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The Farm

 

 

window picture

While driving a back road the other day
came across an old farm in sad decay.
I pulled off to the side to view the site.
Wonder how this farm fell into this plight.

Searching I pictured sites; from long ago.
The farmhouse was blanketed by the snow.
Smoke curled from the chimney by night and day.
Kids ignored the cold while busy at play.

Looked once again and saw Spring drawing nigh.
As play was replaced by chores by and by.
All hands were required to work the farm.
With each generation; farm life lost charm.

With summer came work from daylight to dark
and seldom a chance for a play-day lark.
A dip in the creek; seemed a rare treasure.
Life on a farm left small time for pleasure.

With Fall’s arrival came new work to do.
There’s meat and tators; to mention a few.
Cords of dry wood to stack neatly in rows.
Then stock the larder and fill the silos.

Winter comes to offer a brief repose.
Dad works on the books and Mama she sews.
Kids all enjoy; what seems a holiday.
Climbing the hill to ride down on a sleigh.

Each passing year the desire has waned.
“Jobs are in town,” all the children explained.
Venturing off they all leave one by one,
parents pass on and the farm; it is done.

Farm life’s been replaced by sad memories,
I thought as I sat there beneath the trees.
A life style forgotten and left behind.
One trip pass that farm brought this all to mind.

c.d.m. 2010

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Old Minnie’s Farm

 

cropped-cold-2.jpg

This is the saga of ‘Old Minnie’s’ farm,
the tale and estate are both humble.
Old clapboard cottage in dire need of paint,
and a barn roof ready to buckle.
“““““
The farm was the home of many a beast;
and while each had a story to tell.
Worn out Minnie had no time for fables;
for she saw to each tiresome detail.
“““““`
The fields bore more thistle than timothy,
fertilizer is hard to disperse.
Yet without it the hayfield’s lie barren.
Near as barren as Old Minnie’s purse.
““““““
An ancient grey mare labored with Minnie,
to harvest what weeds they could gather.
Tansy by name; worked from morning to-night,
she too was in no mood for chatter.
““““““
Bertha the milk-cow produced every year.
Farmer Wesselhoeft loaned out his bull.
With boney old frame, and nearly bald hide,
she’d no time to gab with her mouth full.
““““““`
The old sow Drucilla bore young each year,
and kept meat on poor Minnie’s table.
She’d shed a tear as her young disappeared,
slept at night in old Tansy’s stable.
“““““““
The hens had each other for company,
there were far too many to mention.
When Minnie came gathering ‘offerings’,
they’d all cluck as they stood at attention.
“““““““
Poor as the church mice and yet they survived,
at end of the day they had plenty.
For each had a place and each had a part,
working together as family.

 

c.d.m. 10/2012

 

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Uncle Filbert

VLUU L100, M100  / Samsung L100, M100

I once had an uncle Filbert
part of the family
He loved to bounce us children
upon his bony knee.

He’d rub his chin against our necks
to give us a beard burn.
We’d run and hide to get away
let someone take our turn.

We all thought it was innocent
though never thought it fun.
Until our Daddy caught him and
then shot him with his gun.

So I never cared for filberts
preferred a hazelnut.
Cause  see my Uncle Filbert had
thought me his favorite.

cheryl davis miller 10/15/16

 

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Further more on Gardening

 

The Simple Country Farmer,

Down the road, a piece, there lived, a man and his wife,
Farming, was his profession, and he’d done so, all his life,
He was the son, of a farmer, who was the son, of one too,
He’d had choices in life, but farming’s, what he chose, to do.
He bought the land, that joined his fathers, and wed, his sweetheart,
They spent, their lives together, and were seldom, apart,
Every year, I watched them tend,  the same, piece of land,
They would raise, a lovely garden, without, a helping hand,
They would plant it, and tend it, and gather, it all in,
They  raised more, than enough, and gave the excess, to friends,
He, in his straw hat, with mud boots, up to his knees,
Her, in a cotten dress, that gently waved, in the breeze,
They would faithfully, tend to their garden, side, by side,
The simple, country farmer, and his sweet, little bride,
I’d watch them, and marvel, at their gardening, abilities,
And I wondered, why my garden, didn’t do, the same for me,
Well I had clumps, as big as melons, I would still, try to hoe,
I’d water, weed, and feed it, but my garden didn’t grow,
After one or two years,I thought, I may as well, give up,
That’s when, the simple country farmer, taught this simple, country ‘pup’,
He said, A lot of it sis, is in the soils, preparation,
Then, another large part, is in your hearts, determination,
You put your heart, into the soil, and it will give, it’s heart to you,
It takes time, for hearts to grow, more than just, a year or two,
I listened, and I tried it, and much, to my delight,
My garden, responded, and it’s such, a lovely sight,
It takes love, to tend a garden , or the soil, of a heart,
And a heart, that is determined, is the first place, to start.

c.d.m. 6-11-10

 

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