Barry Holden
The very fall my sister Nancy Knapp
Set fire to the house
They were trying Dr. Duval
For the murder of Zora Clemens,
And I sat in the court two weeks
Listening to every witness.
It was clear he had got her in a family way;
And to let the child be born
Would not do.
Well, how about me with eight children,
And one coming, and the farm
Mortgaged to Thomas Rhodes?
And when I got home that night,
(After listening to the story of the buggy ride,
And the finding of Zora in the ditch,)
The first thing I saw, right there by the steps,
Where the boys had hacked for angle worms,
Was the hatchet!
And just as I entered there was my wife,
Standing before me, big with child.
She started the talk of the mortgaged farm,
And I killed her.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Related quotes
The Mother of Three
Oh, to have a little farm,
A little hearth so warm and bright,
And three little boys all safe from harm
In from the winter night!
A little house with white-washed wall,
And thatched like any golden rick,
And the little boys within my call,
And they running so quick.
A garden and an apple tree,
And me so busy all the day,
And the little boys at home with me,
Merry out at their play.
There was a woman I've heard tell,
Whose three fine sons were killed. For sure
'Tis good to have them little and well
And just beyond your door.
This while back there is something wrong --
It may be that I miss the boys
Who filled the house the whole day long
With happy laughter and noise!
And often when I sit my lone
The sadness comes and lies on me
For the poor soul that has no son.
And me having the three!
And it's oh, to have the little farm
Under the golden thatch so bright,
And the little boys safe home from harm
Shut in with me at night!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Farm
There┬┤s a cockroach in my coffee
There┬┤s a needle in my arm
And I feel like New York City
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Somebody get me to the farm
I got terminal uniqueness
I'm an egocentric man
I get caught up in my freakness
But I ain┬┤t no Peter Pan
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me to the farm
Get me...
Buckle up straight Jack
Sanity is such a drag
Jellybeam thorazene
Trancendental jet lag
Sanity I ain┬┤t gotta
Feeling like a pinala
Sucker punch-blowin┬┤lung
Motherload-pigeonholed
I'm feeling like I'm gonna explode
I wanna be a Hare Krishna
Tattoo a dot right on my head
And the prozac is my fixer
I am the living dead
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm...
Take me to the farm
Take me to the farm
Somebody take me to the farm
song performed by by Aerosmith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In front of a firing squad
Japie almost burns himself
when he mess some coffee
and it’s still dark,
when at four o’clock one morning
British soldiers arrive
at the Greyling’s farm.
There’s an Afrikaner farm boy
standing against the wall
of a farm house
and English Captain Jack Seeley,
wants to know to where
his father’s Boer commando is going?
Japie Greyling refuses
to say anything about it
and Jack Seeley
order his men,
to aim at an Afrikaner boy.
Six British Martini Henri rifles
are pointed at a ten year old child
and he hears gunlock after gunlock
closing behind a bullet.
I ask you a last time
says the relentless Englishman
and a Boer boy
looks into death,
but still there’s nothing
that he lets out about his people
The British Captain keeps
walking nervously up and down
and the blue eyes
of a Boer boy,
cuts right through him
and the child says
let death then come,
but talk I wont.
All the British soldiers
are astounded by the courage
that comes from an Afrikaner child
and on command,
the rifles are lowered
before they ride away
and Japie Greyling
is left alive.
[References: Historic heroic story of Japie (Jacobus Johannes Cornelis) Greyling during the second Anglo-Boer war. The poem “Japie Greyling” by J.F.E Celliers. The book “Fear and Be Slain” by Jack Seeley.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Birth
he was born on a dark lonely night
and not a soul was in sight.
his mother was driving home
on that starry night, when she started
to feel the contractions.
she knew right then that she would
have to take action.
she pulled alongside that old country road
and her stomach she did hold
.
when she felt that waterbag bust
and in GOD she put her trust.
she asked the LORD what she should do
for she knew not what to do.
she heard a voice so soft and gentle
that told her to stay calm.
for this was a special child
that would be born this night
and that everything was going
to be allright.
she pushed the front seat back
as far as it would go
and took off her clothing so
that she could see.
the pains became so severe
and a head did appear.
she pushed with all her might
so that this child could be free.
for this was the way
it was meant to be.
as the child started to come out
from her lungs came a shout.
this child came out with such ease
and she felt a gentle breeze
as if it was a whisper upon her face
and she knew it was through GODS grace.
with a penknife she cut the cord.
and cleaned him up the best she could.
she wrapped him within her coat
and put the heater on
and drove back to a distant farm.
when she got to the farm
and banged upon the door.
when no one answered
she knealt down on the floor.
again she called upon the LORD
and asked what she should do.
he told her to look towads the barn
for there was a light as bright as day
and the farmer was baling hay.
as she got to the barn door
she collapsed in sheer exhaustion.
when she finally opened up her eyes
on the hay she did lay.
and beside her lay her child.
and the farmer told her she was
out for quite a while.
but the ambulance was on the way
and that he could not move her
in fear of jeopardizing her life
and that she was cleaned up
by his lovely wife.
now the farmers wife was
a religious woman
who believed that nothing
happens by chance.
and at this child she did glance.
she said that he had an aura
of light above his head
just like the bible which she had read.
she looked at this childs mother
and asked her this:
'is this coincidence or is this
a sign from above
that he would be in a barn
like christ was in the manger?
she recalled that gentle voice and
what it had said.
that a special child would be born on this night.
now you tell me.
was she wrong, or was she right?
poem by Louis Rams
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Lives Complete
My beloved daughter came home in a flurry of
stories about feeding lambs, killing foxes and
sleeping outside on a farm in Namibia as well
as a stream of complaints about her room - I
put her trinkets away for visiting family
Her bedroom lights inexplicably won’t switch on,
her dad gets the brunt of that - I reacted like an
autistic child, my lips did not know how to smile,
listening in silence to everything she said, only
when I was alone expressing my joy
In song, singing old Dutch hymns at the top of my
voice, joy coursing through my veins, my child safe,
I rub her back and listen to her sermons about the
sanctity of her room – just the way I want it to be,
her dad changed from a wound-up spring to
Being relaxed, the smile right round his face, our
lives complete, he already lecturing her on the
year’s course, she listening with a grin, what
joy, what delight, living in a state of grace…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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We Live In a Democracy
I agree with you.
Sometimes I do.
That is true.
When I do.
You may have opinions to express.
But not one of them is asked for here.
Not one do you need to address.
In my home I dictate.
And the space inside, I rent.
Even if it was mortgaged...
Every cent paid on bill in my name,
I'm the one who gives consent.
If I should solicit,
That will be done in am manner as I wish.
And when I get annoyed by disrespect...
Those who do it,
Are dismissed.
There is no need for you to yell,
'We live in a democracy! '
In my home I dictate.
And the space inside, I rent.
Even if it was mortgaged...
Every cent paid on bill in my name,
I'm the one who gives consent.
If I should solicit,
That will be done in am manner as I wish.
And when I get annoyed by disrespect...
Those who do it,
Are dismissed.
There is no need for you to yell,
'We live in a democracy! '
Or do I need to repeat what I've said...
Since you obviously are not listening to me.
You see that door?
Get up and through it exit.
You are no longer welcomed in my home.
For an excuse to play fool.
Or puff up your chest to threatened.
Since ignorance in here is all you've invested.
See that door?
Save some remnants of our friendship!
Get up...
Go through it quick to exit!
We will talk at some point,
When it's agreed we can disagree.
But right now our eyes do not meet.
I agree with you.
Sometimes I do.
That is true.
When I do.
But for now...
Get the hell out of my house.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nancy Knapp
Well, don't you see this was the way of it:
We bought the farm with what he inherited,
And his brothers and sisters accused him of poisoning
His fathers mind against the rest of them.
And we never had any peace with our treasure.
The murrain took the cattle, and the crops failed.
And lightning struck the granary.
So we mortgaged the farm to keep going.
And he grew silent and was worried all the time.
Then some of the neighbors refused to speak to us,
And took sides with his brothers and sisters.
And I had no place to turn, as one may say to himself,
At an earlier time in life; "No matter,
So and so is my friend, or I can shake this off
With a little trip to Decatur."
Then the dreadfulest smells infested the rooms.
So I set fire to the beds and the old witch-house
Went up in a roar of flame,
As I danced in the yard with waving arms,
While he wept like a freezing steer.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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I was a typical farm boy. I liked the farm. I enjoyed the things that you do on a farm, go down to the drainage ditch and fish, and look at the crawfish and pick a little cotton.
quote by Sam Donaldson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Three children
Three little children.
One with a home.
One sitting on a thrown.
The last child only skin and bones.
One child lives happily with his family.
One child sits alone; his family won’t spare the time
The last child watches his mother die.
One child has a few new toys.
One child has the best toys anyone can imagine.
The last child plays with sticks and stones.
One child attends public school.
One child stays home and studies alone.
The last child has to cook and has never opened a book.
The children become men.
One man is off to war.
One man is sitting behind a jail door.
The last man is very far from poor.
poem by Yvette Carbajal
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The Innocent Child
I was just a child, an innocent child
I didn't know when, I didn't know how.
I was just a child, an innocent child.
She couldn't save me from what happened,
even though she tried. She always tried.
she was my guardian angel.
I was just a child, an innocent child.
I couldn't be saved then, and I cant be saved now.
The dark angel came over, knocked on my door.
sucked the life out of my family, I was only 5.
I was just a child, and innocent child.
I didn't understand, Where did they go? What happened to mommy and daddy? What happened to sissy? Why didn't they come home last night?
They brought the car to my house, thought someone else would be home, but it was just me, just a little 5 year old..I looked at it... I saw the twists and the turns... the dents and the broken glass.. the scars will always be there.. I see it slamming into a ditch..rolling, rolling, and when it stops.
Silence...
I was just a child, an innocent child.
I didn't understand. how could that happen.. what happened?
I was just an innocent child, the innocent child.
She went away that night.. and she never came back.
poem by Forever Gone
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Home invasion in Springs
Masked like the black criminals
that robs you of your car
and just there and there promises you death,
they arrived
with a mini bus taxi on the farm,
drove right through the farm gate
and at the front door
jumped out of the kombi
with five steps intruded into the house
to bring death to the farmer,
to rape the wife
and daughter.
The farmer heard the crash
at the gate,
he realized that it was big trouble
heard them in their own language command
to kill, while shot upon shot
was ringing from the front porch
and he though about the obliteration
of his whole family.
His wife was too far away
in the lounge busy with sewing
and he heard his daughter rushing screaming
to her mother
turned about hurried to the gun safe
and got hold of a pump action shotgun
with LG cartridges
and rushed down the hallway.
In the lounge four black criminals
aimed pistols at his daughter and wife
told them to strip themselves bare
and when they did not want to
one said to the others in his language
to kill them
while the farmer was sneaking
closer at the back of the lounge suite.
Just one glance from the farmer
made his wife and daughter fall to the ground
two shots came from the shotgun
lifting two of the gangsters right from their feet
and the other two started shooting
into the ceiling
and the wall of the lounge
and when the farmer fired again
they fled in fear to the outside
turning around to fire at the farmer
and another one dropped in his tracks,
the other ran wounded into the cornfield.
At the start the police, wanted to arrest
the farmer for the murder of the robbers,
but there was more than enough evidence
that it was self-defence,
even the farm workers
were witnesses
about the shooting, threat
of the robbers
and by his actions
the farmer saved himself, his wife and daughter
and the labourers praised him
as a kind and a just man
but at the church
some members regarded the farmer
as a mass killer
who had determined the fate of others with a shotgun.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Manger Mouses Story
john john the story telling mouse
sat high on a toadstool house
telling the story as it was told to him
and at the children he did grin.
he started to tell the story of peter mouse
and how story telling came about.
this was the story as it was told to me
and been passed down throughout our history.
when the angels came down to bless
the child in the barn, they did not see.
a distant relative of you and me.
he was peter mouse who would
crawl into the barnyard house.
he was there putting away his goodies
at that time, and everything that night was going fine.
when entered the human couple
with all their belongings on the donkeys back.
the man human started piling up the hay
where his wife would now stay.
from his hiding place he could see
that her stomach was as big as can be.
he laid his wife down upon the hay
and to the lord he did pray.
he said: ' this is the only place
that we could find, and it's just about that time.'
soon afterwards she felt the pains
and prepared herself for what was to come
our GODS first born son.
this manchild was as beautiful as can be
and above the barn a star shone so brightly.
he saw a choir of angels come down
'and praised the child on the ground.'
then he saw the shepherd boy
and soon three kings from afar
who followed this shining star.
the angels blessed all that was within
and he felt a chill begin.
they stayed until she felt fine
then through the mountains they did climb.
peter mouse was right in back
never stopping or letting up slack.
he saw this child grow up to be a man
and preached GODS words throughout the lands.
he followed every step of the way
and witnessed all that JESUS had done
from dawn to setting sun.
JESUS had seen him many years back
and from that day forward
carried him in his pack.
he lived to be a hundred and ten years old
and told the story to all his fold.
since then its been passed on
from generation to generation
for he has been our salvation.
poem by Louis Rams
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Old Girl, A Backwards Dream
he was just sitting there listening, you know...
sitting on the stoop, listening to the old black man
play guitar...
listening to the children playing across the way...
listening to the occasional car, and the way the sunset
clapped against the trees, keeping rhythm.
the old man started singing, low, almost a growl:
'old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
old girl, old girl, where you been so long?
done took the night out of my daytime,
and the darkness out of dawn.
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
old girl, old girl, why you be that way?
you pack your clothes to travel on,
you dont unpack your clothes to stay...'
he grinned at the old man, 'yeah...'
the smell of streaked meat frying, and coffee
boiling over came from the house...
'how many eggs y'all want? '
the old man started singing again:
'old girl, old girl, why you wanna shake that thing?
old girl, old girl, why you wanna shake that thing?
you lock me out of your house,
why you wanna be so mean? '...
'y'all gonna see mean in a minute, if you dont
get your buts in here and eat..'
'we coming, baby', the old man grinned, slowly sliding
the guitar back in its case.
shaking his head and looking up, he saw an owl,
perched silently on the eaves. pulling down his hat,
he followed the old man in.... the sound of the screen
door slamming echoed in the dusk.
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poems and Life
her poems are her life
her life is her poems
they tell a story
of the one that’s dead
but yet is not
“the miracle child”
dead at four weeks but is now 15 years old
the child was not going to
walk
talk
or even feed her
“she’s going to be a veggie”
the doctors said
she can now do it all
all at once if you would
like for her to
“she’s going to die from a seizure at four weeks”
the doctors said
but now 15, has fought though epilepsy
thanks to her brother that always was there for her
always supported her
and has been scissure free for
five years
(since her dad died)
is the child a miracle
doctors think so
she’s in the record books
but is she a miracle or was it just luck
I’ll let you diced
this child i talk about is almost a women
and
she’s standing right in front of you
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Child Of Fire
Born into darkness in saturns sight
Riding the night like the wind
Ripping the heart form a world that is right
Treading the borders of sin.
Child of fire
The souls that are damned
By the pain that you bring
Send you higher
Slashing destruction, your right hand sword ringing
To the ends of the earth you will fly
Conquering masses in wanton deception
Blood-red your black flag waves high
Child of fire
The souls that are damned
By the pain that you bring
Send you higher
Look around, is this the end that you have foreseen
The pain, the misery in us all
What was it that you knew? will we one day learn it too
And together build another way, to the morning
Or will it ever come again
Youve poisoned all our hopes
We have nothing now, and what of the children
What has this done to them? damn you for the pain
That they must feel
The last hero standing no time to turn back
Hes listening, he waits for your call
The black barren plains reflect the hope of the same
For one only waiting to fall
Child of fire
The souls that are damned
By the pain that you bring
Send you higher
song performed by by Queensryche
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Tale Of The Trucker's Life
The young bride sits alone in her house,
waiting for her farm hand husband to return to her lonely bosom.
Enters the husband, tired, and cranky.
He goes to the stereo, hooks up his headphones,
and falls asleep listening to country, and western music.
The bride long since gone to bed alone.
The young mother, and her toddler son
in front of the TV watching movies while the
husband/father works third shift at Wal-Mart 25 miles away.
The mother takes her son to his baseball games,
explains why daddy can't come,
because he decided to be a truck driver.
She is mother, father, and sole teacher to there young son.
She wipes away his tears when he is hurt,
Comforts him when he is sick,
and makes excuses for the absent father
who never has acted like he loved their child.
Who wipes away the tears that the
mother/wife sheds every time she sees
how much their son misses his daddy.
Their little boy puts his arm around his
mother's shoulders and with a hug,
he says, 'mom it will be all right.'
Does the trucker miss his family?
Does he feel the same pain, and sorrow?
He must not care, for he stays gone sometimes four,
sometimes six weeks in a row,
only coming home long enough to make love.
Never does he interact with his son, not really.
The wife, and son now lay in the cold, hard ground,
never to rise again. Now it is too late
for the old trucker to tell them how he really felt.
He sits alone in an old rocking chair,
staring at old, faded photos of his wife,
and son, but he is not in any of the pictures.
He stands in front of the pearly gates of Heaven,
he sees his wife, and son just on the other side,
But they don't recognize him.
So goes the tale of the trucker's life.
poem by Velmar Pewee Hale Johnson
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Love Vigilantes
Oh Ive just come
From the land of the sun
From a war that must be won
In the name of truth
With our soldiers so brave
Your freedom we will save
With our rifles and grenades
And some help from god
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
You just cant believe
The joy I did recieve
When I finally got my leave
And I was going home
Oh I flew through the sky
My convictions could not lie
For my country I would die
And I will see it soon
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
When I walked through the door
My wife she lay upon the floor
And with tears her eyes were sore
I did not know why
Then I looked into her hand
And I saw the telegram
That said that I was a brave, brave man
But that I was dead
I want to see my family
My wife and child waiting for me
Ive got to go home
Ive been so alone, you see
song performed by by New Order
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Clarence Fawcett
The sudden death of Eugene Carman
Put me in line to be promoted to fifty dollars a month,
And I told my wife and children that night.
But it didn't come, and so I thought
Old Rhodes suspected me of stealing
The blankets I took and sold on the side
For money to pay a doctor's bill for my little girl.
Then like a bolt old Rhodes accused me,
And promised me mercy for my family's sake
If I confessed, and so I confessed,
And begged him to keep it out of the papers,
And I asked the editors, too.
That night at home the constable took me
And every paper, except the Clarion,
Wrote me up as a thief
Because old Rhodes was an advertiser
And wanted to make an example of me.
Oh! well, you know how the children cried,
And how my wife pitied and hated me,
And how I came to lie here.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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It Is What It Is Or Is It
Failure requires no preparation
Is this my downfall is this where i went wrong
Was i preparing way to long
Can birds fly upside down
But are we all scared of clowns
What came first night or day
The chicken or the egg they say
You can be in a crowd but still be lonely
If you walked backwards
Would you end up at the start
How come lightning never strikes twice in same place
Dose it know its been there before
Can you miss someone you have never none
Why do we fall down but never up
Is the best thing for a hangover
Drinking heavy the night before
Whats on the dark side of the moon
Can you circle the globe in eighty days
In just a balloon
Do fish sleep while they are still moving
Can you still hear without listening
Can you still see with with out looking
Do bees make honey cause they have a sweat tooth
If you had an ant farm would you farm ants
Why cant a step ladder have ladders of their own
And the king have a lounge instead of a thrown
Do animals like being in a zoo
Would like every one watching everything you do
The words of a child
When we were small
my younger brother and I
had to stay with the Von Hörsten’s
during the day,
when my mother went to work
and we had to play outside
and was threatened
that we would get dresses
when we wanted
to come into the house,
but this staying
ended dramatically
in my sixth year.
One night my mother wanted to know
how it is going
with out daily visitation,
whereupon I told her
that every thing was well
and my brother said
that I eat my food very slowly.
I told her
that I do not like cabbage
and that we have to eat everything
or get a hiding
if something is left
on our plates.
My mother said that vegetables
are good and necessary to eat
and I accepted it like that,
but it wasn’t the end
of the story.
As a innocent child
my brother told this incident
to one of the Von Hörsten boys
who told it to his dad.
I played in the hillock above their house
when all of the Von Hörsten boys suddenly
came running out of the farmhouse
and went in all directions
calling for me,
but I could immediately see
that there was big trouble
from the way
that they were shouting and searching.
So I stayed were I was
and wondered about what was going on
and what terrible thing
I had done unknowing?
The much older and bigger boys
sneaked up that hill
and jumped on me
from behind
and grabbed me
and I was carried
right up to their dad.
Uncle Hendrik was a man
that didn’t take nonsense
from anyone
and wanted to know from me,
why I did not want to eat
his wife’s food
and why I am saying
that her food tastes awful?
So I said that it isn’t true
and he shouted
that I must stop lying
and jagged me closer
on my neck
with the hook of his walking stick
and hit me with it.
Stuttering I couldn’t get words
to explain
the circumstances
and then he shouted
talk man talk
and stop thinking
what to lie about
while he was still hitting me.
So I said
that I didn’t like cabbage
and got another hiding
and was said to be silent
or to talk the truth.
So I said that God is my witness
and that a day would come
that his words would also dry up
and be totally in confusion.
Like a dog I was chased away
with a footsack shouted at me
and fled away from
his walking stick
to our house.
The Von Hörsten’s called my mother
and told her about every thing
and she knew
from where my trouble came
and for a whole month
my brother had to eat cabbage,
because he talked
out of the house
and never again
we stayed over with the Von Hörsten’s.
l’Envoi
Many years later
when I was at University
I saw uncle Hendrik Von Hörsten
on the campus
and we greeted each other
and spoke normally
about the things happening in the country
and about our families,
but when he walked away
other students spoke to him
and the once known writer
spoke back in jabbering language
as if he didn’t know
what to say
and was totally confused.
It was said
that he had Alzheimer’s,
but until today I wonder
about the power
coming from
the words of a child.
[Reference: The word uncle used here out of respect and local custom and not to point out family relationship.]
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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