"hoed" poems
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I ****** my *** in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
3.7k
I hoed and trenched and weeded,
And took the flowers to fair:
I brought them home unheeded;
The hue was not the wear.
So up and down I sow them
For lads like me to find,
When I shall lie below them,
A dead man out of mind.
Some seed the birds devour,
And some the season mars,
But here and there will flower,
The solitary stars,
And fields will yearly bear them
As light-leaved spring comes on,
And luckless lads will wear them
When I am dead and gone.
2.3k
I've got the rhythm, but don't look anythang like a Nashvillian soul
Been living on the streets, so I ain't been on any **** census role
I'm not my mother's natural birth child, without any apology
But I’m god’s chosen and gifted, finger picking, guitar prodigy
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways
My Mama once said, just do your music or do something else
So, I'm legally insane and uncomfortable to be with, I guess
I don't actually see myself living anywhere forever
But, how'd ya know, that you've actually arrived, wherever
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways
If they don't ever remember the month or day, since leaving
Families gettin' together, telling lies, now police intervening
I sometimes have to forget that I wrote it, to be able to like it
As long as fans think dope of it, why bother to disable the ****
Hoed fresh corn all day, everyday, been up since the crack of dawn
Pretty plenty of backyard swamp talkin' catfish, have since been born
Sun lights up the whole **** town, whilst it's still night-time
So, save your smoke doping act, 'til the dark of the daytime
CUCKUK, CUCKUK, cruisin' down some unnamed highways
That's what y’all be not knowin', 'bout da Tennessee ways
He'd hit a rabbit a sittin' and killed it with the barrel of his gun
While the dang hammer was a peckin' a wild hog to death
Like gettin' outta control and hardly takin' a shot of breath
Or being a drunken redneck, on a 7 day weekend hillbilly whiskey run.
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 10:48 PM UTC
It is July and it is Sunday.
A dark, restless Sunday.
Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings.
Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars:
disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness.
The smoke of a short-lived fire.
The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates.
The theatre! The anticipation.
The muteness of the rain on a distant field.
Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms:
streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes.
A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil:
scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere.
I cannot bear to look.
Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric,
white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges.
I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden:
heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly.
Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats
spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense.
I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here.
Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks,
then themselves by the bind-weed that has taken to their blooms and stems,
to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
He walked to the gate while the soft summer wind stirred the oak,
and the sun reflectively smiled in the ruts on the road,
to greet his brother Ted who’d languidly move across
so that Vic could companionably lean and look at their cattle
grazing under the Breckland pine, and reflect.
He drove his tractor and tended his fields,
enjoying the changing seasons but moaned about fen blows,
and unexpected showers which slowed the combine,
good naturedly grumbling with other farmers
about the price of fat cattle, the return on wheat,
and how many potatoes are in a packet of crisps,
when at Bury market on a Wednesday.
He’d sit to the left of the door of the Cricket Club
contentedly watching Lakenheath bat,
and readily smiled when they’d hit a six,
bringing his big brown hands together
to join in the ripple of applause.
He’d bring his prince of a Yorkshire to where
his grandchildren drooled ready for turkey
with all the trimmings, and fresh vegetables,
hearing the microwave hum, cooking the pudding
whose brandy sauce bit, before heading the evening games,
candidly laying a domino, announcing to all concerned
"Another fifteen."
He’d talk about the little black pony he drove as a youth
over top Maiden Cross Hill to Brandon,
with a cart full of produce, hating the finicky woman
who always made him eager for home.
He hoed his little bit of garden, and happily cut a lettuce for his tea,
another to pop round a neighbours' with a hand full of beans,
and a third to lay with the sack of spuds waiting for his children.
He watched the Weakest Link, and commented
on the stupidity of students, and foolish woman
wishing to spend a thousand on a handbag, and reckoned that:
“If there were more men like brother George,
who was straight and true, the world would be a better place.”
He laid in bed in the moonlight, listening
to golden oldies of yesteryear, and Victor Palmer,
the father of five, my dear Father, a gentle giant of a man,
a man of the soil, dreamed of his garden…
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 12:15 PM UTC
And I sit reviewing my week
I dyed my linen petticoat
With cherry bark
And iron oxide.
I have five colors now.
Almost enough
For a box of crayons.
I pulled weeds
And planted garlic chives
And two kinds of gourds.
Hoed the garden
In between rains.
Baked biscuits
Twice.
Picked old Bob
A bag full of kale.
Spun some yarn.
Ground corn meal
With a big stick.
Pulled more weeds.
Started cleaning
And drying
Chicory root.
And more stuff
I can't remember.
No wonder I am
Tired.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
I walked down the drive
from the abbey
to stand near the road
and listened to the traffic
pass by before the office
of Compline began,
obcidi,
moonlight in the dark sky
and stars sprinkled like sugar,
smell of incense
in the church
after Mass overwhelming,
a monk with a black patch
over one eye like a pirate
stood facing me in the choir
book in hand
head lowered,
begin doing
what is necessary
then what is possible
and suddenly
you are doing
the impossible
Francis said,
Dieu est ici
the French monk said
pointing a bony finger
towards his chest
as we trod up the drive
from our weekly walk,
Gott ist überall
an Austrain monk said
not just in the heart and soul,
George hoed the abbey gardens
and said the sun is so hot
it's like a desert out here
and it was
and we were thirsty,
Hugh thin and gaunt said
to be a saint one must do
the ordinary extraordinary well
which he never did
or so seemed,
give the apples a twist
so the monk said
do not pull them off
and I watched his fingers
touch and twist,
and she lay there naked
as the day she was born
and asked me
to shaft her
so I did
and her husband
was driving on a long haul,
wise men talk
because they have
something to say
fools because
they have to
say something
Gareth said quoting Plato,
the abbot tapped
his small hammer
on his bench
and the meal was over
and the reader stopped
mid sentence
reading from the book
and the refectory
was in silence
before prayers were said,
I lay with her
and she mouthed me whole,
cercare di essere salvati
the Italian monk said
to me as I weeded
the flowerbeds
in the cloister garth,
try and be saved
listen to the word,
some days I wished
to take flight and begone
like some wild
flapping wings bird.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
Orange brick
in evening sun
dull and warm
and I felt with my fingers
as I passed,
il silenzio permette
lo spazio per Dio parli
the Italian monk said
placing two fingers
to his lips,
I hoed between the plants
in the abbey garden
sunlight upon me
like God's blessing,
smelt incense
with body sweat
and baked loaves
as I stood
in the choir stalls
before Vespers,
la oración es
un acto de amor
lasalabras no son
necesarias
St Teresa said
so I read,
I picked up
a handful of earth
and held it
in my palm
and crumbled it
between finger and thumb
like some
ancient conqueror
after battle,
the tall thin monk
tolled the big bell
pulling on the rope
with ease
then releasing it
and grabbing again
pulled,
silenzio e spazio
letting God in
where once
was noise and muddle,
prayer is love
no words needed
a saint said,
amour et prière
Dom Placid said to me
as we walked
in the cloister
before Terce,
interno la pace
as well as outer peace
the monk told me
harder to obtain
too much going on
within,
interius silentium
I stood on the seashore
and watched
the waves come in
trying to empty of self
but the sea could not
drive me from me.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 3:56 AM UTC
I used to ask myself?
Is Lucifer the bad guy
When his name just means
Illuminated like the third eye
O my
Did he really just say that?
Yeah but God don't have my back
God is indoctrinated from dogma
I'm spittin flames hotta than lava
Standing next to the father
Gold breasted iron plates
Yeah gotta celebrate mentally
Spiritually my birth happened accidentally
Born into world of confusion
Say God is love bit all I see
Is wicked constitutions prostitution
Everywhere we getting hoed out
Got the government rapping us
Every time we shout
Nobody wants peace really want War as ******** soar
Use the eagle for peace
But the eagle never has peace
Tucked away wisdom then have the nerve
To Sat God is everywhere
How? Wen I'm seeing death everywhere
Not one script where Satan's
Holding oppression in there
They say he was the fall of man
Because man began
To understand life and creation
Change your station
Cuz I ain't backing down
This is a sho ground temples of hidden doom
Shield for the wombs
People don't even wanna wake up
To the facts that the bible is our main rival
They preach holiness but the mainsones that's fit for survival
**** td jakes Joel osteens fake *** creflo
Here's a gun for ya temple
Spirits in awe cuz of what I saw
And say what message telepathically lay
In my subconscious sick of nonsense
I'm begging for mercy
Like Percy
til the day I die ill remain in knowledge never thirsty
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
DE SNEEUW VINDT HAAR EINDE OP EEN WARM GAZON
EN WAT OVERBLIJFT
De diepste indruk maakt een dik pak sneeuw.
Rustig residu die middag,
opziend naar een wonderblauwe hemel.
Sneeuw biedt je weer een lijf, zet je een hoed op,
begraaft je in haar tweede natuur, met een schijnsel
van sepia, lekkend schemerblauw.
De sneeuw friemelt aan je voegen,
wil naar binnen.
In de sneeuw ben je engelachtig
en zij is niet beangstigend, zij lijkt ons veeleer
te omarmen en te beschermen
op onze weg door de stad
Zelfs middelbaar ben je weer even kind.
De sneeuw vangt ons met haar gepeperde adem
en geeft frisse lucht.
Zij komt en gaat en komt weer terug
Zij hoopt zich op zonder
hoop op duurzaamheid
& wenst niet te blijven.
De sneeuw, ik benijd haar,
dat zij zal verdwijnen
laat haar koud
Zij is haar eigen landschap,
met haar coole witkalk
creëert ze
een albasten pracht
trekt zich dan terug zonder klacht.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 12:08 AM UTC
I walked the cloisters
smelt the incense
listened to the birds sing,
discamus aliorum merita
cicatricesque cautio
saith Jerome
Dom Charles said,
the old monk sliced
a thin slice
of brown bread
with slow deliberateness
as if he prayed
as he sliced,
I hoed the flower bed
at the back of the abbey
sun on my shoulder
shadow playing
before me,
l'ombra giocato prima di me
I told the Italian monk
as we sat peeling potatoes
in the cloister after Terce,
dans le cloître après Terce
that time I hoovered
the cloisters
deep in thought,
nel pensiero profondo
I mused on that death
and the after affect
and how it hurt me,
mi ha fatto male
the Italian monk said
to relate that my uncle
was one of Benito's followers
but we all make errors,
tous font des erreurs
to err is human
to forgive is divinus
the monk thin
and haunted looking,
I opened the breviary
and read
moving my finger
following the chant
in my ears,
the sky dark
sprinkled stars
I mused on
Pascal's fears.
Jan 30, 2017
Jan 30, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
When a friend calls me from the road and slows his horse to a Meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around.
On the hills I haven't hoed, and shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is time to talk.
I ****** my *** in the mellow ground,
Blade end up and five feet tall, and plod: I go up to the stone wall for A friendly talk.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 9:44 PM UTC
danger on the rocks
in the tight jetties trying
to make a way to port
with one engine and water
swallowing
and I bailed one eye
to the shore and two on her *******
she was the bosses daughter
and well bred
a worthy mate
she heaved and hoed as I did
her bucket filled as mine was
throwing salty water over the port
bow with arms as smooth
as any sailor but no tattoos
until later
she had an anchor tattooed
on her , well keel,
when we made shore
and sank into the white beach
she said welcome aboard
and I took off my sea legs
and white sailors cap and saluted her,
gave an ahoy to all who could hear
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC