"haying" poems - Hello Poetry

Summer field at rest; alive. We stopped haying twenty-five years past. Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow Once a year. And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for Honey bees. Cover for warblers, Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer. Hidden lunch room for ground hogs Until Jack Russell breaks their necks, At least of the little ones. Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel. Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face. 9/23/2012

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Oct 9, 2012

Oct 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC

luap

Summer Field At Rest

Summer field at rest; alive. We stopped haying twenty-five years past. Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow Once a year. And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for Honey bees. Cover for warblers, Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer. Hidden lunch room for ground hogs Until Jack Russell breaks their necks, At least of the little ones. Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel. Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face. 9/23/2012

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A late afternoon drive through the countryside. A lot of rolling hills dotted with fields and farms. Haying time, first of the season. Old roads potted with holes, asphalt turning to dirt... we lay plumbs of dust. The suddenness of a summer shower, then thunder rumbles, the rain begins. When the water hits the dirt it almost looks like little atomic bombs. We stop the car, not being able to see through the windshield. The farming community called Old Barns, with a Lady Slipper Lane and the whole bit. Silos breaking the sky, drizzle equals puddles, puddles to drive home through. A lick and a promise, the sweat of the gods, nothing comes close to a tour by the bay.

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Jun 19, 2015

Jun 19, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC

irving-macpherson

Touring

A late afternoon drive through the countryside. A lot of rolling hills dotted with fields and farms. Haying time, first of the season. Old roads potted with holes, asphalt turning to dirt... we lay plumbs of dust. The suddenness of a summer shower, then thunder rumbles, the rain begins. When the water hits the dirt it almost looks like little atomic bombs. We stop the car, not being able to see through the windshield. The farming community called Old Barns, with a Lady Slipper Lane and the whole bit. Silos breaking the sky, drizzle equals puddles, puddles to drive home through. A lick and a promise, the sweat of the gods, nothing comes close to a tour by the bay.

20

In 1814, my grandfather’s barn collapsed from the greediness of the farmer’s haying to their own delight and stocking the barn to the brim with more hay than it was equipped to hold. It broke and fell on top of them, my grandfather too. You have to stop letting the weight of the world make a home inside of your heart. You can take it all in, and shake and sob until you can’t feel any longer, but don’t linger. Don’t stop feeling, but before every problem you face and every demon you meet, reach down deep inside and grab all the pieces that don’t belong in your soul, because your heart can break, and it will, if you don’t realize you can’t heal the world (but please, don’t stop trying) but first, don’t let the dark camp, scab, and scar inside of your heart so that you can no longer see the light.

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Aug 2, 2013

Aug 2, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC

Dorothy-Quinn

The world rests on your shoulders if you let it.

In 1814, my grandfather’s barn collapsed from the greediness of the farmer’s haying to their own delight and stocking the barn to the brim with more hay than it was equipped to hold. It broke and fell on top of them, my grandfather too. You have to stop letting the weight of the world make a home inside of your heart. You can take it all in, and shake and sob until you can’t feel any longer, but don’t linger. Don’t stop feeling, but before every problem you face and every demon you meet, reach down deep inside and grab all the pieces that don’t belong in your soul, because your heart can break, and it will, if you don’t realize you can’t heal the world (but please, don’t stop trying) but first, don’t let the dark camp, scab, and scar inside of your heart so that you can no longer see the light.

27

Have you ever done enjoyable work, But toward supper time, After a long, long day, A satisfaction sets in, Almost a fullness, A readiness to stop for the day... I know this feeling. I understand Robert Frost's poem, "After Apple Picking." I loved haying on the ranch, But after 14 hours' roaring up and down Long alfalfa fields, I was content, Ready to shut down for the day, Ready to climb down from the old John Deere, Ready to walk, dusty, to the old truck Waiting in growing darkness. I recall listening for sounds of night coming on: Crickets rasping against the cooling day, Nighthawks' screeching, veering for insects, Soul-mourning cries of coyotes, All teamed against the ghosts of day: Tractor's roaring echo in my ears, Thumping memory of lurching over clods, Dust clogging my itching eyes and throat.... The old tractor, too, was content Sitting silently, Cooling in the twilight.

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Apr 9, 2020

Apr 9, 2020 at 6:38 PM UTC

don-bouchard

Haying Done

Have you ever done enjoyable work, But toward supper time, After a long, long day, A satisfaction sets in, Almost a fullness, A readiness to stop for the day... I know this feeling. I understand Robert Frost's poem, "After Apple Picking." I loved haying on the ranch, But after 14 hours' roaring up and down Long alfalfa fields, I was content, Ready to shut down for the day, Ready to climb down from the old John Deere, Ready to walk, dusty, to the old truck Waiting in growing darkness. I recall listening for sounds of night coming on: Crickets rasping against the cooling day, Nighthawks' screeching, veering for insects, Soul-mourning cries of coyotes, All teamed against the ghosts of day: Tractor's roaring echo in my ears, Thumping memory of lurching over clods, Dust clogging my itching eyes and throat.... The old tractor, too, was content Sitting silently, Cooling in the twilight.

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