Farm Poetry

Home Loam
by Marienne

I ride the current of the fence
and shoot around a hundred acres
in the winkin’ of an eye,
humming through emerald pastures,
between fields of oats and corn,
where milkweed splits the dry cocoon.
her parachutes sail rip tide winds.

I surge past juniper and oak,
where red squirrels spring from tree to tree
and deer leave chiseled prints
where they nibbled yesterday.
with weasels gone, grey fox remain,
and coyotes do their best to outsmart wily hunters.

I arc over loam of fields fresh-ploughed
with names like Lester, Glencoe, Storden:
a legacy of prairie grass and giant oaks
composted into velvet black
that reaches way down deep,
where moles and gophers burrow in,
escaping traps and high strung dogs.

I charge through banks of velvet leaf,
thistle, burdock, foxtail, fern,
past pulsing fireflies in the marsh,
where muskrats swim unseen
and wood ducks quack and flap
to guard their tender young.

I parallel the ‘crick’ that trickles to the ‘Crow’
that longs to join the Mississippi,
past bloodroot and violets,
(where ginseng used to grow
and Indian mounds are rumored to have been.)

I circuit cow paths that twist and turn
like aged, lazy rivers
to end up where I started.

the steward farmer is my father;
he knows the rise in every field,
the depth of every gully,
exacting where the gooseberry and wild asparagus grow.
soil in his pockets, on his hands, and, no doubt, in his soul.

he has lived here every season he has known;
has hardened, softened,
birthed and laughed,
laid loved ones in the ground,
and risen every morning to a call that he has answered.
considers the handiwork of God;
the splendour of his brief possession
(and like his body, just on loan.)
I see roots grow from his feet
to nourish man and land,

and I come here, again,
to let myself be, like him,
so deeply planted.
©2002 Mariénne Kreitlow

Marienne writes poems about the farm that can be beautiful, funny and moving.
Jerry writes some that are mostly silly.

See and buy Mariénne’s new book, “Everything Needs Tending”. HERE.

To see more of Marienne's work in music, theatre and poetry, go here:
marienne.com

The Christmas Mistake
By Jerry Ford, copyright 2021

God is infallible. Angels are not, just ask Zsi Zsi Bellimint.

It’s not that God can’t make mistakes, it’s that, in God’s reality, there are no mistakes to be made. Even to say “God is infallible” misses the mark: it implies that there’s fallibility in God’s reality. There’s not. And there’s not really infallibility, either. It’s like the three-in-one thing. When God makes a decision, it’s simply a decision, “I’m three, I’m one”, not wrong, not right, just is. When that decision reverberates into Our World, we the people might perceive it as perfect or as a mistake, wrong or right, dumb or brilliant, but that’s just us. Or we might be totally flummoxed.

The problem is that God is inscrutable. We humans can’t understand what it’s like to be God.

So, take my word for it: God is infallible. The angels? Not so much.

The realm of angels is also somewhat incomprehensible to us, but they do experience opposites and differences, heaven and earth, early breakfast and last supper, Cherubim and Archangel. Their reality is somewhere between ours and God’s.

Zsi Zsi Bellimint was conceived - thought into existence - into the Angelic Genre of Faciliphim. It’s not that angels have rankings, one better or greater than the other, just different jobs. Archangels announce things, Jacobim wrestle, Seraphim sing, and Cherubim hang out around God and spend a lot of time keeping thin wisps of cloth in just the right places. Faciliphim make things happen for other angels. Need your harp restrung? Call a Faciliphim. Need to change the course of a comet with its sights set on a world that doesn’t think that comets will hit them? Call a Faciliphim. And if you want to cross several realities and a few thousand light years to get from Heaven to Earth, you need a Faciliphim Navigator. A Faciliphim who is thoroughly trained in the operation of a Blink-of-an-Eye Drive can get you there in what we people would perceive as the time it takes for an eye to blink, and land the whole heavenly host safely on a pinhead.

Zsi Zsi Bellimint was not thoroughly trained, though she made up for it with confidence.

First a bit about her name. Zsi Zsi Bellimint is the closest we people of Earth can come to saying or even thinking her name. In angelic language, it’s an endless repetition of the sound we would probably spell Zsheeesss, combined with the frequency we would call 27khz, and an overcoating of the color crimson. For convenience, we’ll just call her Zsi Zsi.

Which is a beautiful name, but it doesn’t make up for lack of training.

And so, it came to pass that a host of angels needed to get to Earth for a Really Big Announcement (RBA).

It’s a well-guarded secret that Archangels rehearse when they have an RBA to make. The lead Archangel on this mission, who is not named in the scriptures because the witnesses on Earth were a bit too gobsmacked to remember it, wrote a script for this RBA specifying that he would arrive first with a massive airburst of special effects, just to get the city’s attention, and proclaim the RBA in multiple languages and frequencies. Then the remainder of the host would arrive for a Really Big Finale (RBF).

So, there went out a decree from the lead Archangel, who said, “Zsi Zsi, we need to get to earth. Here are the coordinates. Get me there first and then send the rest of the host exactly 12.27 earth seconds later.”

The lead Archangel transferred the coordinates to Zsi Zsi by the standard method: a brief touching of his fifth wing to her fourth wing, and Zsi Zsi, despite having not quite completed the training in Blink-of-an-Eye transports to Earth, but feeling utterly confident, encoded them into the drive. She then gave the Archangel the wings-up sign and a hearty, “Blast off!”

It is well known that, in the Angelic language, the 27th variant of Joy – which was the fifth figure in the coordinates provided by the Archangel – is easily confused with the 14th variant of Awe. It became embarrassingly known to Zsi Zsi that day.

Let’s change our point of view now to Earth, shortly before the blink-of-an-eye arrival of the unnamed Archangel. It’s a clear, calm, moonless December night. The kind of night that people in large cities like Jerusalem hardly notice, but are greatly appreciated by shepherds watching their flocks. No storms to frighten the sheep, and quiet enough to hear if a lamb is bleating for its mother. The kind of night, or so Ishmael is thinking, when it’s good the be a shepherd. His companions aren’t thinking this because they are asleep.

Ishmael considers his fortuitous career choice. Then he considers how he didn’t really have a choice, but on a silent night like this, that’s OK. How lovely it is when all the sheep are lying down in the dim starlight, looking like a spilled bag of marshmallows. How much better this is than working in Jerusalem as a stonemason or a carpenter.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the sky ripped apart like all the other skies he’d ever seen hadn’t, and the ground shook like all the other ground he’d known never did. The air around him compressed into a THWOMP that would have flattened him except that the THWOMP came from every side at once, leaving him no direction to fall.

When he recovered enough to look around, he saw his fellow shepherds standing around him in bright daylight, which was odd since he was quite sure it was still night. They were all looking up with their mouths agape. Not sure what else to do, Ishmael gaped his mouth and looked up. Then he found himself wondering if that was a good decision.

It was hard to tell if the creature above him was really huge or really close. His brain opted for really huge because his body was screaming to his brain that it didn’t want it to be really close. The being seemed to be somewhat in the shape of a person if persons had six wings, gold lightning crackling all around it, gold beams radiating from its eyes, a gold disc floating right behind its head, and was really huge.

Just as the shepherds had convinced themselves that Abel the cook had put the wrong mushrooms in the evening’s stew, the really huge being spoke. To Ishmael’s battered brain, it sounded like Latin, Hebrew and Greek, all taking pot shots at his native Aramaic, and all at a volume that could unleaven leavened bread. But their ears were still ringing from the THWOMP, so none of them understood a word of it.

Finally, the being sensed something wasn’t quite as it should be. He scanned the countryside, noted the sheep disappearing in the distance, finally settled his gaze on the four gaped-jawed men below, and instantly realized that this wasn’t Jerusalem, not even a suburb.

Fortunately, the shepherds didn’t hear what the angel said about Zsi Zsi under his breath, or this story may have never made it into the Bible.

Realizing that he was not in front of his intended audience, an audience that would have known instantly that they were being visited by an Archangel, he quickly shifted gears. He decided to talk with the shepherds. First, he made himself small. This had an interesting effect on the shepherds. Ishmael shook his head as if shaking off a bad dream, while the others’ brains said, “Too much weirdness for one night, I’m outta here”, fell down and went back to sleep.

Now, the angel was either more or less human-size, or he was a lot further away – Ishmael wasn’t sure which it was. Then the angel said, a bit too formally, “Be not afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” thought Ishmael, wishing he wasn’t afraid, and wishing he was asleep like his fellow shepherds. He couldn’t speak yet because his mouth was still working out the finer points or being gape-jawed, “I’m terrified,” the thought continued.

“For behold,” went on the Angel, in almost a whisper, “I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Ishmael’s head cleared a bit, and he thought, “Oh, well, that’s nice. The nice Terrifying Being has something nice to tell me. How nice.”

Then the angel told him about a Really Big Event (RBE) going on in the form of a really little baby in a nearby really little town. He gave Ishmael directions on how to find this miraculous newborn.

“Now,” said the Angel, “I need to let you know that, well, I am an angel - an Archangel, actually - and, any second now, a whole host of angels is going to, well, show up, and it could be a little intense.”

“Oh!”, said Ishmael, suddenly finding that he could speak, “I get it. You’re an ang . . .”

THWOMP!

And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, again shredding the sky like a cheap pinata, rollercoastering the ground, and compressing the air so that Ishmael’s ribs decided the best course of action was to retreat to his backbone. His companions were once again on their feet, gaped-jawed and wide awake.

Then all heaven broke loose. The host started singing. Loud. There wouldn’t be a Foo Fighters concert for a couple of millennia, so Ishmael didn’t really have a point of reference, but his eardrums did their best to hide in his stomach. The Archangel swiftly signaled the host choir to take it down to a thundering fortissimo. After a verse or two, he gave them the signal for “exit behind that mountain with a slow fade in sound and lights.” As a parting gesture, he whispered in Ishmael’s ear (which was one more startle on top of a whole pile of startles, since he was obviously disappearing behind that mountain), “Don’t worry about the sheep.”

The ground returned to its former firmness, the sky was once again winking starlight, and the air was no longer THWOMPing. The shepherds gradually ungaped their jaws, and slowly their gazes settled on Ishmael, who was not only ungaped, but actually smiling.

“Let’s go to Bethlehem,” said Ishmael, “I hear something really wonderful is going on there.”

“What about the sheep?”

“Don’t worry about the sheep.”

Archangels, in addition to making RBA’s, also boss other angels around. It’s not that they are in charge, just that they are good at bossing.

“Zsi Zsi! Get down here. Now.”

In the blink of an eye, Zsi Zsi was floating next to the Archangel.

“Do you think you can send the heavenly host home without losing them somewhere?”

“Yeah. Sorry about the coordinates thing, I’ve figured out . . .”

“Do it.”

She activated the Blink-of-an-Eye Drive, and instantly the whole choir was somewhere else, hopefully Heaven.

“Now, go round up those lost sheep.”

Later, in debriefing, the Archangel reported to God, “It didn’t go quite as planned. Mistakes were made.”

To which God replied, “There was no mistake.”

PISTOL OR NOT
by Jerry, 2019

There’s a cougar on our farm.
We know by its screaming,
Like it's in heat,
Like an old women dying horribly.
"Be careful" says a friend,
"Count your calves.
Carry your pistol in the pasture.
They go for the neck."
Well, by the time it’s decided
To go for my neck
This rigged fight is already over,
Pistol or not.

(Mariénne doesn't like it when I offer explanations of her poems, but I'm going to do it anyway. The renderer comes when you have a dead animal - in this case a steer - that can't be butchered, in a truck often piled high with animals he's picked up from other farms. He is commonly called the knacker man, and serves an indispensable purpose in farm country.)

rendering
by Marienne

big truck roars up our road
smack dab so fast
right in our drive
october day
but like july
taken by surprise
emily rose and I
big truck
a big box
a way way big box
kicks up a cloud of thick-ick dust
has a wench a crane a boom a chain
legs with hooves against the sky
blue sky
piled high piled high
they must be piled high inside
shapely black and white with hooves
bobbling with the rutted road
the road the ruts
the dance of death
piled high against blue sky
ruddy faced driver
bounds out calling
am i in the right spot?
right spot?
dead steer?
not here
oh, next place next place east
a cheerful voice
a cheerful man
our nostrils filled
so filled
so strong
hangs on so long
we watch the legs wave goodbye
another cloud of dust of dust
a roar they’re gone
whistles as he drives on down on down
bless the vultures
bless the buzzards
bless the cheerful knacker man

Minus 25

by Marienne

Come to bed, my love.
Sink with me into blankets and slumber.
As cows in the barn press against one another
steam from their nostrils freezes and shatters.
They ruminate, dreaming of infinite stomachs
and the 4-step they’ll frolic upon summer’s lawn.
We spoon and nestle, naked chest curved to spine.
I hear goose feathers singing, winging the down
my grandmother plucked, stuffed, stitched into muslin
for a night such as this, both cruel and tender.

January, 2009

saying no to say yes

Marienne Kreitlow, March 2021

It's a day-long night-long life-long dance
of expectation, disappointment
until the rattle on the mantel
shakes and shatters on the floor
beads and seeds
fly in all directions

furrows of the field
were cut too deeply
because that's the way it's done
the plow shearing-slicing filaments
that hold life in her subtle net
that hums and sings encouragement
that also sings and hums
and longs for me fertility
and squeeze of judgment banished

my plow is rusting back to earth
I will only plant the seeds
I will only pull the weeds
but some of these I leave
to gather into bundles
and fly with them in wind

I was taught that galaxies were far-flung
way out there
beyond my reality
and only witches rode on brooms
why then am I less with squeeze
and given to expansion
while kissing back the moon?

Jerry wrote the next one in our first summer here, when we had spring flooding and one of the worst bug seasons ever.

Ode to Sweetcorn

Ten minutes from stalk to pot;
hungry gnawing in my gut.
Steaming cob on my plate,
and more butter than I ate
all last month.
And salt, salt, salt.
Two meals a day, freeze the rest.
Mosquitoes and the deerflies,
floods and heat -
all forgotten
when sweetcorn I eat.

TO GARLIC UNDER SNOW
by Jerry Ford, 2009

The garlic is underground, chthonic,
like some seething cell of radicals,
insinuating deep roots,
waiting for the perfect moment to riot.
Put your ear to the groundswell,
eavesdropping, and hear snatches of incendiary phrases:
“Pesto,” “Pasta” “Salsa,”
“When do we strike?”
Not today,
snow still sequesters the soil,
as cloves bide their time.

TRAGIC LOSS OF FREDERIQUE
by Marienne

Frederique the Mouse had such high hopes, such big dreams for a little mousling.
I must say that I feel rather responsible for his death, something that I am not at all emotionally prepared for. I should have warned him about the hazards, but it’s too late now, isn’t it?
He stole two toothpicks which he obviously schemed to use for poles, but I must say I’m not in the habit of counting my toothpicks, so I really had no clue. I mean, it’s all too absurd, isn’t it?
I had been rather cross with him lately as he’d been prone to sneaking into my dresser drawer and gnawing on some rather personal, dare I say intimate, items of mine. But when a curse escaped my lips, well I didn’t mean it literally.
I suppose when he was squeaking out an immensely annoying high pitched song in the middle of the night I dismissed it as a rather weird dream, perhaps the effect of too much rhubarb sauce and créme brulée before bedtime.
But strangely, I can still hear that song in my head, kind of like Bruce Springstein on helium:
“I’m going to ski beneathe the moon when fahrenheit is zero. I’m going to ski beneathe the moon just as it eclipses. I’m going to strap on razor blades ‘cause I’m a bad-assed mousey. I’ll fly down the highest peak and screech my battle cry! Ahh! Ahh! Ahh! Screech my battle cry!”
In hindsight I should have thrown out the double edged razor blades long ago, instead of sticking them in the corner of my drawer.
This morning, after the horror of finding his tiny frozen body I located bits of paraphernalia down the slope. I wish I could say he died with a smile on his rodential lips, but he just looked freaked out to me.
Frederique wasn’t a Christian, but I said a prayer and created a tiny altar to honor him. I reverently placed one of his “ski poles” and a rusty, bloody razor on an antique wooden mouse trap. It looks nice.
And, somehow, this picture makes me smile.

The Zinger Stinger
by Marienne

Ah! My sweet mosquitoes, singing, swarming.
Welcome home.
I offer you my succulence, my tender flesh, eyelid and thigh.
Stiffen thy proboscis. Enter swiftly, do.
Commence your feasting during these days of summer love
I will write thee poems upon my bedroom walls,in blood (if there be any left)
as I convulse,
and writhe,
and die,
and itch for all eternity.

Trellis
by Marienne

We bought the trellis when we were flush.
Fancy; copper filigree.
We took it home in pieces,
it sat dismembered in the shed,
gathering flyspecks, spider eggs.
Finally you hauled it out,
placing it here, there -
until we agreed upon the perfect spot.
So you levelled the ground,
laid a bed of moist concrete.
Spent hours doing it right, bolting it down.
A gateway for a future orchard
that we planted just last year.

It’s not like those garden magazines
where everything is trimmed and ripe,
and the gardener is a flush-cheeked Brit,
or a southern belle about juleps and her mama’s pie.
Ours teems with box elder bugs, asian lady beetles,
and ick-once maggot flies.
Yet in a single summers time
morning glories bloom and circle overhead
and robins vie for the highest spire.

I stand in the arc of my ragtag paradise
where we harvested eighteen apples - made into four fragrant pies -
and elderberries - enough to keep away the winter flu.