Farming

Growing Up and More 095

No one is going to take this land,

from me,

etched in my heart,

with the sweat of blood,

hands bleeding, callous,

living in the weather,

every day and night,

cold and heat.

If I have to work more,

than 17 hours each day,

warfare with the plow,

I will.

Breathing for generations,

mud and alfalfa,

the oneness of the earth,

I will live and die here,

no one will take it.

And the government?

If they try one more time,

to put me out of business,

I will raise flowers instead,

no food, and you can bury me,

in the tulips.

This is my land.

This is told in the first person, but I am not a farmer.

Peace and blessings to everyone.

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2015, nicodemasplusthree

“If you love nature, you will love people.”

Peace on the Farm

Mountains and Rivers 129

What makes a herd of Jerseys so gentle,

grazing in a field of green?

soft spirits endless.

The cool morning air refreshing,

the bones of the farmer,

the lungs begin breathing again,

the heartbeat of the earth.

In the middle of the day,

there is a time of tearing gently,

the fields, to bring healing,

food of restoration,

stalks of corn bending in the wind,

whispering like ocean waves.

And in the evening, there is always,

the sunset of warmth,

 speaking a job well done,

gradually hiding over the mountains.

The farm reminds me of gentle times,

the way we used to be.

No wonder, men and women, love farming,

living in, and loving the earth,

the natural cycle of life,

gentleness born everyday,

No wonder.

Mountains and Rivers 094

Blessings to everyone and peace!

“If you love nature, you will love people.”

Poetry and Photos © Copyright 2015, nicodemasplusthree

The Sunflower Farm

Sunflowers

They tied up the farmer, and pushed him aside,

using regulations for rope, and papers.

I thought I might find him,

in the Smithsonian,

where things used to be.

The conglomeration was waiting to eat up his land,

robots and injections to produce fake food.

But he was a fighter, never giving up,

hero with a tractor, and hard work,

he shut down his beef operation,

and came back to life, a resurrection,

and raised –

sunflowers!

seeds for food, and liquid gold,

for cooking,

brilliant!

and the conglomeration went away, hungry.

 Sunflower Farm

 

Note: This poem is fictitious but I believe it is not far from the truth.

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Corn

Corn

Buffalo Bird Woman used to sing to the corn,

to help it to grow, she was from the Hidatsa people.

Now we dump tons of chemicals on our corn-

call it food, and think we are doing a good thing,

land depleted, strange diseases.

Somehow,

I think the first way is better. Love the land,

and sing.

 

Poetry © Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Caught Up in the Wheel

Caught Up in the Wheel.

It hurts to see the Amish

serving rude people at the market,

instead of farming,

instead of being free in their fields,

raising their own food,

or quilting on their back porch.

Windmills producing vegetables.

This woman at the bake shop-

is in pain – trying to cope,

head covering, long dress, and tears,

and her daughter is across the way

suffering abuse as a waitress.

Hurry up with that coffee!

And the father is at the deli,

born to be a farmer,

everyone knows he is a farmer,

yet here he is slicing lunchmeat,

because he cannot afford-

the land.

God, this is awful,

and worse,

I’m a part of it.

Let me walk out of here, now

instead of paying them

to say “Hello-may I help you?”

sick.

We all need to be set free,

from being caught up in the wheel.

 

 

© Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

Rusted Dreams

Rusted Dreams

How am I going to have a farm,

now, that I am this old?

Stiff lower back, gray hair,

knees cracking, and creaking,

rust, with medications.

Thinking, because of the old plow,

abandoned in the yard,

of the antique store.

Nostalgic decoration,

that’s the way I feel sometimes.

I miss the yurt,

I never lived in

and the Kyrgyz,

of Central Asia,

the smell of goats,

family around the fire.

I may never live with

the Lakota or the Cheyenne

on the Great Plains,

but I could still have a farm,

and some sanity, with fresh air.

Tenderly coaxing the soil,

reaping the rewards,

of hard work,

getting up the same time,

without driving to the city.

I’d be taking care of animals,

an occasional cow

stepping on my foot,

but no insults, no pressure,

from the boss.

I may yet buy a farm,

just for spite!

Fighting against the rust.

Time, for me to take another pill,

blood pressure,

missing the outdoors.

 

 

 

© Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree

The Fruit Stand

The Fruit Stand

Going northbound on RT 322,

it was on the right,

before the village,

known as the Cloister.

Fruits and vegetables,

you could smell their freshness,

next to the farm they came from.

I especially liked the cantelopes.

A young Mennonite woman working,

something different here,

a lifestyle of peace and love –

internal quiet,

and external kindness.

We made our choices,

plastic bags and money,

then we noticed her younger brother.

He had a bike and a smirk,

on his face, he shook his head,

like “these crazy tourists”.

I wanted to yell,

“What is wrong with you!”

“Love and hate in the same family?”

“How can you not love people,

of another color?”

I didn’t say it though,

biting my tongue.

He was just a kid,

so I let it go.

Besides – I was hoping

he would learn

from his big sister.

 

 

© Copyright 2014, nicodemasplusthree