"shearing" poems
Summer days and heatwaves
Sweat pouring down our skin
Working hard no time to rest
From the time the day begins.
Bailing hay without a shade
Not a single cloud insight
Gathering all the barely corn
We work until the night.
we have a little hideaway
A place down in the vale
Its where we drink some scrumpy
Along with beer and ale.
We while away an hour or more
Depending on how we feel
We rest and take it easy
No sound from the tractors wheel.
Now tomorrow is another day
Our work load it will keep
We may be striming hedge grows
Or we may be shearing sheep.
But we really are not bothered
We've been farmers far too long
We carry out our dutys
And sometimes with a song.
Our lives are hard but simple
We are living the country life
Away from the city and the fumes
From cars and such alike.
You see we have this hideaway
A little place down in the vale
So come along and join us
At the end of a farmers day
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.
And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.
Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.
And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!
Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, red, rose, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, melody, tune, seas, dry, rocks, melt, sun, ten thousand miles
Original Scots Dialect Poem:
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
O my Luve is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.
Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand. A watergaw is a fragmentary rainbow.
The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain ...
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.
There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these more foolish hearts of men ...
and I think that maybe at last I ken
what your look meant then.
Keywords/Tags: Scotland, Scot, Scottish, Scots dialect, night, nightfall, rain, grave, death, death of a friend, light, lights, watergaw, heart, heartache, broken heart, heart song
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 11:10 PM UTC
He wrote of the light of the world,
a testament, a lamp to illuminate
the place from which he came —
I saw his lighthouse coalesce
out of the cloaking mist, its blade
shearing the sheath of darkness.
I inhaled the dusk bloom scent
- Four O’Clock Flower, Poinsettia, Frangipani -
beguiled by a road, undeterred
by calls in the night, the rain, the unknown way.
I sang with one thousand night-drunk tree frogs
proclaiming an equatorial cycle to the stars,
choristers intoning a chant of existence.
I rode balanced between
the cycling engine's torque and the
reflective cast of my foreign skin.
I felt the grip of ignominy constrict the stir
of my drink, amongst hands toasting
the crush of entitlement’s bearing.
I walked where people dwell, and stop
to greet and tell news of the market
or of their nets, bearing the sea’s returns.
I savored the song in his speech,
a seasoned stew, unshackling the tongue
to ring like the steel of a drum —
a tapestry unfurled: a world
paced by sirens of wind and wave,
embroidered on the earthbound side
of heaven's abiding blanket.
Copyright © 2017 Gary Brocks
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
I dreamed of my father
crossing the fields
on his one-eyed tractor
mowing acres of sadness
heading east of a moon
that'll be gone tomorrow
and I waded the creek
beneath a ridge
where my mother is shearing
dead roses and the smell
of those flowers floating
to the foot of the mountains
reminds me of her hair
and my father's laughter
disappearing across the hill.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
My early memory of farm,
Blackfella’s hill, banana sand,
exploring, chasing rabbits.
And riding round with grandpa,
in the white and well loved station wagon
checking sheep, windmill and chooks.
The lollies in the tin were there,
to help him stay awake at night;
but grandchildren were once allowed
to sample from the tin of treats,
in longer trips with grandparents,
while out on country roads.
The farm, a favourite place of mine,
away from school and normal life,
but Modb’ry North not quite the same.
With grandpa still out shearing though,
the farm-like feel not far away,
and granny kept a strawb’rry patch.
I went a-shearing with him once,
About six customers that day
and I can’t count the load of sheep.
I earned five dollars on that day,
while travelling around in ute
with shearing stuff all in the back.
His love of music satisfied,
the grandchildren are all gifted,
the music played from instruments
of cello, clarinet and bass
of flute, piano, violin,
and voice as well from Kate and Jo
Called grandpa day or dad or Doug
he’ll be remembered, days to come.
The stories will be told and told
of happenings while he was here,
from farm or Modb’ry North or else,
from other places he has been.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 11:01 AM UTC
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
Australia takes her pen in hand
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand
How proud we are of you.
From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson's Bay,
Each native-born Australian son
Stands straighter up today.
The man who used to **** his drum",
On far-out Queensland runs
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer's sons.
The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.
The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh's sow,
We're not State children any more —
We're all Australians now!
Our six-starred flag that used to fly
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,
Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict'ry at the prow;
For that's the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!
The mettle that a race can show
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.
The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.
With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.
Our old world diff'rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They're all Australians now!
So now we'll toast the Third Brigade
That led Australia's van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.
Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.
And with Australia's flag shall fly
A spray of wattle-bough
To symbolise our unity —
We're all Australians now.
3.5k
its the time for cutting and harvesting silage.
shearing of sheep.
busy time of hard work;
pairing down poems
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
upon the Abington Station's
long shearing board
the feats of one shearer
cannot be ignored
a run of two hundred sheep
he can easily shear
his style with the cutting comb
is without peer
contractors in the district
know of his pace
he removes fleeces
with an elegant grace
the Lister wool press
compacts all the long day
whilst the gun shearer
works tirelessly away
Kelpie dogs tongue
keeping his race full
as Layto shears the fine clips
of merino wool
none are as effective
with comb in hand
in the regional area
of the New England
Layto shears the sheep
cleanly and effortlessly
whether the fleeces
be thick or slightly oily
his shearing abilities
are know of near and far
on the shearing shed board
he's always bettered par
when he hangs up
the cutting comb to retire
fellow shearers will of him
greatly admire
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:18 AM UTC
I shook the devil’s hand and looked him dead in the eye the night I put the barrel of a shotgun in between my lips
While I stood on the edge of a chair with a noose around my neck.
Killing two birds with one stone.
The feathers of the bird deep inside me would be ruffled after the bullet raced through them,
Shearing them apart like a combine moves through a field of corn.
The bird on the outside of my body would finally learn to fly after the bullet struck the inside of my mouth like a flashlight lights up a dark cave harboring a family of bats
And right before I fell limp to the floor, no longer able to hear my own heartbeat inside my ears,
The noose caught my fall, tightening around my neck.
The night I stood on a wooden chair, holding my own death within my hands in complete darkness around eleven because I wanted to be an owl instead of a raven,
The chirping inside of me wouldn’t quiet.
I heard the voices of wings outside the window in the tree I’d thought about soaring from; telling me to stop or cheering me on, I don’t know.
But if I would’ve put the single round inside the chamber of the gun or slipped the slightest bit from the chair,
I’d know how it feels to fly.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
stone ground mustard Venus burns. She's not concerned that constant falling
and orbits, elliptical - are the same thing.
Her eyes are deaf. My eyes adapt to the pattern
that rattles the chain of events.
my Spartan theories dangle in dubiousness.
I find a trap, and call it Seattle... for i see cattle -
grazing a state of mind; north, north west of what God meant.
washing tons of pocket lint by hand.
chewing their cud
in the dark. meanwhile - outside the ranch...
My eyes refract. ***** and un-twink in the black lacquer that came -
with the oblique miracle. they sustain things that would sunder a doll-eyed bovine
to ever breach The Fence.
my hardened arteries jangle like numinous. I pine and snap ruinous barbs from Death's
prattle... for i see battle, razing the Grace of Time
more at war, than at our best. more -
bereft of what Reason defends.
tossing guns at bullets
by telekinesis.
[ undefined ]
i come from where i've never been. you were there. and ewe were there; fleeced and bleating
in the snow that fell as soon as shearing ceased. i recall, you were never there. but remember
passing you by... shilling an ocean roar you swore you'd plucked from a Seashell -
salvaged from the divine dry sockets of Poseidon's skull.
you were hawking your unawares. i played a flute made of question marks and glass drum skins.
i went where my stride was inclined, and never where i went to.
i never arrived by approaching the destination. only by always being somewhere else
till i got there. i came from where i'd never been and -
ain't been Nowhere since.
but i'm sure i pass
through There
ever since.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 12:28 AM UTC
Ahmad Jamal and his classic tune Poincianno provided a backdrop
where I could relax and relate the poignant beauty
of the peace and madness back then surrounding
the Kennedy assassination.
Oscar Peterson churns out the notes
in a definitive yet light way
that would qualify as easy listening jazz
to some jazz buff in their weaker moments.
Eroll Gainer with his classic misty
haunts one with his
simple singularity of musical
paroxysms and leads into a fine repertoire.
George Shearing with his liltingness relaxed me
back then when I was recovering from the whole thing
And Camsey Lewis with his lightly penetrating rendition of
"The In Crowd" sustained my sense of humor and
helped me with my appreciation of mainstream jazz.
Cela, jazzmasters all to me
and yes like that light jazz
as opposed to poboy like Miles Davis
except for Charlie Parks
and yet I got into a Goth pianist Jack
then Thelonius Monk who was sorta jazzy
I acquired a mediocre taste for.
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC
sharp and deadly
strong and steely
its grip as firm as iron
catastrophic cutters
bloodthirsty biters
menacing,
threatening,
never building up
always tearing
d
o
w
n
jaws relentlessly
endlessly
mercilessly
slicing
snipping
shearing
victims,
two from one
beware before it’s too l
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:13 PM UTC
"I have a religion
I just don't ******* know"
so spoke
the blonde boy
across the aisle
in the beanie and the falcons shirt.
(he's a high school freshman
and already so
disillusioned?
would that I had been so wise!)
and that's my problem
I just don't ******* know
(no one ******* knows)
where is
your spiritual magnetic north?
where did you find your deities?
in the bracing wind
shearing slantways along your soul?
in the crackle of sparklers
arcing towards the ground from burnt fingertips?
in the murmur of dawn
crossing the horizon-threshold with trepidation?
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Retreat from the dancing Sun
Evading flaming streams of light
Shearing exposed trees, the Gatling gun
Fixed on the horizon fraying the Night
As it engulfs the lake in foreign shines
Simmering the boiling bodies of water
Emerging are the Sillhouettes, the divines
Created in constellations have brought Her
Shape-shifting the landscapes in its caress
Nature's networks entwined in silence
Glorify Her benevolence, Her enchanting dress
Illuminating celestial twilight discarding violence
Enshrouding earthly bodies with Her own star
Temperate tempests of the snow-forested land
Subdued in an eternal biome, isolated from afar
Suffering by the accord of God's arbitrary hand.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
The world is ruled by false Gods
Shouting their rage and thunder, spitting on the benevolent their false promise
False faces
False forms, beliefs and reassurance
The morphing specter
Preening the pomp and posture
Their glittering smiles, shining like the brightest star in the din
Pervading the smell of sweetness that hides the rot
That gagging stench its own perfume
The glinting fur on grinning mouth
Blinking teeth the yellow gum and sharp lines
Feeding the fat lies to the waiting sheep mouth
Rearing the sheep flank to slaughter
Shearing the black fur to weave and contort
So even the aware are complacent and meek
Moon blinked to the chaos and terror that flows in the red blood font
Grinning slowly, straightening the sports coat collar
Looking forever the faithful dog of the people
While picking the flesh of lamb from hungry teeth.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
i am a graveyard.
headstones grace my fingertips and rest upon my tongue like they never left.
there is a lump in my throat the size of George Washington's skull.
his bones are propelling themselves towards the insides of my throat and down into my stomach,
where they will churn and grind against my nerves until the
steel bravery in my soul is nothing more than
melted wax.
there is a lump in my throat.
old friends and abandoned dreams earn their satisfaction by shearing away the
pointe shoes and piano keys that used to live there.
the metal jazz shoes and steel guitar that dance on my fingertips fight them off like trained assassins,
but even metal can be melted at 2190.6 degrees Fahrenheit.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 4:50 PM UTC
THE FUNNY FARM
Take a look, the cow’s milking itself
And the sheep are shearing their wool.
The hens gathering eggs from the shelf
And the pigs entertaining the bull.
The geese are collecting litter
Foxes are mending the fence
Farmers never been fitter
No work for him to commence.
Chickens have pecked the hedge
To make everywhere neat
Ducklings have polished the ledge
Where the farmer keeps his feet.
The plough horse back from the field
Had quite enough for one day
Now has to calculate cabbages to yield
Then clean out the hay.
This is the funny farm
Where smart animals hang out
Full of character and bags of charm
Lots to shout about.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 12:17 PM UTC
Was there a word,
Plain or shimmering,
Cast of gold and mercy,
In the bathing light of forgiveness,
Tempered with down and feather,
Wrought of worthiness and pride,
The mellow flame of tenderness
And shearing morning sun,
One tabulation of saving flesh,
The tapping root of the knowledge
Tree, the forge of stainless metal
And touch, stone direction,
One healing humour, cardinal
As blood, forceful as the salt
Journey bearing the pines
Of lodestar coordinates,
Spotting the Xanadu ex
Of the lost lovers?
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
love what about love ? many people in the world try to find the real love thing every day ,and maybe they will waste the time by searching about something that not exist, my grandmother tell me once that the love is Margie but in the same time my grand father tell me that love is Patience and
sincerity , i agree with them and love doesn't change by time love still love what ever time change and people change . Who among us has not feel the love once maybe in the childhood we feel our heart beats by up-normal way and in the moment when we grow up we felt like we are running after Mirage .. i tell you my story about love but in the begging I want to tell you a little secret about love, love drives all our feelings of happiness and laughter sadness, anger, jealousy, longing and cry and regret and loss and emptiness and loneliness ،،And all that we grow up everything changed our ideas about true love. what ever lets get in the story ،،There was a boy at the age of 18 years old and it was calculated that he knows what love and has sufficient experience. which was very lucky because it is the first time enter into a relationship and found love, the girl was aged 17 years،and it was very beautiful in her laugh her words her character. and in his eyes she was so perfect .At first he was very happy and thank God for what he gave him because she was angel ،The relationship lasted for 3 years and they was talk to each other all the day long ، shearing something spacial،،They were dreaming a lot and they didn't know that the Destiny was hiding for them something very bad,,Although they can not live without each other Did not know that they will someday remember this love and passing in front of each other as if they were strangers As if that love was in another life،، to be contained ..
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
We let lust lure us
To beds beside Belthus
Making mountains murmur and
moan for pleasures
Fulfilling the flesh follies that fills
us
There , there trample on suitors
Creeping like crickets on sea shores
Lit little lamps and lead us
Through these things so , so
treacherous
Sunshine shearing our skin sores
As we walk and work the wild soils
All ail has ended mid- course
As Home! Home! Hauls the voice of
Jesus .
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC