Reflections on the Farm; draft #5

15 years later I returned
to visit buildings I played around when I was a kid:
to walk by survivors of our colonial past
corn crib, pig sty, empty garages, and a barn built long ago,
ground floors diffused with the dung and dust of 200 years,
some still hoary-marked with faded rosettes
of white, green, dapple red, and sometimes pale blue.

As sheep owners we had enough lambs, one for each of the six of us.
On occasion we'd bridle them to posts like natural lawnmowers,
and we would take turns, the six of us, every thirty minutes checking on them:
except the time my brother forgot and was it irony that strangled his sheep to death?
Sheep's body lifeless and limp
it's eyes bulging and black
in the middle of field on a hot summer's day.

Flaked wood so bare the paint covered like a transparency
and the corn crib's simple rectangular skeleton
laid bare in old grey slats standing against time,
and for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped
almost apart
now choking on an overgrowth of the thorn bushes and weeds.

My mind recalls sweat sticky evenings, bur bruised and thorn stabbed,
rough-housing only interrupted by the sound of metal against metal,
mother calling us to dinner,
banging heavy on a great iron triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections on the Farm; draft #4

More than 15 years later I return
to ask permission from the Bass's
to visit buildings I played in and around when I was a kid
to walk past corn cribs and barns built of a now hollowed aged wood,
their lower levels diffused with the smell and sight of dung and dust
of 200 years,
still hoary-marked with a faded rosette
white and red and dapple green.

Sheep sometimes were used for lawn mowers.
Six of us, we'd check on them once every thirty minutes,
except the time my brother forgot and ironically his sheep strangled itself
to the ground on a hot summer day?

Flaking grey wood so bare of paint half-covers the corn crib
now a simple rectangular skeleton
who for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped-almost apart by the tides of seasons gone by,
but now lays dying choking on the overgrown weeds
running amok in and around the legs and bowels.

MY mind recalls a simpler time:
iron ringing against iron
mother calling us to dinner
banging heavy on a great metal triangle.
This dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections: On the Farm; draft #3

I walk past buildings built of hollowed aged wood,
their lower levels diffused with dung and dust
of 200 years.
Thought painted now pale red dozens of times over,
still faded hoary-marked rosette
white and red and dapple green,
sheep sometimes for lawnmowers.

Flaking paint half-covers the corn crib
now a simple rectangular skeleton
who for evenings reposes with its long lean shadow,
its body ripped-almost apart by the tides of seasons gone by.

Iron rings against iron
as mother calls us to dinner by banging heavy on a great metal triangle,
a dinner part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, corn,
and so many that the mind loses count.

Reflections: On the Farm. (formerly Season of Cow Smells); draft #2

I walk past buildings lean empty wood
lower levels diffused with dung and dirt
these buildings 200 or more years old
painted now pale red dozens of times over,
but still hoary-marked rosette
white and red and dapple green,
and sheep sometimes for lawnmowers.

Flaky paint half-covers the corncrib
ripped-almost apart by the tides of wind and weather and seasons gone by.

Iron rings against metal triangle
and mother calls the six of us to dinner.
Family called now to meal part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine foot over foot
and many years later drank that wine.
puckered lips that soon gave way to mirth and merriment.

Season of Cow Smells; draft 1

I walk past buildings shuttered and dung covered
red paint a hundred years old painted a dozen times over,
nose stink filled, inhale 'cuz deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
This is Oley and you know you love it.
Pale flaking paint half-covers the barn,
red and blue stars of the hex sign reads the country side,
corn crib ripped-almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and seasons gone by.

Iron trusses ring against metal
and my mother calls us to dinner with the din of the great triangle.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many that the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.

Season of Cow Smells; rough draft

Walking and I walk
past buildings shuttered and dung covered
nose stink filled, enhale deep I dare you.
This is fertilizer season, season of cow smells on the farmland.
Paled red flaking paint half-covers the barn,
corn crib ripped almost apart by the tides of the wind and weather and climate and season gone by.

Iron trusses ring against a triangle of metal.
Family, now called, comes from distant fields to dinner,
part made by an acre now come full
of cucumber, peas, green beans, pumpkins, corn, and so many more
the mind loses count.

Prunes, cherries, pears. A grape vine for my daddy's homemade wine:
I stomped that wine, and having many years later drank that wine,
woooh! the blast comes first and then perhaps you reminiscence of the taste.