Common Threads

The Farmer’s Assessment

Old farmers know best
how to sort things out.

They call it like they see it.

It happens when they stroll
up and take a look.

“What we got right here’s a mule
thought he could swim.”

“What we got right here’s a stuck calf
needed turnin’.”

And so when it was Archie’s time,
the vet –
an old farmer’s son
and an old farmer’s grandson
and and an old farmer’s great-grandson –
had just the right words.

“What we got right here’s an
old dog’s lived a good life,
and’s too sick
to go on livin.’ “

Sometimes all we need’s the facts.

But they still don’t stop the hurtin’. 

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!

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

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