Lawrence Hall
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https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               I Don’t Miss Working on the Farm

The hay balers are out early in the fields
Headlights outshining late September stars
The din of diesel engines shaking the world
I don’t miss working on the farm at all

The operator smoking a cigarette
While his sunburnt old hands wrestle the machine
His khakis and chambray shirt already wet
I don’t miss working on the farm at all

Yep, laboring in the fields from can ‘til can’t -
I don’t miss working on the farm at all

Into mellow fields, all manner of beings go.
The bird to gather bug or seed,
The workers with their hoes;
And, maidens who gather stands of wheat
In dresses that are blown.

Furrow face, deep ruts
savage cuts that only time and years can plough
fertile grain
once waving yellow in your fields
does not remain
chaff blown brittle on the winter wind
will settle now and then on barren land
sadly turned to sand

The smell of fresh summer peaches fill the air,
a willow tree blows gently under a sunny abyss.
Silence fills the caterpillars cocoon and here I lay under the moon.
Hot night, soft breeze, smell of whiskey underneath the trees.
Crops are a grow'n' and the farmers fiddle sits on the hay.
Bonfires, beers and roasting fish on a smear rod snicket.
In the distance the scare crow stands tall and strong to protect the farmers land.
Animals squawk, hibernate and lock themselves in for a winter cold coming ahead.
Snowflakes fall, warm stew to be made by mom, morning comes, cup of chow time to relax with grandpa Jo.
Seasons pass and Spring is here at last,
muddy puddles, ***** feet, time to plant more growing seeds.
Life is beautiful, so is time, make it right and you shall find,
the touch, and warmth of every goodnight

Pentagon waist
on a bloom of skates
a shepherd tallies his day

I hold the tool. I am the blade. I drive
myself into the fertile ground. I dig
potatoes out. They were buried alive,
but in darkness they thrive. Now the old pig
will feast. When he grows fat I will slay him
to feed me and kin. I don't like killing
but when necessary it's not a sin.
I shall live another year, God willing.
I have long been on the land. I am old
but my sun is not yet setting in the
sky. When I was a child I was told once by
my father you become earth when you die.
If so, I hope my children carve my chest
with blade. I hope I'll yield a fruitful harvest.

These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.