this little piglet’s bizzare, but
this little piglet’s not alone
this little piglet’s a food thief
this little piglet can run
this little piglet eats free string beans
all the day long
precious wild bunny
oaken fur, marshmallow fluff tail
scampering freely
down the path
green grass galore
along the edge
of the wide world’s wild woods
no fences
no borders
no clocks
no deadlines
no defenses
fear at every turn
in the wild,
precious bunny
Captured!
Captured!
She set out to capture a farm.
She jumped in the old Ford pickup
and stuck to the dirt roads
to cast a wide net
and haul home a truckload.
She drove in wonder
and discovered
morning dew
on a spider’s web
spun between the slats
of a wooden fence
on a hill,
the first rays
of daylight streaming through,
illuminating the
intricate Arachno-haven
steam rising
off the pond,
mama duck schooling her little ones
in the fine art of ripple-writing
on the unlined page
meadow fences
saddled firmly
on the backs
of freshly-mown
lush green rolling hills
cows
ambling across meadows
seeking greener grass
to feast out the day
fields
of haybales
spun in lumpy crumpets,
lying sideways
like warm glazed cinnamon buns
for hungry horses
a barn
hayloft door open
tractor bucket stretching upward
reaching strategically
spoonfeeding bundles of hay
to bale stackers
a much-loved-mutt farmdog
tagging along
on the heels
of his farmer
tail wagging on his way
to his purpose for the day
jumping into the bed of a truck
as the tailgate slams shut
pigs
slurping delicious slops
from their trough
pondering all the shady places
to seize the day
once the sun rises high
a communion of horses, cows, and goats
blessing their breakfast buffet
of oaty-alfalfa hay,
each in their own prayerful way
a roiling rooster!
proclaiming the gospel!
like a street preacher!
from a pulpit stump!
neck and scorn straining skyward!
all hellfire and brimstone!
on the perils of laziness!
honeybees
swarming their hive boxes
nestled in the wood clearing
buzzing up their secret recipe
to sweeten and heal
sunflowers
still droopy sleepers
as the sun creeps upstairs
to tickle their chins
and bring worshipping smiles
to this colorful choir
of breezy sway-dancers
wildflowers
spilling over the crest of a hill
tumbling and scattering downward
Mother Nature’s splatter-painting
countryside graffiti
a lone tire swing
hanging from an oak branch
inviting barefoot toes
to hop in and fly high
to hold on tight
to touch the sky
a hub of donkeys
plotting and scheming
by the broken fence
like old men huddled
in the local coffeeshop
bristling and braying
over town politics
a farmhouse
windows open
curtains billowing out
like arms eagerly welcoming passing folks
to come in for a
buttered bacon-egg biscuit breakfast
and then she realized.
You don’t capture a farm.
…….a farm captures you!
Work and Peace
What is destiny on a farm
on a farm full of life
full of vegetables and herbs,
of chickens and goats,
of pigs and dogs,
of people who
rise with the roosters and
leap into life
to mow fields
to mend fences
to tend gardens
to milk goats
to bake bread
to make soap
to feed flocks
to heave hay to herds
to clean coops
and call it a day
and sip iced tea with fresh mint sprigs
on the back porch swing
and give thanks for the beauty of it all
and shower to cool down sweat-drenched bodies
and rinse the day’s dirt down the drain
and bring in the wind-dried sheets that smell
fresh like sunshine and breeze
that bring clean, deep sleep
to people who say blessings over farm-to-table meals,
who work hard
who drive slowly
who live intentionally
as one with the land
at peace within?
Destiny IS the farm!
Moving Mountains
Think chicken coop cleaning
and a giant red poly shovel
with a flashy red jumbo bow
comes to mind,
the one you bought
when you were shopping
from our Christmas Lists
(that you start asking for
every October),
unsteady on your feet,
right before you fell out of bed,
prompting an MRI
and sweeping you into surgery
that revealed a
and sweeping you into surgery
that revealed a
Stage 4 Glioblastoma
that stopped the world-
a red shovel that can
clean coops,
spread fertilizer,
break ground.
If only it could
move this mountain.
The Legend of the Three Pigs
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
In the spring of 1971, three farmhands were
clearing a path for cattle fencing
when they heard the warning grunts and squeals
and turned to see three sets of tusks charging.
They dropped their tools
and ran for their truck.
Two made it, but one tripped on a stump
and fell flat, fearing the worst.
The two on the tailgate turned
and trembled in horror
as the wild boar closed in for the kill,
coming face to face with their comrade –
but at the last minute, the pigs zigzagged
and veered sideways like drunk moonshiners
wobbly-wheeling away from revenuers
approaching an unslashed still.
No one ever believed the story,
but folks always acted amazed when
the guy on the ground explained
what had saved his life.
“Them pigs was cross-eyed.”
The Johnson Funny Farm was born that day,
A place where impending doom is transformed into
the miracle of survival –
a joyful place of rescue for humans, animals, and plants –
a place where a farm sign with
three cross-eyed pigs
greets guests –
a place where even something as simple
as connecting to “wi-swi” remains
a tribute to three legendary wild swine
with the password #crosseyedpigs.
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
In a Summer Farmhouse Sink
the scrap container coffee can awaits
its daily commute to compost, brimming with
strawberry hulls
cucumber peels
bell pepper seeds
tomato top-slices
buttered peach bread crumbs
slathered with local honey
coffee grounds
spent egg shells
olive, mint green, tinted blue, brown
celery leaves
carrot tops
severed pulpy peach pits
boiled egg crumbles
bacon bits
mayonnaise globs
floor-dropped chicken chunks
that survived the dogs
cantaloupe rinds
potato shavings
fleshy peach skins
squeezed lemon remnants
sunflower stems
scissored chives
withered blueberries
nothing wasted
all ripe with promise and sustaining purpose
Common Threads 