Silt Clay Loam

That muddy water

Heres where ya got er

Up in the hills of Farming Town

Brought to a boil

Just like hells oil

Buckets of rain are baring down

Dawn in the delta

The heat will melt ya

That muddy waters nice n brown

Hard work an toil

Life from the soil

The bottoms wear it like a gown

So glad ya sent her

Goes to the renter

To hand out candy like a clown


Soup Can Road


We would carve them out of the dirt lane with Campbell”s Soup cans. We had two lanes. A gravel one where the cars would drive and a dirt one beside it for whatever reason. The grass would be dead there from traffic and we could play in the nice clean dirt. Clean to us not Mother. We had cars we had invented out of specially shaped wood knots that had fallen (or been knocked) out of barn boards. We called them jalopies. Aw the imaginations of youth. Anything for fun.

That evolved over time to building a mountain road across the face of the now abandoned silage pit a few yards away. That’s yards as a measurement not yards as in barnyards. The mountain road was perilously crossed with farm machinery toys we had received from Santa at Christmas. We could play tractors without crawling around or even bending over. When the old worn out tractors evaporated we moved on down the hill a few more yards to roll the rear tires up and down the barn roof.

Anything for fun.

Then, there.



Top Stop

Not full stop. Rain stop on the hill top. By the bin by the town. The township’s cemetery would be closer but the town’s built out to it. Turn northwest and I farm the three forties around that one. The Stay At Gone Mom helped me finish up moving there this morning from north of the interstate two miles away on my northernmost quarter section.

Headed back home on the corn run. One done and a farm a brother harvested the corn on with three more to go. All five farm’s beans were cut by me on the bean run north. Augured once and out of here. The world gets them after Bunge of north America crushes them. They get the oil too. Fly on that you greedy bastards.

I’ll fly when I fall out of my next whatever. Any landing you walk away from, eventually. Falling seems to be what we are here to do. Falling into whomsoever’s warm embrace when we first push our way and get pushed out of the home we’ve so quickly outgrown for only the first of many times. Falling in love with the mother of the children we fall in love with. Falling for all the bait and switch schemes that follow. Falling …….

But ’tis the season. Trees need company

Then, there.



Farmer 84

I started farming in nineteen eighty four.

Walking in whilst everybody else walked out that door

Supplemental income from down on the killing floor

Working with the refugees from that decades war

I bought into cattle in nineteen eighty six

Brought in the hogs in eighty nine but never brought the chicks

Fired pharma from the farm and turned to mineral licks

Said no to drugs & potions and I found another fix

Parked the plow in eighty five and haven’t used it since

Partitioned fathers pasture with a lot of crossing fence

Maybe not a shepherd king perhaps performing prince

Though the paint is peeling it’s only around the dents


New Navy

I was on the old ships of the new navy. The two I got to see at their last deployments both had a hulk number sixteen. The sweet sixteens. In old age. Training up the new navy. On one. Refitting the other new navy on the other. On the training carrier we also broke in the third new navy as a first. Lady to lady as it were.

On the Lady Lex the new navy we trained up was top gun. Not to be confused with gun decks which have many meanings in the old navy. The new navy got their wings from the Lex. The old guys in the new navy kept their wings on the Lex. Mostly from The Body Of Christ but not all. Some old guys kept em from home port.

The third new navy landed on the Lex about thirty days before I did. Those mostly young gals loved to hear stories of blue ocean sailing and overseas ports of call. They were not too fond, nor anyone else but I, of forty foot waves around hurricanes. I had the pleasure of riding those big girls on each ship. 40 foot waves that is.

The first punishment uncle sam’s navy come up with for getting booted out of et school was a rust bucket that hadn’t seen stateside for seven years. Happy Gilmore. Neither had the hand me down fowl weather jacket the petty third gave me when I arrived that December strait out of fire school and scared of any puff of smoke.

We refitted the nuke attack subs there. And killed an honorable gentleman when a mooring line broke. All for Liberty. He looked at me last. I hated that. The oldest of the new navies was the silent service. Bubbleicious duty I guess. That’s where I was told by an old salt two things you never do. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane and go on a cruise to sink the ship on purpose.

I watched someone die doing one and another die helping do the other.

At least the girls lived. A few broken bones at most. (Different line second ship never broke it only slipped).

That’s your new navies. Now this space thing …….

Then, there.