"farmyard" poems
On top of my labour
In the farmyard
I often proffer you
Milk, cheese, manure and hide
To render grand
Your life,
Then how come
You express
Your gratitude
With a knife?
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,
Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,
Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,
Haven't they reined their horses, horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer that lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.
4.2k
Cheer me up with a knitted cancer hat
and a joke about tomorrow's goal
being that of getting to the end,
safe and unharmed past the chemotherapy combat.
Clear me up with plastic pills that
sit on the tongue and slit the throat
and the surrounding gum,
all to get better and to get back on the feet.
Cheat me with wise words that you
pawned off of pages and curdled
website phrases that offer
nothing more than a little comfort for yourself.
Take me to where tracks lead to tracks that lead to douglas fir lined, dirtier farmyard tracks and let me breathe in that sap, that golden wood-coated scent that'll wrap itself around my nostrils and hat.
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Rita was a battery hen
And every day was bleak;
For her, life's stage was just a cage,
And meagre corn her only wage,
But things all changed for Rita when
She learned that she could speak.
She overheard the farmer say
*"That cage is getting weak,
That's not just dust, but flakes of rust
And if the hens gave one quick ******
They'd all be free to run away
And we'd be up the creek!"*
She waited till the dark of night,
Then pushed into the gaps;
The bars were old, the bars were cold,
It seemed as though the bars would hold,
But Rita shoved with all her might
And felt the cage collapse!
She ran right out the farmyard
In the moonlight, dim and pale;
No more is known of where she's flown,
I hope she found a lovely home,
Perhaps she'll send a greeting card
To tell of her next tale!
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 5:08 AM UTC
Now orchids are blooming here,
Sun rises by the call of ‘Koel’!
Sun beam around by the call of ‘Keteki’!
Everywhere fragrance of ‘Keteki flower’ spread out!
It is the time of blossoming!
It is the time of celebration!
A gala for......
“Merriment of brotherhood,
Gaiety of collectively
High spirited choir with nature!”
People are celebrating spring..
Dancing under the Banyan tree
On the mid of the farmyard;
Biting the drum with a wish
The Sounds go to sky and break the clouds
Thunder and rain follows.....
With promises
To watering the crops in summer;
People call it
“Madam ‘Bordoi-chila’ coming to her mother’s place!
Everyone venerate
For nature and season!
They pray to nature
Though their amiable laughs and ovation
Showcasing gaiety of connectivity and togetherness
With a wish for nature’s blessing for production!
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
the censorship meme
alive inside me as a child:
some books were worth the mention of--
war and **** were not.
untimely at a pennsylvanian writers' club
where fear lodged quiet smile-halves
in talking clouds and farmyard metaphor,
to weekly bray the corner of an antique movie-house
newcomers weren't to share their work
we three were welcomed as an audience at best
we passed the others' writers' chapter-copies on
on which i scribbled notes of praise
on notes of theme-entwining anti-argument
and **** zests of vast significance:
notes of floral yearning, meadowed love--
iron skies and ahistoric dreams--
off and on archaic themes
of which we weren't to share
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
There was a race at the farm
This caused a great deal of alarm
A stampede of wildebeest
Were stopped by old geese
But the rest of the animals were calm.
The Geese thought the situation funny
And so did the farmyard bunny
But the wildebeest were too strong
And their plan went wrong
So the Geese ended up giving the Wildebeest money.
They called the race off as nobody won
But the farmer was running with his gun
The pigs hid in the trough
The rest shot off
And once more the race had begun.
That night they lay tired in their beds
The Geese were snoring in their shed.
The chickens thought they were lucky
They could have gone to Colonel Kentucky
And thanked the geese for saving their heads.
The moral of this story is plain
Do not mess with angry geese again.
There is no doubt about
That a farm should not fall out
As they have only got themselves to blame.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
There was a race at the farm
This caused a great deal of alarm
A stampede of wildebeest
Were stopped by old geese
But the rest of the animals were calm.
The Geese thought the situation funny
And so did the farmyard bunny
But the wildebeest were too strong
And their plan went wrong
So the Geese ended up giving the Wildebeest money.
They called the race off as nobody won
But the farmer was running with his gun
The pigs hid in the trough
The rest shot off
And once more the race had begun
That night they lay tired in their beds
The Geese were snoring in their shed.
The chickens thought they were lucky
They could have gone to Colonel Kentucky
And thanked the geese for saving their heads.
The moral of this story is plain
Do not mess with angry geese again.
There is no doubt about
That a farm should not fall out
As they have only got themselves to blame.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 3:54 AM UTC
why did he not bother to contact me
that is the big question which shall remain
from our conversations he did abstain
other matters were more pressing for he
his mind sidetracked to sweeter terrain
the grass was much greener at that place
it held sway o'er my unattractive space
a well lit spot made the seeing real plain
he employed an axe to chop the line
dead was the telegraph no more chit chat
pickings of delectable kind he'd pursue
mine were akin to a dull farmyard swine
one once was as blind as cave dwelling bat
but one now knows the color of his hue
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Your voice echoes out to me,
like a funeral bell that never stops ringing.
Like the incoming tide,
eroding the mountain that is my sanity.
Like a cuckoo clock
whose alarm is always set for the early hours.
Like a farmyard
whose animals are poisoned with laughing gas.
Like a twisted finger
that always pokes at my bruised forehead.
Like a hungry seagull
crying for food when an entire feast is laid out.
Like an invitation,
asking you to attend the party of an old enemy.
Like a hammer
that goes on a mad rampage inside a china shop.
Like a game of chess,
trying to be intelligent but just ends up being boring.
Like a deck of cards,
one nudge and you end up crashing down on us all.
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:05 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
I measured the steps
From the back screen door,
Past the rock water well
And the garden plot,
Down the gravel drive.
The crush of stones beneath
Were the sounds of anticipation.
At the end,
The road stretched and ribboned,
Grey, beneath the harvest sun.
I numbered the fence posts
Up to the tree with embedded wire,
Demarcating the next acre.
The telephone poles like guards
With cats-of-nine tails,
Red-winged blackbirds and wrens
Hanging on trapezes, upsidedown,
With rigamortis clutches.
The few cattle stood cooling in the pond,
The chickens pecked the farmyard dung.
Each day my steps imperceptibly decreased,
Speeding up the monotony of my walk.
I missed the sheep shaped clouds,
But saw them move
Across verdant dales,
Following the stream,
Like lambs.
Today, I look out my kitchen window
To see where my son,
My disheartened, lonely boy,
Counts the steps to Brigden Sideroad,
Feeling the gravel
Hard beneath his feet.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Lisa dresses for school,
buttons up the blouse
with fumbling fingers.
She stares down at her
bed where she and Mona
had lain the day before.
The same sheets, pillows
having no doubt her hair,
her smell. She puts on her
school tie, loops it through,
her fingers sensing the
smoothness of the cloth.
She remembers how they
had made love on that bed,
how they had lain naked and
hot and kissing. Best Sunday
ever, she muses, looking away,
stepping into her school skirt,
pulling it over her waist.
Her mother had called out
to her some minutes before.
Breakfast ready, not in the
mood for food. She looks out
the window at the farmyard
across the way, cows heading
out to the fields, her father
following, bellowing, a stick
in his hand, his arms raised
to move them on. She sits on
the bed and takes a pillow
and holds it to her nose
and sniffs. Mona’s scent,
borrowed from her mother,
she had said. She feels along
the sheet with her hand.
They had laid there, their
bodies, their lips kissing,
their hands holding. No one
had known they were
making love. Her parents
and family had thought them
drying after getting drench
in the Sunday downpour.
She closes her eyes, imagines
Mona is still there, thinks
she feels her hands around
her waist. Her mother’s voice
calls from downstairs. She sighs,
stands up and slips on her
socks and shoes. Leans down
and puts a kiss on her top
pillow where Mona had
laid her head, now she has only
images and memories instead.
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
It was all silk and sawdust
Mamas skirts rustled a sunday mass
and dad wore his bowler hat tilted at an angle
(dirk bogarde -like look)
But he was a farmer.
soon after the service was over
he'd hang his hat by the cowsheds
and wallow in green slushy poo
irrespective of how much it stank
and how natural he looked
throwing sawdust over the caked green pancakes
and shovelling all that crap into a corner,
with sundays best clothes on!
Mama insisted he change first
but no. "The cows need attention
as much as god does, Mama"
We did not argue with his farmyard philosophy
but that's where we cut our teeth
and tasted a mans love for his animals
both human and beast and that's where
we understood that sunhats, bowlers
and polished walking sticks
were just statements that didn't come
from a book- but society. Somehow
he mixed the two learnings
to get along with everything.
I missed him when he milked his last cow
and lay down forever in that quiet evening
as the sun set in an orange sky. The brightest star
that night climbed over the eastern ridges
to grace the night. Dad?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
sure, *****
strut a pace
with the
subtle
redirection
of the
head.
spurs sharp
and maiden
blooded.
plumed fine.
head and chin
the red of
warrior men.
when set
to crow. cooped
low, this beast,
beak pushed
against
farmyard feet.
no.
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
Too long hangs rain in our valley.
Sky's clouded face cracks to cry drizzle-patterns
over sown ground
and growing seedlings face hazard.
Too long has water earth-wronged.
Makes mud by changing each leaf to sponge
that ***** out green to
leave brown where verdant belongs.
Small lakes rise in the hedgerow-rose.
As tears of lime run down from hilly meadows
sad rinsing brings whispers
of wet killing by un-seasonal cold.
Too long shudder of feathers droop.
While across far horizons a fox runs foodless
as damp cubs look for sun
while prey floods in the hen-coop.
Too long a chill has made harvest weep.
Thatched cottages drip in the village street,
trees bleed moss and weight
burdens the thick-coated sheep.
Swathed in neglect droops each garden.
Knee-deep in unattained tasks the farmyard
sprouts idle days as folk bide
time waiting for signs of drying to start.
To long hangs rain in our valley.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
Milka was by the duck pond
we'd been to the cinema
to see an Elvis film
I’d bought us ice creams
and we were sitting there
getting some air
I thought my brothers
would be there
she said
they said they would
just to show me up
being with you
I watched her
as she spoke
her tongue licking
in between conversation
they just said that
to wind you up
I said
they've gone fishing
with your big brother
they always
do that to me
she said
get me wound up
that's brother for you
I said
the ducks swam
around the pond
there were geese
as well and other birds
pecking up bread
spread around
my mother almost
caught us
the other day
Milka said
that was close
I looked
at the ducks
you said your mother
would be out for ages
I said
I thought she would
Milka said
I remembered hearing
her mother
talking out
in the farmyard
to a farm hand
your mother's here
I recalled saying
to Milka as she lay
on her narrow
single bed
what O god
and she had thrown
on clothes
and cursing
under her breath
I put my jeans
back on
watching as her mother
chatted to the guy
get out
Milka said
go downstairs
make out
I’m in the loo
I just made it
as her mother
came in
the ducks swam around
I finished
my ice cream
as Milka licked away
her small tongue licking
her eyes gazing
at the swan
that had come down
large and white
swimming smooth
I kissed her neck
lips to flesh
warm and soft
and she giggled
and I loved the way
her bottom wiggled.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 4:38 AM 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
Why did he not bother to contact me
That is the big question which shall remain
From our conversations he did abstain
Other matters were more pressing for he
His mind sidetracked by sweeter terrain
The grass twas much greener at that place
It held sway over my unattractive space
A well lit foyer made the seeing real plain
He deployed an axe to chop the line
Dead twas the telegraph no more chit chat
Pickings of delectable kind he'd pursue
Mine were akin to a dull farmyard swine
I was as blind as a cave dwelling bat
But I now know the color of his hue
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC
Tall Nettles cover up the corner, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out and the harrow made of stone:
Only the elm **** tops the nettles now.
This corner of the farmyard I like the most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, neve lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
By Edward Thomas.
This is just so unbelievably magnificent .
Love Mary x
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
(cheesy)
Woe
Woe
and thrice
whoa
wait a minute
steady Neddy
this isn't a day at the Coliseum
that's been done,
Hear ye
Hear ye
here,
wait a minute
what's going on
Hello
Hello
Hello
and not in a Seagoon voice
Spike spoke
( a Milligan joke )
Okay so it's nearly early but neither late
I am reading the tea leaves
resistant to fate
and I think I might wait
until the sun goes
down.
know that before the **** did crow
he was just another farmyard bird and yet his crowing's been heard for two thousand years.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:36 AM UTC
When you can't reach the stars at the top of the stairs.
When your eyes become blinded in your darkened domain.
All you find is storm, upon storm.
Barrage balloons and a million blue moons ,none that I can find, pray someone remind me that life's really good.
I find no interest but, I know that I should.
When lost moments are gone and you can't see the sky, the nails on your fingers scratch hard, you're wanting to cry,but your tears are all gone, stolen by one, who says that you're stupid.
Tears came back, they're chasing the tracks of the scratches of nails, where snails become slugs, salt hating bugs.
Disintegrate into puddles of slush.
Reminiscent tears, begin more to gush as they flush out bad feelings of battling with demons.
Want more soft furnishings to cushion my head, I fight onwards and upwards, wish I was dead.
I doesn't always follow, as sometimes I'm mellow, tinged with spots of cowardly yellow.
The bus passed the stop and I just can't step off.
The world keeps on turning, somewhere a sparks still burning.
Never know why, I just need a good cry.
I want a good sob.
I know that I do.
My world is beaten black shades of blue.
I sit in the corner and rock like the clock on the shelf, with the crocodile tears, just a big fish out of water, they call me a flounder.
A bit of a chicken, scratching the farmyard.
Guess what ladies and gentlemen the poet's a ******
Not too hard to work out I guess, yep, everyone knows that the poet's a mess.
Large black dog, swirls round my head, still wish I was dead, born a coward always will be, stay in bed, take some proper medication..no not suicidal, some delicious anti-d's.
All shall pass, soon I shall be me again,
Honestly.
(c) Livvi
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 9:41 AM UTC
Walking through cluttered art
A placid pace through a placid place
A green yard gone red with rust
Metal sculptures
Giant windmills
Broken, missing pieces
Wire birds twisted around walls
Bent out of shape
Graffitied and damaged
Stop signs
A farmyard
By memories of childhood
Pleasant associations
Of family and fortune
Where strangers become friends
Friends unknown
I meet the sunken eyes of my Grandfather
Over a table decked with games and festivities
A depressed omen
That hails wisdom
From years gone by
And years that will pass
Where experience
Shall meet practice
In games that doth test
Character and adversity protest
Where seeking advice
Bends the shape
Of already broken shapes
Inhumane aspect
Of people most suspect
Success and favours
Changing clothes
Changing personas
To meet the ever-changing situation
In the journey of my dreams
In the journey of my lives
I will overcome the challenge
And take my claim
Of success
And favours
My good fortune
Through
Divination of divine dreams
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
Next to what was once
the farmyard, a kitchen chair --
in the tall wild grass.
Feb 3, 2024
Feb 3, 2024 at 3:21 AM UTC