Uncle Tony and Cousin Werner at seeding time a long time ago. 
Tag Archives: Farming
THE FARM, THE RANCH AND THE NEED FOR GOD
THE FARM, THE RANCH
AND THE NEED FOR GOD
Who pray to when the rains don’t come
who forget to thank when they do
Who curse when the John Deere breaks
and the cow jumps over the moon
(by the moon of course I mean
the fence to the alfalfa field)
Who in the long nights pondering
under stars too cold to be suns
a word big enough for big
GOOD FENCES MAKE GOOD MEMORIES
GOOD FENCES MAKE GOOD MEMORIES
Slow driving west
down Saskatchewan 363
Paved now
but mud and gravel
fifty years ago when dad
came over from the home place
to help me build fourteen miles of fence
Half a mile from the old Fort Walsh trail
where the Mounties hauled supplies
for a starving Sitting Bull
A lot of history
and a damn good fence
still standing, still stretching
like time, and our time together
Smooth and endless
over the soft rolling hills
From this distance you can’t see
the barbs in the wire
STONES
STONES
Every spring
like a teenager before the prom
frost popped zits
covering the face of the land
and we go picking
LONG HOT SASKATCHEWAN SUMMER SHORT POEMS
LONG HOT SASKATCHEWAN SUMMER SHORT POEMS
Hay bales pile
the sun stays to watch
will evening come
_____________________
Plow breaks again
metal too hot to touch
will evening come
_______
______________
Girl in summer dress
more heat inside than out
fall is soon coming
_____________________
Beer is all gone
road weaves our way home
morning comes soon
_____________________
Sun rises at four
bones store summer heat
winter days are short
_____________________
Waiting for the crop
rain or hail, God decides
in the pub, politics
_____________________
Stopping for water
dry eyes turn westward
reading the clouds
_____________________
The farmer complains
gratitude too much like pride
outside the rain falls
WORKING WITH FATHER
WORKING WITH FATHER
In the short days of a long winter
we sort nuts, bolts, and washers
against the busy days of summer
Place them in well-marked bins
accompanied always by his mentor’s
Never waste five dollars worth of time
looking for a five cent bolt
The 9/16th fine-threads do not go in
with the regular or coarse
When you’re four
it’s not hard to get up
at four to ride in the cattle
truck to the city with your dad
excitement keeps you awake all night
There are knots you need to know
reef, sheepshank, and the ever
popular bowline that can still
be undone even after looping
a red bull weighing a ton
Hook the twine around your
little finger just son, in a way
that I could never get,
three turns and knot
the gunny sack
in two seconds
flat
Heel that calf, or turn the herd
drive the truck at the perfect speed
to catch the combine
on the fly
There is a great deal of pleasure in
doing something right, when right
is the only way anything should
ever be done
But never far, even yet
from the red-black cloud
of doing it wrong
CLOUD PLOWED FIELDS
CLOUD PLOWED FIELDS
I hear that line at an Austin open mic.
and I want it – actually I want it back
this is my line, how did he find it first
In any case – I hear the line, and Bam!
I am back in a cloud scudding sun baking
Saskatchewan summerfallow summer
Black lands between the glowing gold
John Deere with its hard iron hooves
ripping up the roots and seeds
of the flowers no-one wanted
call them weeds
Sometimes cutting worms in half
I hear that they grow back
While the little poet sits
by the caragana hedge
choking on the flowers
no-one wanted
ELEVATORS
ELEVATORS
Remembering
all those seed filled erections
in every town on the prairie
back when the west was young
THE DAY I SAW THE UFO
THE DAY I SAW THE UFO
I’m sitting
with my back against the tractor tire
eating lunch in the long field by the lake
It flies over
directly South to North
plenty high and far from humanly fast
It is made of a metal that shines out of itself
I rise with a smile
brush the crumbs from my jeans
set my eyes on the furrow
and let out the clutch
COWBOY POETRY
COWBOY POETRY
This is not the poetry of pulling calves
in a cold wind and a foot or so of spring snow
with only a vest and a bottle of rye
to keep you dry
This
is the poetry
of that calf that would have died
standing on shaky legs
to drink warm milk
from the cow that would have died