Barley, where it succeeds, yields a larger weight of feed per acre than any other small grain crop.
quote by David F. Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
The older, thinner, and less productive grass lands, however, frequently can be made to produce much larger yields of feed in corn than if left, as they are, in unproductive grass.
quote by David F. Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If you want a crop for one year, grow grain; if you want a crop for ten years, grow a tree; if you want a crop for a hundred years, grow men.
A security cam is one small part of a much larger universe of cams. The much larger effect, socially, politically and economically, is going to come from a much larger trend.
quote by Bruce Sterling
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Peach Grove Next To Abbatoir
Next to an abbatoir
grows a peach grove.
The former has screams.
The latter is silent.
The slaughterhouse
stinks of blood and urine
and solid waste.
The peach grove is fragrant.
The slaughterhouse yields
a maximum 1000 pounds an acre of
food.
The peach grove yields in
trilevel agriculture four hundred
fifty thousand pounds an acre.
The slaughterhouse is labor
intensive and causes many worker
injuries and deaths.
The peach tree requires nothing
but a seed beneath dirt. The sun
and rain and mother earth
do the rest.
The slaughterhouse food causes
cancer, heart disease, food
poisoning, kidney failure, arthritis,
food poisoning fatalities.
The peach grove is God-designed.
poem by Saiom Shriver
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We Are All Lost In Our Own Small Lives
WE ARE ALL LOST IN OUR OWN SMALL LIVES
We are all lost in our own small lives
Which seem to be the world to us
But which are for the Universe
A grain of a grain of a grain of sand
So so so so nothing at all –
We are all here at the center
So serious about what we are
And we ultimately are
What every unnamed atom will never see
Oh small is not the word
And nothing either
We puffed puffed puffed up fools
Mostly me.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Annishell
Annishell annishell
Annishell leave
Leaving your armor your tresses your grief
Grief for the farmer a dollarless seed
Leasing and borrow an acre to feed
Annishell annishell
Annishell leave
Leaf to a farmer the falling to heed
Grief for the farmer an acre to feed
Leach on your armor I trespass your seed
poem by Jr. Phelps Frederic Pond
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God's-Acre
I like that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.
With thy rude ploughahare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;
This is the field and Acre of our God,
This is the place where human harvests grow!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Loves Single Grain Of Sand
A single grain of sand doth
Equal part weight of my love for my love,
All the sands weight on earth equals
My love for you, but
Cannot equal the bond
That is held together with
Heaven’s stars magnetised
By a single grain of love.
poem by Ken e Hall
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John Barley-Corn, My Foe
John Barley-corn, my foe, John,
The song I have to sing
Is not in praise of you, John,
E'en though you are a king.
Your subjects they are legion, John,
I find where'er I go:
They wear your yoke upon their necks,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
By your despotic sway
The people of our country, John,
Are suffering to-day.
You lay the lash upon their backs;
Yet willingly they go
And pay allegiance at the polls,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
You've broken many a heart,
And caused the bitter tear, John,
From many an eye to start,
The widow and the fatherless
From pleasant homes to go,
And lead a life of sin and shame,
John Barley-Corn, my foe.
John Barley-Corn, my foe, John,
May Heaven speed the hour,
When Temperance shall wear the crown
And Rum shall lose its power;
When from the East unto the West
The people all shall know
Their greatest curse has been removed,
John Barley-Corn, my foe!
poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Corn is the leading food and feed crop of the United States in geographic range of production, acreage, and quantity of product. The vital importance of a large acreage of this crop, properly cared for, therefore, is obvious.
quote by David F. Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It looks as though yields of over 10 times what we can currently grow per acre are feasible if you control the CO2 concentration, the humidity, the temperature, all the various factors that plants depend on to grow rapidly.
quote by Ralph Merkle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Water Mill
That small narrow meandering path
In the lush green fields
Moving with the stream
Over the precipice
With a gush
The water falls
On the blades which rotate
At speeds
Invisible which makes
To rotate the huge circular rock
Tons in weight
To grind the crop.
poem by Sanjay Mehta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Rigs o' Barley
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till, 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!
But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bannocks O' Bear Meal
Chorus:
Bannocks o' bear meal,
Bannocks o' barley,
Here's to the Highlandman's
Bannocks o' barley!
Wha, in a brulyie, will
First cry a parley?
Never the lads wi' the
Bannocks o' barley,
Chorus:
Wha, in his wae days,
Were loyal to Charlie?
Wha but the lads wi' the
Bannocks o' barley!
Chorus:
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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As much as we love playing the small clubs, we'd really like to get ourselves in front of a larger audience. I'm not talking about arenas or anything, but nice theaters and larger clubs.
quote by Chris Frantz
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gathering Leaves
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.
But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where
The harvest shall stop?
poem by Robert Frost
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The Infinitesimal
small is
Infinitesimal
a small grain of
rice
contains all the food
of this world
need i repeat when he
once said
that one must see the
universe
in the grain of
sand
the whole of love and
affection
in the hands
the magnificence of
creation in the mere spark
of stone
to stone
the magical grace of
the earth
in the sway of the
bamboo tip
of change in the mere blink
of an eye
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In the southern half of the country perhaps no crop has larger possibilities for quick increase of production of food for both men and animals than the sweet potato.
quote by David F. Houston
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pressure is the click
The one who is in deep love,
Loving and loving, misses the bus.
The one who waylaid a woman
Succeeds in getting her.
Woman yields to pressure
Rather than for pleasure.
06.02.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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