Pastoral Malaise
In time, though snow would fall, barn will be warm,
As chores for Summer had been done complete
The sleepy spell that soon befalls the farm
Could not, by slightest bit its mirth deplete
The cows have all the hay on which to feed
With grains that with the fodder would enmesh
If hay is brown, I guess what cows would need
For each a green eyeglass, so things look fresh
The barn sparrows found crevices for nests
Though naught are seen by cat's eyes that explore
One way to find if flock thereat still rests
Is by droppings that scatter on the floor
Insects abide, in sizes big and small
And crawl among the bales, to chirp or play
Crickets and kin, that since the end of Fall
Have lodged as ground tenants without delay
As ants have piled a great mound of their own
In maze of subways, sans a subway train
The matriarchal state nature has shown
Bonded together on a female brain.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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Related quotes
What Is A Barn?
A barn is many things-
A barn is a fun place
To run, romp, and play.
It is also a place of refuge,
On hot or stormy days.
A barn is a storage place
For all your tools, grain, and hay.
It is also a place to unwind,
When you have had a tough day.
A barn becomes God's sanctuary,
When you begin to pray
It is also a place of work,
When work is needing done.
A barn is a place
Where freindships can be made
It is also a place
Where new life is born.
A barn is a place
To try with all your might
And finally when its doors are closed,
'Tis safety from the night.
A barn is a place for horses,
And it is a place for cows
A barn is also a hayloft,
Full of little meows
A barn is the Inn
Where our Savior was born
God, our Savior,
Christ, our Lord.
A barn is a work place,
A barn is a play place
A barn is a great place
A barn is a training ring...
A barn is..
Well, when it comes right
Down to it,
A barn is everything!
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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One Afternnon that Summer.
Despite the fact
that other local kids
were in the hay barn playing
Jane stood at the barn doors
looking in apprehensively
and you stood beside her
waiting for her to move in
or say something
but she just stood looking in
are we allowed in to play?
she asked
sure as long as we don't
cause damage to the hay bales
you replied
and she sniffed the air
and moved in
and looked around
the huge barn
with its semi dark
and smells of hay
and captured sun
and warmth
the other kids played
but took no notice
of Jane or you
as you entered
closed the doors
and moved around
the hay strewn floor
haven't you been
in a hay barn before?
you asked looking
at her bright summer dress
and white socks and sandals
yes years ago
she said
as she paused
at the edge
of the nearest hay bale
and sat down
and you sat beside her
in the semi dark
with sunlight making
small light through cracks
and holes in the walls
I don't like mice and rats
she said
and I saw one once
in another barn
and it frightened me
you sat in silence
for a few moments
taking in the air and smells
and then the other kids
ran off out side
into the sunlight
talking of playing
down by the pond
and catching things
you sat still
until their voices died off
and then she said
why have you
brought me in here?
you looked at her eyes
in the dull light
and her lips moving
with their small speech
to be alone with you
without prying eyes
you said
oh I see
she replied
and stood up
and climbed upwards
on the hay bales
with you following
behind her
seeing her sway
as she moved
her hands pulling
her upwards
her legs taking each step
onto a hay bale carefully
then having reach
high up in the barn
she sat down
and you sat beside her
if my father saw me here
he'd think things
Jane said
and she looked at you
with her large eyes
what things? you asked
watching her lay back
with her hands
behind her head
I don't know
he never said
she muttered
as she lay there
she lifted a leg
and her dress
slipped downwards
revealing a glimpse
of naked thigh
that's parents for you
you uttered
never saying
what they think
or saying things
but don't explain
you lay down
beside her
on the hay
as outside the barn
the soft sound
of pitter patter
on the roof
of sudden rain.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Romance of Winter
It looks like snow, it must be snow, it really, really feels like snow,
It's on my lashes, and on my nose, it's frozen my poor little toe,
It came too soon, last too late, right now I cannot find my gate,
Inside now what a soppy state, this thawing out I really hate,
The fire it seems is getting low, it only adds more to my woe,
Outside it's cold with winters glow, as now the wind begins to blow.
On with boots, gloves, coat, and hat, out to the barn to feed the cat,
In this weather he won't get fat, but neither will he catch a rat.
The cows are full of milk today, the sheep have now begun to bay,
Chicks get corn, to cold to lay, the donkey's cross he wants his hay,
My husbands says it's no big deal, and checks the oven for his meal,
My coat and gloves I start to peel, where has he been thru this ordeal?
He loves the winter's charming feel, in an office warm... get real.
The snow for me has lost apeal, the charm has fled, from this deal.
Where is summer's warming sun, no more snow, I've had my fun,
Winter's romance has faded and run, now all I want is to be done.
But it looks like snow, it feels like snow,
Oh poo, it really is more snow...
poem by Teresa Dearing
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The Barn and the Down
t stood in the sunset sky
Like the straight-backed down,
Many a time - the barn
At the edge of town,
So huge and dark that it seemed
It was the hill
Till the gable's precipice proved
It impossible.
Then the great down in the west
Grew into sight,
A barn stored full to the ridge
With black of night;
And the barn fell to a barn
Or even less
Before critical eyes and its own
Late mightiness.
But far down and near barn and I
Since then have smiled,
Having seen my new cautiousness
By itself beguiled
To disdain what seemed the barn
Till a few steps changed
It past all doubt to the down;
So the barn was avenged.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Kissing Carol Ann
Back in 1957
kissing Carol Ann
behind the barn
in the middle of
a windswept field
of Goldenrod
with a sudden deer
watching was
something special,
let me tell you.
Back then, bobby sox
and big barrettes
and ponytails
were everywhere.
Like many farmers,
Carol Ann's father
had a console radio
in the living room,
and every Saturday night
the family would gather 'round
with bowls of ice cream
and listen to the Grand Ole Opry.
It was beamed 'all the way'
from Nashville I was told
more than once since
I was from Chicago
and sometimes wore a tie
so how could I know.
On my first visit,
I asked Carol Ann
if the Grand Ole Opry was
the Mormon Tabernacle Choir
of country music and she said
not to say that to her father.
She suggested I just tap
my foot to the music
and let him watch me.
Otherwise I'd best be
quiet and say 'Yup, '
'Nope' or 'Maybe'
if asked any questions
which she didn't think
would happen.
No need to say
much more, she said,
and after a few visits,
I understood why.
Over time, I learned
to tap my foot pretty good
to the music because
when I'd come to visit,
her father would insist
I have a bowl of ice cream
with the family.
I liked the ice cream
but not so much
the Grand Ole Opry.
I'd been weaned
on Sinatra in the city.
Big difference,
let me tell you.
But back in 1957
kissing Carol Ann
behind the barn
was something special
since we couldn't do
much more until
I found employment.
Only then, her father said,
could we get married.
I found no jobs
in town, however,
for a bespectacled man
with degrees in English.
Still, I always found
the weekend drives
from Chicago worth
the gas my Rambler drank
because kissing Carol Ann
brought a bit of heaven
down behind that barn,
especially on summer nights
when fireflies were
the only stars we saw
when our eyes
popped open.
It was like
the Fourth of July
with tiny sparklers
twinkling everywhere.
Now,55 years later,
Carol Ann sometimes mentions
fireflies at dusk as we
dance behind the cows
to coax them into the barn
for the night.
I'm still not too good
with cows despite
my John Deere cap,
plaid shirt and overalls
which proves, she says,
that all that kissing
behind the barn in 1957
took the boy out of the city
but not the city out of the boy.
'Hee Haw' is all I ever
say in response because
I know why I'm there.
It's to keep tapping
the cows on the rump
till we get them
back in the barn
so we can go back
in the house
and start with
a kiss and later on
come back downstairs
for two big bowls
of ice cream.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The greatest thing
I put the seed
into ground that I
mingled with dark black compost.
Rows of beans,
some carrots, some pumpkins
and spinach
I sowed into the orange brown earth.
Some small tomato plants,
I planted in blocks
and pressed small
frames of reeds
on top
for them to crawl over.
Every day I sprayed water
and tended the weeds
and in time
little green plants
sprang out of the ground
and the tomatoes crept
and crawled all over
their reeds.
It was great to be part
of spring and see
living things sprout
from the ground,
but a dog dug
some carrots out
and a flock of mice
came to eat
tomatoes from the plants.
Yet in time
some great vegetables
came to my table
and spring was awesome
and so was summer
and to tend my own garden
is the greatest thing.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Perfect Kind of Day
It was the perfect kind of day
As I went for a little ride
Just me out with nature
Taking everything in stride
So relaxing to see the cows
Out in the fields so fresh and green
There is nothing more calming
That I have ever seen
I stopped and got out
Of my car so I could see
The cows right up close
They were fascinated with me
I was in no hurry though
Nothing else that I had to do
Enjoying this time I spent
And I’ll bet you’d enjoy it too
And then I climbed back
In my car and sped away
It truly was enjoyable
The perfect kind of day!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Virgin Ground
He was the neighbor boy
and I, the city girl
banished to the countryside
to the grandparents,
to learn hard work
on the dairy-farm.
The rumbling train after the long flight,
jumbled my brain;
everything outside that train window
bumped along;
seemed jumbled isolated,
alien; and I felt alone.
I sat next to an older woman
who without looking whispered
see the pretty cow?
Her grandchild came
from the bathroom late—
a case of identity mistaken.
A pickup truck ride later
we were there;
Old barn but a beautiful house.
Grandpa is sitting beside me
smelling earthy,
gasoline and fresh dirt;
spelling out to me
all the summer chores
and those which would be mine.
But, he would help,
and show me
how to milk the cows.
Grandma’s living room was a doily museum,
white starched flower blooms
under lamps
some with coasters inside
one with a flower vase.
This was grandpas and grandmas.
My room was all gingham and florals,
muted pinks, greens and reds-
the one Susie had;
all her things preserved there;
and I ran my finger across some
of them
imagining when she touched them last;
waiting for grandma to close the door.
There was a 4-H photo of Susie and a dairy cow;
a cheerleader’s outfit in the closet;
a boy and her
with prom roses at the front door.
I hug my clothes in the closet slowly
because some of hers were still there,
and I dropped my tennis bracelet
on the closet floor
to discover
a loose board there.
I pried at it to see
a shoe box barely visible in the dark.
I froze
listening close
to see
if anyone would be coming up;
took my nail file and finished
the excavation work;
holding at last in my hand something whose
contents I had
already imagined in my mind
about what was in Susie’s treasure box,
forgotten there.
Easy open; letters wrapped with red ribbon;
jewelry; a photo and other things yet unidentified.
I read around the ribbon
to see some letters
had stamps and had been mailed
others had not-
written but unmailed.
I opened one
and began to read.
“You are my Virgin Spring;
my Thomas flower blooming;
and I am Virgin Ground”.
Struck, should I read on
or close the letter
and put back
the shoe box top?
Whose innocence lay there?
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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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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Kentucky
Summer steam
washes us clean
like a warm bath
as we wade through young fields,
new corn waist high
to where blue sky
meets the rustling green sea.
We navigate by dead-
reckoning to the red barn.
Wary of snakes,
with flailing stick you flush
out the tall, quick hares.
Feathers flashing, quail
burst heavenward at
our clumsy approach,
but in the dark barn
we find
forgiveness.
God's own light streams down
into fragrant stalls
as their wise eyes
regard us.
We reach out to touch.
They nod,
first in warning,
then with bright approval.
poem by Steven Federle
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The Angel In The Barn
It’s hot, by God! - in Warranar,
It’s hot, too hot by far,
The sun leers down from a barren sky
To scorch the where-you-are!
The ground is hard, burnt dry within,
The snakes curl up and die,
And trees take on a crippled shape
As birds fall out of the sky!
The farm is dead, six months a year,
Brown earth and endless dust,
It never rains! Why do we stay?
Despair says that we must!
One night I lay all bathed in sweat,
A hot wind seared the plain,
I seemed to hear some scraping sound,
Then thought: ‘Could this be rain? ’
Outside the moon had shed its light
All pale and gold on brown,
The iron door on the rusty barn
Then fell, came crashing down.
And so it was I saw the wings
Dragged slowly through the hay,
Some giant bird inside the barn,
Some giant bird of prey!
I took the rifle off the wall,
Walked slowly through the dark,
A shape lay on a bale of straw
I aimed! – The shape said: ‘Hark!
I have not come to punish you,
Please put the gun away! ’
The voice was like a silvery bell
On the back of a bullock dray.
I edged in closer to the bird
And saw its wings were fine,
But underneath lay a slip of a girl
With lips as red as wine!
And blood showed on her pallid cheek,
Her arm lay twisted, torn,
I tried to help her up, she cried:
‘No! Leave me here, it’s warm! ’
‘I’ll stay until my arm is healed,
I’ll not get in your way! ’
But I was caught in a fevered dream
That told of her dismay!
And love swept through my blighted soul
As the days and the weeks went by,
I seemed to float, as in a dream
I heard my Angel cry.
‘I fell from out the sky, ’ she said,
‘One day, as dark as this,
A single word from a thoughtless soul,
A blow from an angry fist! ’
‘So evil lurks where Angels roam,
You fight these devils still? ’
‘There is no good, nor evil there,
But man, his twisted will! ’
‘Then why does God make Warranar
So hot, so lost in pain,
The trees cry out in their torture here,
And the ground, it bleeds for rain! ’
‘Perhaps it’s not your God to blame,
Perhaps you send your spell
To the Dark Knight on the Horse of Fire,
Perhaps you writhe in Hell? ’
I woke in bed, all soaked in sweat
And staggered out to the barn,
All that lay was a dead sheep
With a coat that hadn’t been shorn.
I walked away from Warranar
From my dry and barren farm,
And the love I’d seen in a dead sheep,
My Angel in the barn!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Red Barn
There was once...
a red barn..
And there
was nothing in
it.
All there was
in the red
barn was just
hay.
And that was all
there was in
there.
The poor red barn
was on its own.
Nobody owns it.
So the red barn
is by itself.
poem by Lisa Parks
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The Barn
They should never have built a barn there, at all -
Drip, drip, drip! - under that elm tree,
Though when it was young. Now it is old
But good, not like the barn and me.
To-morrow they cut it down. They will leave
The barn, as I shall be left, maybe.
What holds it up? 'Twould not pay to pull down.
Well, this place has no other antiquity.
No abbey or castle looks so old
As this that Job Knight built in '54,
Built to keep corn for rats and men.
Now there's fowls in the roof, pigs on the floor.
What thatch survives is dung for the grass,
The best grass on the farm. A pity the roof
Will not bear a mower to mow it. But
Only fowls have foothold enough.
Starlings used to sit there with bubbling throats
Making a spiky beard as they chattered
And whistled and kissed, with heads in air,
Till they thought of something else that mattered.
But now they cannot find a place,
Among all those holes, for a nest any more.
It's the turn of lesser things, I suppose.
Once I fancied 'twas starlings they built it for.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Cows are my passion. What I have ever sighed for has been to retreat to a Swiss farm, and live entirely surrounded by cows - and china.
quote by Charles Dickens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poems Are The Sparrows
Poems are the sparrows,
Swing they branch to branch,
In the green tree of poetry,
They chirp and pick the grain,
Of diction, thoughts, metaphors,
And bring in their beaks,
The straws of meters,
And thorns of realities.
Poems are the Sparrows,
Build their nests place to place,
In the valleys of poetic minds,
To lay and hatch eggs of wisdom,
Awake they early in the morn,
To sing hymn, when gently
Breeze begins to blow, to and fro.
The sparrows chirp in my heart,
And when hiding behind the tassels,
Extend I my hand to them to catch,
They fly away; and when I scatter
The grain, they cluster around me,
To sing the chorus of love and peace,
My restless heart then pours
Them on pages of the book,
And the starving ears become,
Impatient to listen to the honeyed,
Lines of love.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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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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Farm@
Cold windy, snow day on the farm. The black weather vane, spun like a merry go round on the main red barn roof, where the livestock was housed. A family of white winged doves roosted under the white pine over hang of the hay barn.A large equipment building with a slopped roof to store tractors blades, harrows, hole diggers, mowers and tillers during harsh weather.windbreakers, Giant cypress trees snow covered, upright white friars, three rows deep, who never need to sleep. standing guard against mother nature's fury.
poem by Michael Andrew
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Farm
Cold windy, snow day on the farm. The black weather vane, spun like a merry go round on the main red barn roof, where the livestock was housed. A family of white winged doves roosted under the white pine over hang of the hay barn.A large equipment building with a slopped roof to store tractors blades, harrows, hole diggers, mowers and tillers during harsh weather.windbreakers, Giant cypress trees snow covered, upright white friars, three rows deep, who never need to sleep. standing guard against mother nature's fury.
poem by Michael Andrew
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Broremann The Farmhand
Broremann, the farmer worker.
Every morning at five thirty sharp, my brother Broremann
had to milk five cows by hand bring bucket full of goodness
to the scullery where maid sifted it and in a churn it went.
He had to start milking Rose first, she was the mother cow
other cows wouldn´t give milk unless he started with her.
After milking Broremann had to clean the barn five cows
make a lot of dung; he pushed it down in a hole in the wall
it was later used to fertilize the land. My brother was proud
of his ability to milk and his hands were, firm yet gentle.
There was a problem though Rose didn´t yield as much milk
as before as she was getting elderly and the farmer sold her
to the knacker’s yard. It was a sad day and the other cows
mooed woefully. The farmer bought a new cow to take Rosa´s
place, but Broremann couldn´t milk her first, as she was new-
comer, so he started with Gerda, now the oldest cow, and milk
the new one last, thus rural peace continued in the cow shed.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Memory For To Cherish
White butterflies are dancing in the warm evening breeze
And the house sparrows are chirping on the sunlit garden trees
On a warm day in April in the far Southern Fall
Of the Southern Land's four Seasons the most pleasant one of all,
I love this Autumn weather and though Winter days are near
One has to say of April 'tis a pleasant time of year
Above the sunlit paddock to and fro across the sunlit sky
The dark winged welcome swallows chasing flying insects fly,
With his tail ever wagging perched on a garden wall
The black and white fantail or willy wagtail a bird that's known to all
Always on the look out for insects airborne or on the ground
Where willy wagtails are present insects sure to abound,
Of this sunny late April evening in the far Southern Fall
A memory for to cherish and a memory to recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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