Farming Poems

As the Sun withdrew his rays from the garden, and the moon threw cushioned beams upon the flowers, I sat under the trees pondering upon the phenomena of the atmosphere, looking through the branches at the strewn stars which glittered like chips of silver upon a blue carpet; and I could hear from a distance the agitated murmur of the rivulet singing its way briskly into the valley.
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`You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
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I find it very hard to be fair-minded
About people who go around being air-minded.
I just can't see any fun
In soaring up up up into the sun
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It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
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In the late night listening from bed
I have joined the ambulance or the patrol
screaming toward some drama, the kind of end
that Berky must have some day, if she isn't dead.
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In an attempt to lighten up my poem site I offer
this doggeral style ditty about my neighbor's dog-

I used to range those farming fields,
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There's many a schoolboy's bat and ball that are gathering dust at home,
For he hears a voice in the future call, and he trains for the war to come;
A serious light in his eyes is seen as he comes from the schoolhouse gate;
He keeps his kit and his rifle clean, and he sees that his back is straight.
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Earth no longer
hymns the Creator,
the seven days of wonder,
the Garden is over —
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Thousand minstrels woke within me,
"Our music's in the hills; "—
Gayest pictures rose to win me,
Leopard-colored rills.
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How beautiful is the Belief, when we belief in the God
How beautiful are the Creatures, when we belief in the Creator
How beautiful is the Motherhood, when we belief in the Sacrifices
How beautiful is the Fatherhood, when we belief in the Battles
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529

I'm sorry for the Dead—Today—
It's such congenial times
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By homestead, hut, and shearing-shed,
By railroad, coach, and track --
By lonely graves of our brave dead,
Up-Country and Out-Back:
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April 22, Earth Day, who cares?
Government's don't,
The politicians don't,
Big business don't,
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He was bare—we don’t want to be rude—
(His condition was owing to drink)
They say his condition was nood,
Which amounts to the same thing, we think
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I have some trouble living.

My wife found out
that her friends were
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By hut, homestead and shearing shed,
By railroad, coach and track-
By lonely graves where rest the dead,
Up-Country and Out-Back:
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By hut, homestead and shearing shed,
By railroad, coach and track-
By lonely graves where rest the dead,
Up-Country and Out-Back:
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Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter,
And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
Down in the pasture the sheep hear that strange crying for Peter,
Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.
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But what’s the use of writing ‘bush’—
Though editors demand it—
For city folk, and farming folk,
Can never understand it.
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She was always searching for a 'Prince Charming'
Who can use his tool for skillful farming
But the one she found was expert in farting
That too at the rate explosive and alarming
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ODE TO POTHOLES

I-205 JUST DOWN THE ROAD
PEOPLE MAD ABOUT THE TOLLS
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Without silos,
Without barns,
There would not be,
Like this, farming yarns.
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Obscurity cared for the infant's pediatric life innocently where the motherly lap was way to life
At four, a playground was farming fields and a rustic prayer home with brother and cousin
Collecting paddy straws to help my mother in cooking and learning religion were duties daily
Sometimes Dang-guli game and scuffle with same age villagers were daily kith and kin
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1
With Russia at war with the entire Ukraine
missile-ships and submarines do continually fire.
With bringing famine Putin raises great ire
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Life is a great journey like the adventure being made to El Dorado for discovering gold;
Life is like going to hills, forests, farming fields, rivers, deserts and seas to unearth treasures;
It is like using knowledge to compose Poems by genius full of wisdom after experience in life;
The hidden treasures, when we see being brought from caves to light, it's like miracle happening!
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Man is a tourist here,
On a pre granted holiday,
Sent for sightseeing,
Given only one chance,
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On the fertile land
Of a farming mind- sprouting
Of pretty name seed!
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A brooding dark and turbulent sky
That lingered nigh with Noah's storm
Tornado's lash was looming high
By broken battered home well worn
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No crop is more blessed
than the one a farmer sows and tills,
working in his field from dawn to dusk,
digging and cultivating every yield
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Three years consecutive droughts
Little harvests some without
Global warming wreaking havoc
Farming becoming ad hoc
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