For Wendell - Poems For A Farmer

“Do unto those downstream as you would have those upstream do unto you.”

― Wendell Berry

One of the Last of a Dying Breed

The poet farmer

Labors til his last, rattled breath

All in his life he has tended and grown

All sown thoughtful, with depth

He is not seeking Heaven

His soul remains rooted here

His fields still bloom

His words still echo

Long after his death

Writin’ With The Crows

if you need me, dear

i’ll be out back til nightfall

writin’ kind words with the crows

the only ones who truly listen

to this ol’ boy who drawls slow

without judgement; perched still

as i recite my toil and woe

i’ll be damned to hot hell

if my time spent with them

ain’t brought me back

from my lowest of lows

at times, they been my only friend

like the raven was to ol’ Poe

so, i’ll be out back til nightfall

writin’ kind words with the crows

neighbor

my old man’s old man used to tell me

boy, farm your own field

theirs ain’t yours to reap

you both share God’s water

so don’t piss in the creek

lend a hand when you’re able

let them borrow your seeds

if they fall on hard times

lift ‘em back to their feet

my old man’s old man used to tell me

good to have neighbors owe you favors

than be lonely in need

Work Will Never End

The days of work will never end for me

I’ll never retire

I’ll work until my final day

On myself

Wrenching inward

In the dirt of me

Digging out jingweeds

Giving space to the roots

I am the son of a coal mining farmboy with a crooked grin

And a green-thumbed waitress with a never-ending smile

My kind retires when we die

Rutted

A rutted back road turns

Unkept fields wind-blown and tangled to my right

Beside a rotting farmhouse

White wood siding peels and sags and warps

Like everything in this damp October hellscape

The skeleton of a once blue Dodge pickup corrodes windowless

Sun hides muted behind a crackless wall of chalky, drear grey

All I see in decay was once proud and hopeful

And now it clings on the precipice of forgottenness

On this rutted back road

All anyone does is drive slowly

And witness the future

Devouring the past

FerrisWheelRide

A rusting ferris wheel churns, spinning into dusk

above the neon glow of the farmfield midway.

Cries of laughter echo through summer pure.

Horses whinnie in the old, hemlock framed stables.

Haydust twinkles goldamber

as it floats where sunset streaks through cracked pine walls.

We walk aimlessly.

Following nostalgic hearts and hunger.

Sweet, sugared lemonade; corn popped in ancient, cast iron kettles.

Sausage crackles, onions sizzle;

Fries and funnel cakes babble in their bath of peanut oil.

The aromas ride the rolling propane ether.

We circle round-and-round-and-round.

Talking fondly of neargone youth.

And we watch new youth forge those same memories.

Laughter echoes through summer pure.

Memories revived and memories born

beneath a rusting, churning, ferris wheel.

In the neon glow of a farmfield midway

we circle round-and-round-and-round.

Humble Grave

Somewhere down this dusty road

In an unblemished goldenrod sea

Rests a humble, fresh dug grave

With red clay edges, straight and clean

red bird/blue eyes

Should I be lucky enough

to be born again

in another earthly life.

I’d like to be a red bird

singing cheerful songs at sunrise.

Waking you from numb despair.

Calling you to glance outside.

Calling you to witness

what I was once so grateful for

when I once had sky blue eyes.

shadowlessness.

i wish to leave

no shadows

when i’m done

i wish to leave

a dark world brighter

i wish to leave

far more than i’ve taken

i wish to leave

more light

than i’ve received

i wish to leave

this world

shadowless

Silly Questions

i used to ask my old man

strings of silly questions

“why does the sun set in the west?”

“why don’t the wind always blow?”

always the same answer...

“son, hell if i know”

til i asked him one day

“pap, when we die, where do we go?”

he said,

“son, some go to hell

some to the clouds

but boys like us rest in the dirt

and help the daisies to grow”

Kind Kentucky Sky

Remember, remember

this kind

Kentucky late-August sky.

You left us today, old friend,

but it stays

quiet, and endless,

a verse written forever in light and air.

It will remember you,

like I will,

when your ragweed-coated words

blow back through the fields of time