulholland Highway there
surprises lie in wait
there’s razor wire on the fence
and horses at the gate
As giant dishes aiming deep
into a mountain wall
so Orwell’s promise do we keep
applying it to all
But I remember still the day
the hillside turned to fire
the way to turn had burned away
the sky was black with ire
And in a wide spot in the road
in reverence did we stand
a fox, a hare, my dog and I
all watched the burning land
Can nothing make us feel as small
as fire pure and cruel?
to know it as a cunning foe -
to know we’re naught but fuel
But through the smoke a fire truck
led us down on Kanan Dume
toward the cleaner seaward air
away from certain doom
And all at once the trial was o'er
for we had reached the sea
as once Carrillo had before
and now my dog and me
We pass the house of river stone
Moonshadow’s Restaurant
and even Tidepool Gallery
for years my favorite haunt
And back to Santa Monica
on PCH we drive
admiring still the beauty
yet more thankful we’re alive
The winding drive along the sea
I took so many times
to steal away from anarchy
to pacify my mind
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
We set out to honor Mary
traveling the pilgrim's path from west to east
We walked, we rode the bus
entertained and enchanted by Cristina
applauding Ramon along the way.
Each day was one of prayer and song, sunshine and fellowship
rosaries and novena
we submitted petitions to Santiago
we laughed with San Serapio
From the grand and magnificent cathedrals
to the humblest village chapel
we grew in faith, hearing God's word in many languages.
We marveled at the dedication and stamina of the pilgrims
making their way on foot and bicycle
at the warmth, generosity, and hospitality
they receive along the way
We picknicked alongside mountain streams
enjoying good food, good wine,and good friendship
we walked down the hillsides in the hot sunshine
passing the pilgrims going the opposite way
we quenched our thirst in a quaint and rustic village tavern.
Ramon drove with skill up the mountains to Garabandal
a remote village suspended in time and beauty
there on the mountain top we sat among the pines
where Mary had appeared.
We sat in silence, in awe and reverence
the only sounds, the whisper of the breeze and the cowbells on the hillside
We prayed the rosary
It was, for most of us, a most special memory
From our bus we looked out at the mountains
the green and rolling farmland
at the rocky Atlantic coast
at the rios and the rias.
We walked in procession at Fatima and Lourdes
by candlelight and moonlight
and again in the brilliant sunshine
The voices and the church bells
carried across the plazas
enveloping us in joy and prayer and mysticism
It was at the grotto at Lourdes
with my hands pressed on the rocky cave wall
with the holy water on my hands
that I felt Mary's presence
Mary, my mother, my sister, my friend
AVE MARIA
September, 2008
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
what is this body but a vessel to you?
carrying your what if's and
your unborn children
a fixture
to *****
This body is but
curves that turn
and cut your wit
dim forest
that you trail-blaze
converting rolling hills
to farmland
unearthing soil,
to dig your pleasure graves.
what is this body to you?
But two bouncing *******
under a cotton summer dress?
what is this body but lips spread wide
open, teasing
a flash of teeth?
does it make you break a sweat?
what is this body but your chess piece?
mantel piece
piece of ***
strip tease
arm-rest
a body
beside you
to look down upon
and fake a smile at
in photographs
what is this body to you
but a vase?
to fill with your complaints
to empty your sorrows into
to empty your ***** into
to let down
then help up
to coo over and
cry on
and cry on
and cry on
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
Whenever my family and I,
Prepare to embark on a fair drive,
I grab my phone with my playlist along with my headphones.
Filled with excitement that nobody knows.
We set out on our excursion,
I put my headphones in,
I turn on my music,
And let the symphonies enter my head.
If I close my eyes,
I can visualize,
An ancient city filled with song and dance,
Amidst a sacred feast with the finest band.
I see the dresses swirl, and I smell the wheat in the fields,
Along with the fresh bread that they created with their yields.
The song changes to a more melancholic melody,
I envision a final stand, one with honor and dignity.
The knight fights its hardest, but is overrun,
The piano’s keys, haunting me, as it dies under the setting sun.
Another change, more upbeat, a comforting, catchy symphony.
I wish to dance, but I am confined to the car seat.
I open my eyes and look to the right,
At the sprawling landscape we’ve been passing by,
But instead of farmland and trees, guess what I see,
The same mind-boggling envisioning!
More songs play, various tones,
From joyous to somber, sacred to monotone,
Threatening to empowering, all on their own.
The drums beat to the piano’s keys,
As a rare mandolin strums in harmony.
A glorious symphony,
An undertone for creativity.
Oh, the power of envisioning!
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:17 PM UTC
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since first,
I came to be here.
This journey was my awakening
as to the new existence
I would step into.
Foreign to me, the illustrious homes.
Huge dripping willows,
old oaks, and poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns left behind
in lush green grass...
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The wind blows at this highest point,
up above the glacial basin
that forms the river below.
Once all farmland.
before...
home of
Ojibwa,
Lakota
The Spring.
The Deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This winding
windy road,
brought me to a place of solitude...
an open space.
Land of endless possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first
I came to be here.
This road was my awakening as to the
new existence I would step into.
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns left behind
in lush green grass.
The wind blows at this highest Point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below
Once all farmland.
Before...
Home of
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring.
The Deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from the center of the earth.
This spring, that has quenched my families thirst.
This spring, that brought my family here 14 years ago
This road
brought me to a place of solitude...
An open space.
A land of dreams.
And yet..I wonder,
what dreams
will this land hold for Me?
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
farmland, not death, is the great equalizer. death separates the famous from the infamous, the young from the old, the lucky from the alone. farmland, stretching to the horizon, makes pennsylvania into connecticut into ireland into kansas. you can't tell monet's haystacks from mine.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
it's nights like these
i feel trapped by the city,
raw nerves exposed by interrogative streetlights,
my burning fury unable to escape
the bell jar of light pollution.
i need a long stretch of country road,
the windows rolled down in my piece of **** car
as i drive straight into farmland,
cornfields embracing me on either side,
the whisper of husks and leaves reminding me
it's going to be all right.
i need the only light to be
the sea of stars above, night left unmarred;
i need the pastures, the ponds,
the animals asleep in the barns,
the smell of hay, sweet and familiar.
i need to wander into the night
and kneel down in the dirt
and curse what i need to curse
where no one can hear me screaming for miles.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
the overcast window haze casts shadows over farmlands at distance, past ferns and cottage solemnities out on plains cold and alive; meanwhile, concrete and preservative-laden once-trees cage in the zoo-horde of humanity this lovely city is built upon, through the steep divides between the walls of foreign strangers, still neighbours, calling telephone lines to the lover that makes their heart shrink in the cool sheets at a distance of eight thousand leagues under kitchen sink designs where drips escape onto a blue-grey dishtowel, strategically placed to avoid having to address the issue over farmland holidays when stormclouds gather and sleep 'til the grand show, back over the alps, as the fallabout planes drift under blue over grey with distorted fantasies sandwiched three abreast internally, whispering "you'll be here, I'll be here, seventeen minutes" as the black gown of evening bids its farewells to the long-worn ball of flame we call upon for life's little affirmations, the skin and bone we call home, the constructed caves we wish we didn't, and, letting frost's call begin, the last of the seasons hauls its bulky frame over the horizon and clusters on the fingertips of tree limbs, coercing: "let go, it's late, it's so very late" and so the sidewalks choke with debris under the wearing off of summer feet, and the declination of that peach-pit feeling of sanguinity as the blankets pile up and the distance consumes once again, long after delusion gave up the chase; we all want to be left alone and want someone to pursue us at the same time, we all dream of the grandeur of timeless monuments: the desert road, the glint of illuminated heavens, the mist's rise and fall, the electricity in her eyes.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 5:22 PM UTC
Pinnated clouds
spread like wisteria
along the horizons
waning axis. Farmland
is smothered
in arbitrary
purple leaflets.
The
humic red fabric
of a fallow field
convulses
on my eye under the
discordant,
astral confetti.
A sombre greyness
reclined and presided
over all: joyous
summer rain-cloud
but for the early years
icy resolve.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
You had never seen kale before
it looked like large cabbage plants
reaching skyward
so that you could hide in it
and not be seen
from the farm
and Jane walked
with you there
and you both sat there talking
she about her father
and how he prepared
his Sunday sermons
right after the one given
on the previous Sunday
and how he liked
to close himself away
from the family
for hours at a time
with just his Bible
and other books
and God of course
and get it down
and afterwards
polish it up
until he had it off to pat
and you listened to her
trying to imagine
what it must be like
to have a father
who was a pastor
and you'd met her father
a few times
and her mother more
(and was told
she liked you)
and tried to think
about what her father's sermons
were about
(you never went
to the services)
and as she sat there
with her flowery dress
red and yellow
and those white ankle socks
and walking-about
-the-farmland-shoes
and dark hair
tied at that moment
with a red ribbon
you noticed
how beautiful she was
in her own way plain way
and how her hands
were held together
over her knees
as she raised her legs
and how the sun light
still reached
you both there
in the kale
and warmed
and eased you both
and you talked
of London
and when you left
and why
and how so different it was
and how you could walk
to at least to two cinemas
whereas here
there was none
but that you didn't mind
as it was a new life
and next to nature
and you could learn
new things kind of life now
and she smiled
and that thrilled you
that smile
that spread of lips
that pierce your heart
and mind kind of smile
and her wrists
slim and white
and the fingers
thin and white
and the nails
had white half moons
on them
and you wanted
to sit there
with her forever
in the tall kale
with the bright sun
and secret love
and feel inside
and 13 year old
sensibilities
each wanting to touch
but not at least not much
and she pointed out
a Red Admiral butterfly
fluttering over the kale
and slowly by.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC