All right guys and gals, I need a poetical favor

Thank you!

Specter

I owe you bunch big!

RED BELLY FORD

I grew up on hard times in the Fifties There's much that we couldn't afford
But by golly we had some good horses 'n we had us a Red Belly Ford

A Red Belly Ford was half worthless if you had one you'd know what I mean
'Twas hard to know just what to call it this cross between toy 'n machine

With runnin' boards somethin' like stirrups you could stand up or sit thereupon
It rode like a small shetland pony just straddle the thing 'n hang on

Might hold with a good team o' horses was 'bout as contrary 's a mule
'Course owners of Johnnys 'n Farmalls disdained 'em with just ridicule

Oh, I'll have to admit they were handy 'n helped many fam'lies survive
But their only sure means to salvation was teachin' young kids how to drive

For many a young country feller who was just big enough to go chore
Our first try at genuine drivin' was steerin' that Red Belly Ford

I felt in the height of my glory when beckoned to come crawl aboard
'n go for a ride with my Daddy a straddle that Red Belly Ford

He'd let out the clutch 'n get movin' say "Here, Son, you give it some gas"
He'd give me the wheel 'n say "steer it" 'twas a thrill that was hard to surpass

So I certainly count myself priv'leged, a gracious 'n proud benefactor
I'm one of the millions indebted to that little Red Belly tractor

So if folks of today have their problems confused, 'n peer pressured, 'n bored
What they need is a place in the country, ...a horse, ...'n a Red Belly Ford

(B. Virgil, Norton, KS)

Something green, I"ve almost seen
It"s fenders jutting there
Among the rocks, and old corn shocks
That form it"s weathered lair

Once proud machine, that used to gleam
And toil under farmers hand
They were a team, and it always seemed
To link him with his land

But years have passed, and now alas
The farmer no longer tills
No cornfields green, no rows of beans
No grain drawn to the mills

Now left to mourn, object of scorn
His faithful servant there
It must await, not know it"s fate
Till someone comes to care

Though mostly hid, it seems to bid
Me to rescue it from the rain
A little paint, and the decades taint
No longer will remain

So what"s the harm, I used to farm
And loved those iron steeds
Machines reborn, a bond untorn
An answer to both our needs

He can tell what a sassy pony-that's a cross between greased lightning and the place where it hits-can do if it's eighteen thousand pounds of steel and action, going high, wide and handsome.

The truth is-the Plainsman was built for him.

Built for the man whose face is tanned with the sun when day is done of roping and romp and race.

He loves the cross of the wild and the tame.

There's a savor of leather about that tractor- of laughter, and lilt and light-a hint of old loves-and saddle and spurs. It's a brawny thing-
yet a smooth handling thing for the long haul o' the day.

Swing up onto the Plainsman
when the day dawns dull with dreary things to be done,
and stale.

Then start for the land of real living
with the spirit of the man who rides, lean and rangy, into the clear, bright light of a dawning western day.

You"ve worked for years, like you had to do
Provided for them, but what about you?
Should you labor on, in selfless giving
Or is it time, for a little living?

You"ve got your house, you"ve got your car
An occasional night, spent at the bar
A loving wife, and a kid named Fred
But you need a tractor, out in that shed

So you set aside, perhaps a weekend
And follow the light, of your own beacon
You hit the backroads, on a mission
And tell them all, you"re goin" fishin"

Down shady backroad, and dusty lane
You search the fencerows, like a man insane
Driven on, by force unknown You"ve got to have one, for your own

Back home they wonder, if the Old Man"s daft
He"s never been fond, of water craft
And never owned, a rod or reel
Never came home, with fish-filled creel

They speculate, a mid-life crisis
They speak of variety, and how it spices
They think perhaps, some psycho-pill
Would help you make it, up over that hill

But that"s not heard, by your deaf ears
You can"t be burdened, by all their fears
You"ve made your move, won"t turn around
Till what you seek, is finally found

Then suddenly, in that small clearing
You spot an old, McCormick-Deering
It speaks to you, in rusted voice
The die is cast, you have no choice

The price is paid, no second thought
Already proud, of what you"ve bought
You load the relic, behind your truck
And thank the gods, that brought such luck

You head back home, your prize aboard
And vow that soon, it"ll be restored
To the fine machine, it used to be
It"s not just iron, it"s history

The family greets you, "Hi"ya, Dad"
Certain that you"ve, at last gone mad
They blame the stress, a destructive factor
But what the hell,... you"ve got your tractor!

He rides sitting tall in his beloved green tractor
A passion for farming and land the main factor
Cutting through acres of tall waving grasses
Greeting and smiling at all that he passes
Striking down thistles
Sending out whistles
Before the sun peeks
And morning skies streak
There he goes
The man on his trusty John Deere.
With his straw hat and stogie and his overall jeans
He travels though corn, alfalfa, and beans
Soaking in nature and God's rainfall and sun
Then heads back towards home when his long day is done
Back past farm critters
As an evening star glitters
The hours hard and long
But his song carries on
There he goes...
The man on his trusty John Deere.
He's part of the land, of the earth's circle of life
And he takes every stroke whether gladness or strife
He lives and loves and shares it all
He looks at the fields and hears nature's call
A tall and true farmer
A definite charmer
With the job being done
He is second to none There he goes..
The man in his trusty John Deere
He sits tall on that tractor as he plows or he mows
Here midst the cows and the life that he knows
A life that he shares with his family and friends
A life filled with strength and faith without ends
This man riding tall
As he answers each call
This gift from above
This man that I love
There he goes
The man with the trusty John Deere
Yep!
How I love this man on his trusty John Deere

© Susan D. Gordon
Copyright 2003 (07/11/03

Murray Mclaughlin The Farmer Song

Dusty old farmer out working your fields
Hanging down over your tractor wheels
The sun beatin' down turns the red paint to orange
And rusty old patches of steel
There's no farmer songs on that car radio
Just cowboys, truck drivers and pain
Well this is my way to say thanks for the meal
And I hope there's no shortage of rain

Straw hats and old dirty hankies
Moppin' a face like a shoe
Thanks for the meal here's a song that is real
From a kid from the city to you

The combines gang up, take most of the bread
Things just ain't like they used to be
Though your kids are out after the American dream
And they're workin in big factories
Now if I come on by, when you're out in the sun
Can I wave at you just like a friend
These days when everyone's taking so much
There's somebody giving back in

Repeat chorus

Plowin' these fields in the hot summer sun
Over by the gate lordy here she comes
With a basket full of chicken and a big cold jug of sweet tea
I make a little room and she climbs on up
Open up the throttle and stir a little dust
Just look at her face she ain't a foolin' me

She thinks my tractor's s*xy
It really turns her on
She's always starin' at me
While I'm chuggin' along
She likes the way it's pullin' while we're tillin' up the land
She's even kind of crazy 'bout my farmer's tan
She's the only one who really understands what gets me
She thinks my tractor's s*xy

We ride back and forth 'til we run out of light
Take it to the barn put it up for the night
Climb up in the loft sit and talk with the radio on
She said she's got a dream and I asked what it is
She wants a little farm and a yard full of kids
And one more teeny weeny ride before I take her home

She thinks my tractor's s*xy
It really turns her on
She's always starin' at me
While I'm chuggin' along
She likes the way it's pullin' while we're tillin' up the land
She's even kind of crazy 'bout my farmer's tan
She's the only one who really understands what gets me
She thinks my tractor's s*xy

Well she ain't into cars or pickup trucks
But if it runs like a Deere man her eyes light up

She thinks my tractor's
She thinks my tractor's s*xy
It really turns her on
She's always starin' at me
While I'm chuggin' along
She likes the way it's pullin' while we're tillin' up the land
She's even kind of crazy 'bout my farmer's tan
She's the only one who really understands what gets me

She thinks my tractor's s*xy
She thinks my tractor's se*y
She thinks my tractor's *exy

Pat Lytton of Sheridan Lake, BC, got one of the two hounourable mentions with her poem "Tender on the Plate".

Tender on the Plate

The kids and I were heading home from a day in town,
The clouds built up the way they do and rain was pelting down.
After making several trips from car to house carrying groceries and such,
The four kids and I were looking forward to sitting down and not doing much.
But as you know things on a ranch have a way of changing your plans,
Which I knew had happened to me as soon as I turned on the tap to wash my hands.
"There is no water," I yelled to the kids as I ran downstairs to check the pump,
When my oldest called back, "Mom come take a look!" My heart gave a jump.
Upstairs I flew to take this look and wished I didn't see what I had seen,
A big open hole in the ground where the top of the well had been.
Right then I knew we were in for trouble,
And lit outside to take a peek on the double.
Gazing up at me and looking mighty sorry,
Was my brother's steer in all his eight hundred pound glory.
His head almost touched his tail as he stood curled around in that eight foot upright culvert,
And it looked like he had been there awhile from all the muck and broken pipes that lay in the dirt.
I happened to notice his waterworks were lined up over the open pipe of the well,
And figured he had added to the level of the water down there after he had fell.
Just to show me how clever he was he took another circle around,
And I wondered how I'm going to get him up the ten feet to solid ground.
The tractor with its bucket seemed the only way,
That we might be able to get him out somehow this day.
So I called to my two oldest, twelve and ten they were then,
For on their help alone I had to depend.
That rain was making everything very slick and wet,
And we still had to figure how to get a sling under him yet.
If we could make a sling of old blankets and ropes and tie it around his belly,
We would hook it to the bucket and lift him out quicker then making jelly.
We hoped.
Trick number one was making a strong sling.
Then getting it down and back up around him was no easy thing.
Finally we had chains and ropes attached to the bucket top,
We started to lift and that critter started to slip, so I yelled stop.
We needed something else to make him more secure,
So I got the idea of using something that would work for sure.
Now I figured maybe it would not really give my husband a thrill,
But I was getting desperate and those round baler belts might just fill the bill.
So we ran them down the hole and hooked them with a pole to bring them up the other side,
And attached them to the tractor and I said, "Let's let 'em ride."
My son started lifting the bucket, to get the steer out,
And all was looking good when my daughter gave a shout.
Wouldn't you know it as soon as his head had reached the top,
That steer thought he was free and he started to do a flop.
Things were quickly slipping,
And I shouted keep on going.
Just as my son swung the tractor around,
That steer plopped out, bum first on the ground.
He stayed there a minute looking kind of stunned,
Then got up, shook himself and took off on a run.
Without nary a thank-you to the three of us.
Come that fall my brother said that was the best meat he ever had on his plate,
And wanted us to do the same thing next year, on the very same date.

I'd like to argue poetry is real life and we use Math, Science, English, Machine design, Drafting, Biology etc. to atchieve and maintain it. With out the Sciences, which are poetry unto themselves, life would be senseless. My 2c

Aside from its affective aspect, poetry is also useful as a tool for training young minds. Deciphering a difficult poem involves intense critical thinking, a skill useful to all vocations and fields.

(I'm not arguing with you, but I teach English for a living -- and I guess I feel the need to justify my existence!)

Still, I have to get this poetry assignment done. :-(

Thanks for the grin anyway!

Specter
Central Alberta, Canada

The tractor on the farm arose
Before the dawn at four;
It milked the cows and washed the clothes,
And finished every chore.

Then forth it went into the field
Just at the break of day;
It reaped and threshed the golden grain
And hauled it all away.

It plowed the field that afternoon,
And when the job was through,
It hummed a pleasant little tune
And churned the butter, too:

And pumped the water for the stock,
And ground a crib of corn;
And hauled the baby round the block
To still its cries forlorn.

Thus ran the busy hours away,
By many a labor blest;
And yet when fell the twilight gray
The tractor had no rest.

For while the farmer, peaceful-eyed,
Read by the tungsten glow,
The patient tractor stood outside
And ran the dynamo.

1918-Originally published in the Kansas City Star