as the farmer…life


as intense eyes

scan darkening skies,

playful wind flaps shirt sleeves.


as strong shoulders

stack square hay bales,

rising dust covers tanned skin.


as nimble feet

climb grain bin ladder,

straw chaff infiltrates flaxen hair.


as skillful hands

manipulate diverse tools,

old grease wedges under fingernails.


as experienced ears

attune engines musical noise,

stale soybeans nest in jean pockets.


as determined teeth

test corn kernel moisture,

rich manure clings to chore boots.


as gentle arms

carry bawling calf or kitten,

pelting rain drips off seed cap bill.


This is a “list poem”, 

inspired by and dedicated to my farmer.

Linked to d’Verse Poets


summer solstice


light holds night at bay

warm earth blooms, time to make hay

farmer’s favorite day


dandelion lawn

cows in pasture, tractor’s song

work as day is long












Written in response to Carpe Diem’s prompt as we all anticipate the longest day

planting promises

Shanyns at encouraged us to plant seeds!



“Those who sow in tears will reap

with songs of joy.

He who goes out weeping,

carrying seeds to sow,

will return with songs of joy,

carrying sheaves with him.”

(Psalm 126:5 & 6)



listening sows seeds of empathy

kindness sows seeds of unity

understanding sows seeds of peace

waiting sows seeds of patience

curiosity sows seeds of knowledge

prayer sows seeds of faith

sacrifice sows seeds of love



farmer hauls last harvest’s hard work of golden kernels

past this year’s green fields of new crops standing on row;


educator wraps up difficult school year with fresh ideas

for creative learning adventures with students next term;


graduate reminisces glory of past achievement even

while looking ahead in pursuit of future opportunities;


young mother forgets pain of groaning labor when

snuggling softly whimpering newborn to her heart;


married couple celebrates milestone anniversary

thankful for gritty grace to commit for lifetime;


writer smiles at words wrestled into submission after

thoughts are extracted, expressed with fluent flourish.




pity for pumpkins


The Farmer plants seeds in his field

and from the dust grow living vines

which, with time and tender care,

produce a lovely patch of pumpkins.


But the locals, jealous of his bounty,

declare the neighborhood is overrun

with too many pumpkins already and

decide to selectively smash and destroy.


“Let’s pull little ones off the vines!”

they yell, and pluck the smallest orbs,

prematurely; throwing them on the

refuse pile, unripe and unwanted.


Then they notice some fully grown

pumpkins that didn’t develop into

perfect specimens – a little lopsided,

warty, or sporting misshapen ridges.


“We cannot stand to look at them!”

Those deemed imperfect pumpkins

are next to be ripped from the vines

and carelessly heaved into the ditch.


Obviously, all worthy pumpkins

must be a rich shade of true orange;

so pumpkins of different shades or

mottled skin must also be tossed out.


By now, pumpkin-smashing fever has

caught the mob in a frenzy of destruction

until they leave only busted bits of shells,

slimy orange guts and the Farmer’s tears.




(Photo and poetry prompt from brian  at d’Verse Poets.)




so solid

yet sweet

as Iowa



and tan


the sun’s



you will

always be

my golden



Last elder


The gnarly old tree

stands proudly alone

like some wrinkled farmer

surveying his fine homestead,

treasuring years of memories.


Refusing to retire but

rich with rings of aged wood,

his trunk is twisted by time

and branches pruned by the

storms of life experiences.


His rough-skinned charm is

a shelter for nesting birds and

a shady place for summer picnics

under the faithful silhouette of

this wisened, peaceful patriarch.


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