I see young men, my townsmen, whose misfortune it is to have inherited farms, houses, cattle, barns, and farming tools, for these are more easily acquired than gotten rid of. Better if they had been born in the open pasture and suckled by a wolf, that they might have seen with clearer eyes what field they were called to labour in.
Henry David Thoreau in Walden
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
A Farm-Picture
THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
poem by Walt Whitman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Joe The Black Cattle Dog
Old Joe the black cattle dog has known a better day
Around his jaws he is looking rather gray
He still works cattle but at a much slower pace
A young dog is being trained to take his place,
Old Joe a great cattle dog from a great working line
Is getting old for working cattle at nine
Though still keen to work nowadays he easily tire
The old legs tiring though he still has the desire
To work at cattle but his owner Jimmy say
That Joe is nearing his final working day
He will retire him he has done enough
At his age working cattle for him is too tough
He was a renowned working dog in his prime
But dog and master must bow to father time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A farm picture
a christian poet reading
a page of the koran
and all taken up by how god
himself could be so emotionally
worked up by the beauty
of the cattle walking in a line
on a plain, admiring, appreciating
his own creation
well men were created in his likeness
how wrong they have taken this likeness
to mean only appearances
but god fumes, curses, kills,
sometimes whole cities
all over the bibles, and if you like the koran
a christian poet lost in the lines
all about an entity, an entity
brighter than light, more eminent
than all the intelligences put together
inspired by
A Farm-Picture
THROUGH the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.
Walt Whitman
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Dad's Philanthropic Plan
I knew an old philanthropist, a farming man was he,
Shrewd at a deal, but still withal a man of charity.
He had three sons - three hefty lads - Josiah, Jim and Joe,
And each of these had his own land, and made a goodly show.
But still the farming methods of Josiah, Joe and Jim
Distressed their good old parent and disturbed the mind of him.
'These sons o' mine appear to be a sight too slow,' thought he
'They need a better class o' stock and more machinery.'
Wherefore this old philanthropist, this shrewd old farming man,
He sat him down and pondered long, and thus evolved a plan
A simple scheme, beneficent, and calculated so
That it would guard the interests of Josiah, Jim and Joe.
'I have acquired,' reflected he, 'a lot of tillage land
Much more than I can work; and my affairs get out of hand.
If I can but amalgamate their properties and mine,
And call the whole the Empire Farm, the prospect will be fine.
Then rose the good old farming man and called his sons around,
And thus his philanthropic scheme did earnestly expound:
'My sons, it grieves my heart to see you struggling on the land;
And I've decided, after thought, to lend a helping hand.
'You all have been good sons to me, and this is my great plan:
We shall amalgamate the farms and work them as one man.
But first you need machinery; your methods are too slow.
The cost of this will fall on you - Josiah, Jim and Joe.
'Josiah I'll allow to buy a good, upstanding team;
And Joe a separator, for there's coin in milk and cream;
To Jim I give permission - he's a fav'rite son o' mine
To buy a brand new harvester of up-to-date design.
'Josiah, he will feed the nags, and Joe can buy some cows
And these be privileges, mind, not ev'ry dad allows
While Jim can mind the harvester till harvest comes around,
When you can fetch it, with the nags, and work it on MY ground.
'And, as Joe's cows come into milk, he'll fetch 'em up to me,
'Long with the separator; I will work it - do you see?'
But, strange to say, they did not see - Josiah, Jim nor Joe.
They said rude things that plunged their parent into deepest woe.
They called him many ugly names, such as 'a mean old man';
And told him pretty plainly their opinion of his 'plan.'
'We'll buy our harvesters,' said they, 'and work 'em on our own;
And if you get hard-pressed - why, you can have 'em for a loan.'
The poor old farmer bowed his head. 'Ingratitude!' he cried,
'And after all I've done for you, my offer is denied!'
And dad, to-day, is forced to plough and harrow, dig and sow,
For they were most ungrateful sons, Josiah, Jim and Joe.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Labouring Under Child Labour
A child is born out of labour.
A child is sent to school
And made to recognise
Read, recite, and write
Draw, count, and play.
The child undergoes labour
In all these movements
Of mind and limb
Whether he likes it or not.
If a child learns too fast
And sets a precocious record
In his studies or GK
Or in singing or dancing
Or in acting or in a sport
You laud him as a prodigy.
A school child is made
To work or wait for hours
Under the scorching sun
For a political or governmental event
With no snacks or water
Whether he like it or not.
It’s civic training,
Practicals of theory,
Shrama daan (labour of love)
Of the citizen tomorrow’s.
So catch them young!
If a child wants to be free
In this free country
From loads of books
And exams of rote
And play in the lap of nature
Like a fawn or a cub
And begin to study life
In the open school
And learn the letters
Of the art of living
And helps himself
And his parents too
By willingly working as a help
And earns a few dimes
To drive the wolf
Away from the door
And survive
In the rat race of this world –
No, he isn’t allowed.
It’s child’s labour
A cognisable offence!
The child with a silver spoon
In his mouth
Who labours with his mind
Is hailed with accolades
And promoted by sponsors
And reaps golden harvests.
The child with a pewter spoon
In his mouth
Who labours with his hands
Is called child labour
And rudely snapped
From his patrons
Who are raided, reviled, and punished.
And the tear-dried starveling
Is left in the lachrymose lurch and
Heartlessly denied his only honest means
Of keeping body and soul together.
[May 15,2009: : Hyderabad - 500 056]
poem by AtreyaSarma Uppaluri
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Wealth not acquired by our own labours, but inherited.
Some Mother's Young Daughter
In the quiet alleyway in the dim moonlight
Some mother's young daughter she died over-night
From a drug overdose friendless and alone
Found in a disused factory doorway cold and lifeless as a stone.
She was only nineteen so young for one to die
When the cold winds of Winter blew across the darkened sky
With hardly any shelter to shield her from the cold
Some are born to die young some die gray and old.
Some broken hearted mother is in tears today
For her beautiful daughter who died in such a tragic way
The baby she gave birth to who suckled from her breast
'Tis not her fault she died in this way for her she did her best.
Some mother's young daughter in a morgue today
In a disused factory doorway she died where she lay
Life for her may have been different had she not kept bad company
But easily said on hindsight how things might have been for such as she.
Some mother's young daughter is beyond all care
With the gleam of youth still in her golden hair
In a dimly lit alleyway in the cold night air
She did not return from the brink of despair.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Simple Observation #89 - Something which is quite easily gained can.......
Something which is quite easily gained can just as easily be lost
but that which is painstakingly acquired is done so at great cost.
poem by George Krokos
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It’s the second day that I visit
It’s the second day that I visit
on the farm near Reivelo,
just past Vryburg.
They farm with cattle, goats,
a few sheep, muscovy ducks, turkeys
and chicken.
The scrambler bumps up and down
right through the field
and go past rocks and bushes,
while we drive along the rough field
and the hot wind
cut across my face
and there are places
where it cannot go.
It’s time to transform
young bulls to oxen,
to brand cattle
and to cut their horns
and I get a black stallion
to ride into the field.
My cousin rides in front
with a brown Arabian mare
and there are bushes
and flat slabs of rock
and small hillocks that we past
to try and round up young cattle
to the corral.
It’s nice to be a cattle herder
for a time
and to use legs and heels
and reigns,
to round up cattle in the field.
Every thing goes well until
I chase a young black bull
just to the entrance of the fold,
where it stops stubbornly
and doesn’t want to move
a feet further.
I jump out of the saddle,
fasten the reigns
to a small branch
and rush to the obstinate bull.
It stands and snorting
and stamp its feet
and when it sees me,
it rushes confused
at the horse.
That faithful horse stands firm
while the bulls horns swishes
onto the reigns
and the horse
stops that bull in its tracts,
that a piece of the bridle
breaks right off.
Then I am at the bull
and pull the reigns
out of its horns
and it walks meek
into the corral,
while in astonishment
I stand and look at that animal.
With a knee-strap
and pliers in the nose
we draw the bull to the ground
and when we shear it,
it moans like a heifer
and there’s a burning smell
that goes up from the branding iron
and I see the horns
dropp at my feet
and it’s another beast
when it stand on its feet.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Wolf
You were born to privilege
Licking on a silver spoon
Think you gotta buy all your friends
Just so you can tear up the room
Your kind is a dime a dozen
I've seen it all before
A parasite in a good disguise
Just another wolf at the door
The wolf
Prowling in the nighttime
The wolf
Howling in the moonshine
The wolf
Gives you what you want but he ain't no friend of mine
You lay it on oh
song performed by by Heart from Heart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A werewolf howl
A howl in the night,
Cuts the silence in two,
A howl in the night,
Makes you ask ‘who? ’
It is a lonely hunter,
That stands on the field,
It is a lonely hunter,
That hasn’t yet killed,
A creature so big,
All covered in pelt,
A creature so big,
Whit its head high held,
A wolf on two legs,
Howls to the moon,
A wolf on two legs,
Is going to kill soon,
It is called a werewolf,
Deadly as few,
It is called a werewolf,
If just you knew.
poem by Anna Turtle
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Cautious
The white wolf wasn't all too keen
To challenge anyone.
He heard a noise, his heart turned mean,
Beneath the fading sun...
When cautious instincts made him wait,
His eyes scanned high and low.
In seconds, he would learn his fate...
To stay here or to go...
The lone wolf listened for some clues
Of movement left or right.
Another noise was more bad news...
Yet he was born to fight!
The minutes melted silently...
Yet nothing more was heard...
Now drained of curiosity,
He took a chance and stirred.
With leaps and bounds, he crossed the plains,
Escaping dangers there.
The cautious white wolf broke the chains
That he was forced to bear.
The path ahead was open wide
And so new life begins...
New confidence helped him decide,
Throw caution to the winds...
His heartbeat calmed beside the stream...
He drank his fill... time passed...
In time, this day would seem a dream...
For now, he slept... at last...
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Cautious'.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Oh!
OH! let the lighting clouds come instantly
from the snowy summit of the Mount Stake
and let the scythe
come into the blonde hair of the wheat scything
and i have put the sedge
on the rainless back of the field
from the cloud
we sowed the field together with my mother
my sister pruned the grass in needy
and suckled there her newly born baby
OH! the endlees winter of 72
OH! come and warm everwhere and us a little bit
let my melancholic love spring up from my bed
I have three ears of wheat
at the large thrashing field of my village
let the rain and the days sunny
spread everywhere their beauty
I do not want too much
let unbind the infertility of the sky
guard and save our winter provisions
for this
I have descended from the mountain
to the blonde hair of the wheat for cropping
poem by Metin Sahin
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Run With The Wolf
In the light of day
You can hear the old ones say
Can you feel the change begin
By the fall of the show
A single soul will go
With foot steps on the white
Theres an unholy light
Theres a hole in the sky
Something evils passing by, whats to come
When the siren calls you go
To run with the wolf
When the world makes a turn
Then eyes of one will learn
That a sound just like the wind
Only makes the change begin
By the end of the rain
The feelings passed again
>from the things that shap and bite
An unholy light
Theres a break in the ground
Like the swirling waters
Angry as they pull you down
When the siren calls you go
To run with the wolf 2... times
Like a beast in the field
You know his fate is still
To run with the wolf
To run with the wolf
Seas that make you know its late now we go
To run, run, run, to run, run, run with the wolf
Run, run, run, run now we go
song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The farmers in Kansas are sorely in need of a credit system meeting their special requirements, that they may more readily obtain money on short or long time for their farming operations, or that they may become owners of farms.
quote by Arthur Capper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lone Wolf
I am a lone wolf
I always was and will be
I feel fine, I am resigned to this
I am a lone wolf
I am a lone wolf
Got my cares
Wrapped up all nice and neat
In my suitcase
Ill take it down the street
To a place with plenty of space for me
I am a lone wolf
I am a lone wolf
It blows my mind
That people wanna try to get inside my tired head
I am a lone wolf
I am a lone wolf
I am a lone wolf
Nobody needs to get too close to me
Youll only see this truth
I am a lone wolf
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Top Notch In Any Game
A leveling done on a playing field,
Open to anyone with skills to advance.
To enhance!
Sems to be distant from the doing,
Since those who could prove themselves...
With honesty and talent to expose,
Those 'top-notch-in-any-game' poses...
Are easily seduced by a drugging done,
To egos hard to leave off the field of play.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Fat Dogs Wear Well Fed Collars
the wolf cannot wear your collar
the wolf cannot eat your slave bread
the wolf feels a free wind on free face
the wolf hears all sounds freedom fed
the wolf must hunt for its piece of meat
the wolf hunts mountains where free rivers meet
the wolf will starve to death as lean winter creeps
the wolf paints landscapes scenes as death inward seeps
the wolf licks not the beast man’s hand wolf never weeps
poem by Terence George Craddock
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