With strength and courge
and a furrowed brow,
the old man picked up his rusty plow.
He walked out to the field
bent down, kneeled,
and prayed before begining.
He prayed for past days,
the ones withered away.
He prayed he was far from his dying day.
But once in the field,
he never did yield
to the task he was set to do.
Once he was done
in the blistering sun
and his shadow was long and thin,
he took back to his house
where he sat with a bottle of gin.
Original Poetry 
December 14th, 2011 at 7:46 pm
My god I loved this. Strong and lilting. I especially like your style of rhythm. THis would make a really neat song of sorts….the farmer’s song. I am excited to have “tripped” onto you! Thanks for sharing what you have! I enjoyed it immensely!
December 14th, 2011 at 7:52 pm
Thank you so much! I am so glad you “tripped” onto us as well! I highly encourage you to check out the rest of our blog. I’m sure you will love it just as much as you loved this post! If you’re really feeling into it, like us on Facebook as well!
December 14th, 2011 at 9:00 pm
I like this poem. I want to be a farmer