Abandoned Zimbabwean Farmhouse
It was a great commercial farm
at a time,
says the uncultivated fields
where the last crop of maize stands
not harvested at the right time,
says the big house
build from rock with Rhodesian teak floors
and great wooden doors
of which only splinters remain
where they had been axed
for fire wood
says the huge barn,
with a now rusting roof,
now stripped from anything valuable
says the stable now bare
from any living animals
and its obvious that the farmer
and his family left in haste
and that everything is going to waste
says the broken china cups, the broken dinner plates
the child’s toys which are scattered, smashed
and I wonder if the family did survive
when the farm was invaded
by a thieving unruly youth
and so-called war veterans.
[Reference: Abandoned Farmhouse by Ted Kooser.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The Family House
Look at this family’s house masked in beauty.
Waiting to be unraveled like a delicate rose.
so Let us take a peek inside
To witness the cracked floors,
the broken doors,
and the decaying rose petals, scattered by a child.
Left to be compiled
with the rest of this house,
rotting wood and flesh.
Look at this family’s house masked in beauty.
poem by GuyAdler Dorelien
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The family farm is the foundation for who we are as a Commonwealth. And for over a century, the family farm in Kentucky has centered around one crop: tobacco.
quote by Jim Bunning
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grandpa Danie Brand [2]
After taking part
as a youngster of sixteen
in the second Anglo-Boer war
where he had to spend nights in the open veldt
fired so much on the British
that his hands were full of blisters
from the rifle
of which the barrel got white hot
he married Lenie Swanepoel in 1918,
was really in love with her
and from 1926 he farmed on the farm Welgemeen
near to Steekdoorns in the Vryburg district
where he himself build his own homestead
from Josef’s stone and put up fences
and turned the wild veldt
into a viable farm.
Grandpa Danie did not have time
to sit on the porch,
as it goes with farming,
work took his attention constantly
and before early morning light
he was already in the fields
or at the diary busy with the cows
but was held in high esteem by the labourers
although he was strict.
On a day grandpa Danie
visited another farmer
to buy Afrikaner cattle from him
and while they walked into the lounge
of the other farmer’s house
he lit his pipe
whereupon the other farmer said to him:
“Mister Brand, I do not allow anybody
to smoke in my house”
and it was a big embarrassment to him,
so much so that while he was riding home on his horse,
busy driving the cattle with his workers
he stopped at a big rock
that rose into the air
and knocked his pipe against it
causing it to break in two pieces
and it was also the last time
that grandpa Danie did smoke.
When he got appendicitis
and his appendix erupted
grandma Lenie took great care of him
nursing him back to health
but he continually got pain
when he ate maize
and his brother Frans
who lived in Johannesburg
convinced him
to have a appendectomy
whereupon dressed in his black coat
grandpa Danie left for the hospital in Vryburg
and at the hospital
grandpa Danie got inflammation
and died from the operation wound
that got septic,
in a time before antibiotics
was discovered.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Broken Family
Her family is broken.
Her father's never home and when
he is, he doesn't even notice her.
Her brother is never here, always with
his girlfriend just so he can escape
this place. Her sister the drug addict
and alcoholic, takes her kid to
her ‘husbands' house where he
beats her and treats her like a slave,
cheating on her all the time.
Her mom doesn't care anymore,
just ignores everyone, just like her father.
She herself has given up on this broken family.
It may not seem as broken as the worst but
it's broken enough
for the little girl to
end her life. Leaving behind her family.
They wake up and realize
that their family is broken.
When it's too late
poem by Nichole Herrin
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The Barn at Willoughby's Farm
I have this recurring nightmare where
I'm wandering round a farm,
It's out in the middle of nowhere, just
A milking shed and a barn,
An ancient tractor sits by the house
But the blinds are pulled and drawn,
And it seems that the farmer left this place
Before Jacinth was born.
But ever I see her stand and wave
As she climbed aboard the bus,
Off for a life of adventure, not
Stuck here, like one of us,
She'd always wanted the country life
Away from the city's swell,
The day that she waved goodbye to us
Was my first real glimpse of hell!
‘Once I've settled, I'll write, ' she said,
‘Or else, there's always the phone;
I'll try to ring on a Friday night
When I'll catch you all at home! '
But she didn't ring, and she didn't write
And a month went by so soon,
She'd left in the middle of March, at night,
And then it was almost June!
I called on out to the agency
The office was next to the zoo,
She said they'd found her a pretty farm
That wanted a Jillaroo,
She'd cook and clean for the family,
And then work out on the farm,
Herding the lowing milkers in
To the milking shed by the barn.
The woman flicked through the client file
In a search for Jacinth's name,
She said, ‘That's strange, I've re-arranged
This file, but just the same,
I have no recollection of this
Girl, whatever she's called,
It could be another agency…'
But I thought the woman stalled!
I went to call at the depot where
The buses were parked at night,
I looked up the owner driver that
I'd seen when Jacinth took flight,
‘I don't remember the girl, ' he said,
‘But March was a fair way back,
She probably went to Willoughby's Farm
On the Strzelecki track.'
My heart sank into my boots at that,
I'd heard of that barren track,
There wasn't a working farm out there
Just bush and the bleak outback,
I packed up the old Toyota Ute
With a jerry can or two,
And headed on up to the Flinders
As I thought she'd want me to.
They hadn't seen her in Lyndhurst
What was left of the old ghost town,
I drove on up to Farina where
The buildings were falling down,
Then by the track on a tyre that sat
At the edge, on a pile of sand,
‘Five miles to Willoughby's Farm', the scrawl
Was writ in a shaky hand.
The farm was ruined and derelict,
The milking shed and the barn,
The tractor sat in a pile of rust
By the house of the ancient farm,
The roof had gone, had fallen in
But the barn was still intact,
And covered in dust by the old barn door
Was Jacinth's haversack.
I pushed the door and it opened up
With a creak of ages past,
I thought of the sweat on the farmer's brow
As he turned away, at the last,
But there in dry, brown dust of the floor
Was a slight but recent mound,
And a shovel leant by the cattle pen
As I fell on my knees, to the ground!
I have this recurring nightmare where
I'm wandering round a farm,
It's out in the middle of nowhere, just
A milking shed and a barn,
And the tears stream in this dreadful dream
To remember the pain and hurt;
With one last look at the haversack,
The shovel bit into the dirt!
15 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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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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I am a farmer
I am a farmer
who are up before first light
and I drink my coffee
between the cows in the stable
where milking machines
are doing their thing sucking
and I pour cream into the black.
A few eggs from my own chickens
and sheep chops from the animals
that grazes right over the farm
is great for breakfast.
Later I walk down to the fields
or ride on Umfaan
my Arabic stallion
to see
if the keepers
are tending the cattle
and where they are grazing.
Sometimes I can stay for hours
in the grassland
and look at the bushes
about me
and the serenity
of it all climbs very deep
down into my heart.
I am as strong as the earth
that I love
and help to hack holes
right through iron stones
with a pickaxe
where the new fence
pole after pole
is beginning to stand.
I am pitched into this Africa
just like this
and have nowhere else
to go to
and my hands are hard as rock
from years of work
and years of resistance
against the sun and weather
and I love my farm
and my country.
poem by Gert Strydom
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It Is In The Blood
some people write
saying it runs in the family
it is inside the code
of its blood
corpuscles
it's the gene that makes
the hand write
my papa is a farmer and my
mama is a schoolteacher
no one in the family writes
what i hear is always a chatter
a murmur
a burst of emotions
broken plates
and broken doors
what i hear is always an
explosion
of light bulbs
the doors knew nothing
but slams
and the TV is loud with
horror
i have learned the secret
of silence
and since then
i have decided to write
i write for no one
i am attuned to having no one
this is for myself
and when i am no longer here
someone may read it
and say
This is myself too
and it is me that matters
alone, for i do not expect much
from ears neither from mouths
even from
the hearts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Stole Our Outhouse? (Fun Poem, But True)
Several drunken revellers were walking home late Saturday night
When they passed McDougal’s farm and they spied a sight
There behind the farmhouse was an old wooden shack
The outhouse stood tall and noble out back
One had a good idea for a jolly spoof
‘Lets lift the outhouse and put it the up on the roof.’
‘But which roof, there are several there? ’
The others looked and grinned ear to ear
‘Lets stick it on the barn, there is a ladder over there.’
So at two o’clock in the morning they went to work full of glee
But they had to be as quiet as could be
Tipping the outhouse on its side
They carried it to the barn
Then got the ladders from along side the farm house
They leant them against the wooden wall
Then pushed and pulled the outhouse to the roof
Placing it on the top, watched it dangle there
Someone found some wood
To wedge under it, to secure it there.
The drunken revellers made their retreat
They hide behind a hedge, and as they were beat
They fell asleep there before the fun began
McDougal awoke at five that morning
Out to the outhouse he went for a sit
He always said it helped with his concentration
Half asleep he wandered out to the back
Out to the little old wooden shack
As he went to open the door
He suddenly realised the outhouse wasn’t there anymore
‘EE Gads! ! ’ He shouted as he had nowhere to sit
He ran to tell his wife the lovely Mabel-Pitt
‘Someone has stolen our little old wooden shack
The one we love to sit in out back.’
Mabel-Pitt put on her dressing gown
And came down to the door
‘McDougal what are you shouting for? ’
‘Someone has stolen our outhouse and left us with only the pit.’
‘You mean our double seated place where we love to sit? ’
‘Yes my dear, it is really gone,
all that is left is a hole in the ground.’
‘There is no alternative McDougal, dear.’
‘What is that my honey beer? ’
‘You’ll have to sit behind the hedge.’
Unbeknown the revellers were fast asleep there.
As McDougal started to walk to the hedge
He spotted the shadow from the barn
There seemed to be something wrong there
Turning he gasped at the sight
There on the roof the outhouse stood out against the morning light
‘I have found it my Mabel-Pitt. It is up there.’
Pointing his finger skyward in the air.
‘Where? ’ she asked running in her dressing gown.
Then looked around and gave such a frown.
‘We can’t go up there for a sit,
there isn’t anything under it, not even a pit.’
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Last Of A Dying Breed
Well I hate to say the farmer was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land and taking what he needs
Dont say much for the future when a family cant survive
I hate to say the farmer was the last of his kind
In the struggle for parity, not one mans voice can sound
Cuz the foundation of the conglomerate is firmly in the ground
Yeah they wanna feed the world, but for power and for greed
Then theyll cut off the supply until they get what they need
Well I dreamed I saw a dustbowl where the farmers used to live
Earth was flying thru the sky, it had nothing left to give
Tractors were burning on the white house lawn
Just woke up one morning and the farmers all were gone
Well I hate to say the farmer was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land and taking what he needs
Dont say much for the future when a family cant survive
I hate to say the farmer was the last of his kind
Dont say much for the future when a family cant survive
I hate to say the farmer was the last of his kind
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Farmer's Song
Well I hate to say the farmer
Was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land
And taking what he needs
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
In the struggle for parity
Not one man's voice can sound
Cause the foundation
of the conglomerate
Is firmly in the ground.
Yeah, they want to feed the world
But for power and for greed
Then they'll cut off the supply
Until they get what they need.
Well I dreamed I saw a dust bowl
Where the farmers used to live
Earth was flying through the sky
It had nothing left to give
Tractors were burning
On the Whitehouse lawn
Just woke up one morning
And the farmers all were gone
I hate to say the farmer
Was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land
And taking what he needs.
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive.
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive.
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Last Of His Kind
Well I hate to say the farmer
Was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land
And taking what he needs
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
In the struggle for parity
Not one man's voice can sound
Cause the foundation
of the conglomerate
Is firmly in the ground.
Yeah, they want to feed the world
But for power and for greed
Then they'll cut off the supply
Until they get what they need.
Well I dreamed I saw a dust bowl
Where the farmers used to live
Earth was flying through the sky
It had nothing left to give
Tractors were burning
On the Whitehouse lawn
Just woke up one morning
And the farmers all were gone
I hate to say the farmer
Was the last of a dying breed
Living off the land
And taking what he needs.
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive.
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
Don't say much for the future
When a family can't survive.
I'd hate to say the farmer
Was the last of his kind.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Broken Child
A broken child hides at night.
A broken child cries in fright.
A broken child hides the bruise.
A broken child is pushed and refused.
A broken child always with heartache.
A broken child who cannot fake.
A broken child who has no treasure.
A broken child used for sinful pleasure.
A broken child is so scared.
A broken child has no faith to bare.
A broken child lost in dispair.
I am the broken child, the one that no one cares.
poem by Haley Brown
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An Old Barn By The Side Of The Fields Of Hay
an old barn by the side of the fields of hay
is nothing but an old barn to your eyes
miguelito
this barn has been here ten years ago and it will be here
for another more years with you
father always
had it repaired before he died and when i take charge
i still come here and think once in a while
what is in this barn
that refuses to be broken
something that negates
the art of losing
it is the memory of my youth
it was here where the hay smelt pungent
for the first time
it was here when i was first
deflowered
changed
don't laugh, it was here that i felt
the first squirt of
my manhood, and her name was not that important
in fact,
she was laughing because i was trembling and she was
so crazy
trying to really teach me, in this old barn that refuses to be broken
in all the years
when our father teased us: weaklings.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Alabama Clay
First time he saw the ground get busted
He was ten and it was 1952
His daddy worked hard from sunup to sundown
And the goin got tough behind them ol grey mules
The farm grew to be a moneymaker
And the house he lived in grew up room by room
The boy worked hard but soon got tired of farmin
So he slipped away one night neath the harvest moon
His neck was red as alabama clay
But the citys call pulled him away
Hes got a factory job and runs a big machine
He dont miss the farm or the fields of green
Now the citys just a prison without fences
His job is just a routine he cant stand
And at night he dreams of wide-open spaces
Fresh dirt between his toes and on his hands
Then one day a picture came inside a letter
Of a young girl with a baby in her arms
And the words she wrote would change his life forever
So he went to raise his family on the farm
His neck is red as alabama clay
Now hes goin home this time to stay
Where the roots run deep on the family tree
And the tractor rolls through the fields of green
His neck is red as alabama clay
Now hes goin home this time to stay
Where the roots run deep on the family tree
And the tractor rolls through the fields of green
His neck is red as alabama clay
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 1)
I knocked on his front door
half expecting a weary face
when it opened to greet me.
Instead, Oliver smiled
with a small twinkle in his eyes.
He guided me through to his study,
cluttered in the corners with artefacts
kept as souvenirs from previous cases.
He gestured me to have a seat,
then lifted his briar pipe off the mantle piece,
lit it and then made himself comfortable
in the armchair by the fire.
He looked at me through a cloud of smoke
that billowed from his pipe.
Now Mr Rogers I guess you have read in the newspapers
about the Burning Bush at Little Pebblebury.
Some think it is a religious phenomenon,
while others say it is a warning
and that we should all take heed.
Upon reading the story,
I decided to investigate the Burning Bush myself.
I telephone The Saintly Sovereign Inn at Little Pebblebury
enquiring about a room for the week.
They told me they had one left
because of the interest in their Burning Bush.
I said I would take it
and would travel down that very day.
I arrived at the village
just as the sun was beginning to set.
After settling in my room,
I came down the bar for a meal.
I got to talking to one of the locals
and was quite surprised to learn
that there had been several other ghost fires,
in and around the village the last couple of years.
The first was about two years ago
on a farm about two miles from the village.
It started about dusk as the farmer
was bringing his cattle in from the fields for the night.
As he got closer, he noticed a light
in the barn where he stored his winter hay.
At first, he though his wife
might have left a lamp lit in there,
but as he got closer, he could see the flames.
Leaving the animals in the field,
he ran into the farmhouse
and yelled to his wife to telephone the fire brigade.
He shouted that there was a fire in the barn.
The farmer grabbed a wooden pail
and rushed back out the door.
He dipped it in the animal drinking trough,
scooping out as much water he could get,
then rushed into the barn
and threw the water on the flames.
Back and forward, he ran
with as much water as he could carry.
The more water he threw on it,
the less the fire seemed to go out.
The fire brigade arrived and aimed their hoses
on the flames to douse them out.
Still the fire raged on.
Nothing it seemed could douse the flames.
Deep into the night they battled it,
then just before the dawn a
nd as suddenly as it appeared the fire disappeared.
Everyone by this time was exhausted;
still an investigation had to be made
to ensure there were no smouldering ambers that would start to blaze.
As they entered,
they found that none of the barn interior,
nor any of the hay was burnt or scorched in anyway.
It was as if there was never a fire there at all,
yet dozens of people had seen it and fought it.
Oliver stopped for a moment to rekindle his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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Building A Big House
you build a big house
with one thought, a wish
that something may last forever
like love, like the finest wood
like a relationship,
or say
(let me say it this way)
a marriage, like strong stairs
inviting attention to society
that no one is leaving
like a door closing behind
a sigh,
but a house with time falls
pillars collide, and floors go
termite eaten to the ground
doors fall out from the hinges
that hold them it their frames,
nothing lasts forever
i know,
i build a house because i know
what love is
i want to give it shelter and warmth
like those rooms
a glow like those living rooms
a nice dinner
like the kitchen and the dining tables.
i do not think beyond my body
that turns to dust
i know
i do not utter beyond my words, i know,
no words can withstand the
lures of the niceties of a lie.
i know
i build the house because we are here
and there is nothing
worth doing
there is no snow and ski is irrelevant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Comparisons (revised)
you have not seen how
they repaired the broken things
within their fences
you have seen me
how i mend our broken fence
and you say
we are worse than they
you always see the greener fence
beyond ours
i will not disagree with you
but you must understand that
this is all about them and us
and please bear with me
there are no points of comparisons
you have never lived in their house
we are a family and we must
accept with humility what broken things
we have in our house what small love
is left what waste we can still keep.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Tree
The weathered tree stripped bare
broken branches hang still
as though to scar its nature
no birds nest here any more
a thing of beauty has passed
into a beauty of another kind
colourless in the backdropp of sky
roots rise and fall into the ground
etchings of forgotten loves
remain as eternal memories
no lovers shade here now
the tree stands as though defiant
unwilling to relinquish to time
that which grew so tall
not dead, perhaps dying
stripped and broken it stands
the weathered tree
a work of life's true beauty
poem by Matthew Holloway
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One of the problems of our youth is that the family unit is broken up. When we'd sit down to dinner together as a family, we'd learn about each other. We had something people don't get today.
quote by Paul Prudhomme
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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