Leave the harvest


Ruth and Naomi followed the harvesters.

In the fields the men were told to leave some.

Leave some behind for those who have none.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Windrows and fallen through stubble swaths.

In the fields the deer and birds enjoy a feast!

Leave some behind for them who are the least.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Apples unpicked freeze and cling to bare branches.

In the trees the birds and coyotes sing joyful songs.

Leave some behind for them, to them it belongs.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Reaping the whirlwind from the seeds we’ve saved to sow.

In the shadows are left the husks after we took it all.

Leave some things unsaid. Leave somethings to fall.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Seeding discontent, chopping at the roots of grace.

In the tears salty wounds sting, desolate ground.

Leave some things sweet and pure, go around.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Driving forward, ever hungry, forcing them to choose.

In the quiet, choose some peace. Fruits of the spirit grow.

Leave some things to the gentle side, let the heart go.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


A constant race to consume, the need and the greed.

In the quiet I want you to just be. Just be. Be still.

Leave some things to faith. Surrender that iron will.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


A forgotten jubilee lay between dusty pages.

In our hurry to get, to have, to see, to own.

Leave some seeds aside, new dreams sown.

Leave the harvest, leave some.


Anna has us working with conceit for Meeting At The Bar for dVerse tonight.  I’m stretching it a bit but my birds and the coyote reminded me that we don’t need to begrudge those who come behind and take what we could not.  It’s not a world where we need to fill our hands with all we can grasp. Sometimes we can choose to leave something for someone else, and be happy that we did.  The apples could have been harvested for us, for people. And the animals would not have had this bounty. We are so efficient we forget that leaving something behind to grow more, to feed some and to encourage isn’t the wrong thing. It’s the only thing. It’s love. Love does so many things but it never leaves an empty husk, dead dirt or dried streams behind. There is always something left for those who come behind – and maybe it is more than we took, maybe less. Maybe intentional and maybe by Divine Hand.


What did you do today?

What did you do today? Did you change the world?

I don’t know about THE WORLD but maybe me.

Or rather what I took the time to see changed me.

What do you mean? What did you see?

I saw a coyote eating frozen apples from a tree.

–                                                                                                       –

What did you do today? Did you change the world?

I don’t know about the world, but I did take time.

Time? Time from what? Time for what?  Time?

I took it from things to do, and standing in line.

So with this time, did you find treasures sublime?

I watched birds in flight, and sitting in a pine.

–                                                                                                         –

What did you do today? Do you mean was I busy?

Busy? No. Not really but I got lots done. Some.

I don’t understand. What did you actually get done?

Ah I know what you want – but it’s not a tally. No sum.

Okay poet, then pray tell, what did you ‘become’?

Yes! I did. I learned to fly, to jump and run as one.

#OLN for dVerse. This is what I had today, hoping to put the video link in the comments for my apple eating coyote.  Stop by and see what the other poets are serving up on their blogs!

Remember the date



Dayplanner. Calendar. Work journal.

Fields don’t care. Weather doesn’t either.

Seasons come and go without numbers.

Farmers track the days and dates.

Stubs of pencils and scraps of paper

Scribblings of seed, fertilizer and rain.

Drought finds a date, as does snow.

Soil doesn’t care. It only knows warmth.

It only knows cold. Wakens or sleeps.

Winter’s dark days are for planning

long days of seeding, scouting and spraying.

Spring’s warm days teasing with sunshine

and rain, getting machines ready for fields.

Summer sees the work of spring done and

fall’s work getting started. Are we ready?

Fall’s work is harvest, seeding and getting

the fields ready for another growing season.


Farmers save calendars. Dates marked in pen.

Fields ignore calendars, as does the weather.

Seasons govern the land with a subtle hand,

regardless of the wishes of farmers they go.

Drawing down the days and nights into the

seasons, time marches on through the years.


Farmers talk about rainfall, moisture and insects.

Marking each down, searching for patterns.

Searching for reasons, some clues as to how

to beat the frost, the rain, the hail and the

dreaded hoppers.  Recording it all, wonder

if anyone ever looks back to see what it

was like back when Grandpa wrote it down.


Writing about calendars for Poetics at dVerse. There are some farmers I know that have a date on the calendar for certain jobs, and regardless of the weather they try to get it done. Just to say they did it on the same day each year. Doesn’t make sense but to some the calendar rules, but for most the seasons do. It may say May, but if it’s a late spring the land will feel more like April.  We adjust and we adapt.

Ode to Twenty Below



Oh sundogs, you ring the sun

with chilly arcs of ice crystals

dancing with mirth at our

bones shuddering with

thin blood not quite

ready for the sun’s

retreat from warmth.


Oh sundogs, our ancestors

chased you with drums

and shouts. Fire to the

sky, drive the freezing

sundogs back. Back!

Ice crystals circle

the once warm sun.


Oh sundogs you are dreadful

a harbinger of doom at dawn.

Frozen water and faces.

Dead batteries in cold cars.

Dogs lifting paws looking

for pity in the crusty snow.

No snowmen or snowballs

snow is brittle and dry.


Oh sundogs I wish I could

call the dog catcher, Spring,

to take you away again.

You are much too early

this year. You belong to

the houndmaster March.

Not to gentle November.

Awus tucayou atim! Awus!*


Oh sundogs those who don’t

know better are in awe

of your brittle beauty.

They see colors in the

sky, and my face burns

with windchill and my

eyelashes freeze shut.

Cows and horses steam

and breathe frosty.

Reluctant to get

out of their warm

beds. But we must.


Oh Sundogs, how I wish

I could admire you

from afar, but you linger

peering in the windows.

You chase the dead

stalks of sunflowers

with cold shadows.

Barking at you

does no good

for this sore throat.


Oh sundogs we watch

every sunrise and through

the day, wary of you

bite and your bark.

We wish you gone and

yet some part of us

loves your circles

of icy cold around

the sun. We hope

you won’t stay.

Awus atim. awus!*


We are doing odes for Form For All at dVerse Poets.  This is my ode to -20 in Manitoba today. The sundogs are beautiful but it is around -35 with the windchill so they are best admired from indoors. The lines with an asterix are in Cree and mean “Go away cold dog” and “go away dog”.  The Cree people have six seasons instead of four, and freeze up this year is coming with a vengeance!

muse hunting

Like a bird at a feeder, I select seeds. Testing them. Each one.

Like a bird at a feeder, I reject seeds. Tossing them. Avian contempt.

Like a bird at a feeder, I eat the chosen seeds. Consumed. Bliss.

Like a bird at a feeder, I come back again and again. Hunger driven.

Like a bird at a feeder, I sometimes hit the glass, chasing away me.


Like a bird at a feeder, I select my lines. Testing them. Each one.

Like a bird at a feeder, I reject words. Tossing them. Poetic contempt.

Like a bird at a feeder, I use the chosen words. Poetry. Bliss.

Like a bird at a feeder, I seek my muse again. And again. Again.

Like a bird at a feeder, I sometimes hit the glass, muse reflection.


it is #OLN (Open Link Night) for dVerse Poetics. Are you coming by?  It’s a snowy day here, and I’m watching birds at our feeder. Thinking about baking (smells so good), enjoying some 80’s music (yeah) and writing. Or trying to. Enjoy!

Farming Saturn’s Rings

Stardate 2095 – Case IH and New Holland have moved into outer space.

Farmers finding rich belts of airless crop land encircling the last plains.

Riding in suits of space farmers they grow that which a dying planet eats.

Corn grows huge without gravity, wheat rich and heavy, flax linen grown.

Earth, fracked and urbanized, the plains submit to the dust and storms.

Farmers never quit, they just find new fields to grow, farmers gone.

Ships carry precious cargo, edible cargo, to a waiting ravenous world.

No stores, no shelves. Just waiting numbered crowds. Gathering food.

Each ticket gets you a container. Your feed for the season. Eat up folks.



Stardate: 2098 John Deere and Massey move themselves to the moon base.

Setting up shop for the thousand acre greenhouses, running on solar electric.

Diesels succumb to the electric motor hum, as veggies grow tall in zero gravity.

Farmers won’t quit farming, and smuggled heritage seeds bloom in hidden fields.

The green market bustles with those bringing compost to barter for spuds

Dancing in the fields loosens soil, farm aid now is back breaking labour.

Each person an acre or ten, each person knows they live to grow, grow to live.

Farming Saturn’s rings, and greenhouses on the moon. Watching a blue planet

fade to grey as the dust encircles and the seas rise to eat away at their shores.

In tractor cabs dreamers dream, of a day when they can go home to farm.

Generations will hear stories of ‘way back when’ we farmed the earth before

we sold her out to the highest bidder and lost it all in a grim battle for greed.



Stardate: 2099 Smugglers planting seeds in illegal greenhouses. Lush growth.

Farmers, with smuggled soil from hidden fields on earth, grow the heirlooms.

Flax for linen and oil, oats and wheat for bread. Barley for the wobbly pops.

Straw and waste make compost. Feeding small farm animals for extra food.

Saturn’s rings grow without seasons, the greenhouses of the moon bloom.

Farmers still looking longingly towards their Earthly home and wonder

when the promised ‘New Earth’ will come and if they’ll get to farm it again.

Most precious of gifts, generation to generation, a small vial of soil of home.

Each one holding the last piece of land, the last piece of earth, and knowing

it is more valuable than gold, more rare than purple diamonds and theirs.


If you want a dystopian novel about farming check out Farming 101 on Amazon, written by our friend Gary Martens, who also teaches agriculture at the University of Manitoba.  This sci fi farm poem is inspired by sci fi movies and books like Starwars, Dune, Battlestar Galactica and StarTrek.  Come by the pub and see who else is writing science fiction, space and dystopian poetry.  


The science fiction of farming – auto steer, GPS, field mapping on the go and other wonders are reality today.  Even a few years ago they were either pure fantasy or laughed at as improbable and impossible.  Technology moves fast, and farmers lead the way in many instances.


American Sentences

11/12/13 – warm enough for spring, calendar says: watch out for winter comes soon!

#IdleNoMore protest blocks road, moves for local traffic. Stops frackers.

No winter coats yet, the cows proclaim a mild winter. Horses stay mum.

love 1


Love one another. Even them Especially them. Yes. Now. Right now. Love them.

#PoetBlogCode Share poetry. Read poetry. Leave love. Repeat it.

Playing with 17 syllables for the non traditional Haiku, the American Sentence.  All the way from a mild Manitoba winter day. Enjoy, and please stop by the other poets playing along with Form for All at dVerse today!  Share your own poems. Read poems. Leave love.

error: cannot post comment

[error: cannot post comment] thank you, I noticed that almost right away.

The white screen, with the glaring grey box, gave it away.

[enter title: _______________________] blank line stares.

cursor blinks. | | | | and I wonder. [page not found, return home?]

Ah I am home, thanks, but return to that [home] would be a bad idea.

[media not recognized] usb, sim card, usb stick all loaded. And yet

the system remains oblivious to the photos waiting for me to edit.

Dancing around the subjects [load easy conversation] and when it

[file failed to load] I’m facing the music. Expected to dance to a tune

baroque played by a drunken polka band. [please enter password]

It’s me I want to SCREAM and still I get a blank, a blinking cursor.

[add new post] and what I really want is to erase. [delete file failed]

Dancing barefoot on broken Lego. [404: page not found] bleeding.

Words cut, angry red underlines shout [words misspelled] and I

see red pens, blue proofing pens. [content not recognized] when

form, grammar and spacing replaces the heart of the words. The

soul of creative sparking dies, choked on the fumes of the unwilling.

[F drive: not accessible] what the F? Okay how about H? or G?

C drive are you listening, D drive are you out there? [command prompt:]

I think it is the change in the sun’s angle that bothers more than the

shortness of the days, the longness of the nights. [summer not found]

Reading poetry. Leaving love. Trying to. [page failed to load] Grrrrrr

[loading true self] and I wonder, who really is interested in this file?

[not enough room on disc for file: true self] and I think I’ll fade away.

A byte, a bit, and tear drop in the ocean. [file could not be found]

Trying not to shout [speakers not found: update drivers?] and wishing

to be heard. Wondering where the update is for changing and being

seen. [device is working properly] I know it is not me, but still it feels

like it is. [indexing folders, may result in longer search times] Who

has time to keep searching for such an elusive file? An elusive soul?

[load coffee] there isn’t a big enough cup in the world for this hurt.

There isn’t a big enough cup in the world for this hope. [load chocolate]

Bitter and sweet goes together like growth and pain. Healing and

shedding shame. [device working properly] and finding the message

[drivers are up-to-date] and knowing what you thought you lost

was only [uninstall unsuccessful: move file to cloud] stored on the cloud.

I can handle being stored on a cloud, I think. It’s a poetic place to rest.

[load hope] and [re install faith] and [update drivers: humor] and we’ll be

okay. Maybe for this moment, and maybe for a while. But if we can just

find our way to the [search windows] then we can find what needs to be done.

[are you sure you want to remove folder?] oh yes remove that sucker.

Empty that trash. Old photos, drag me down memories. [trash: empty]

Freedom is in finding your voice, and being free to use it. Freedom isn’t

really free [free upgrade expired: purchase upgrade?] but you know that.

Dancing on bruised feet, with heart bleeding, I’m going to sing anyway.

[network not found] I’m good with that. [username and password do not match]

Good with that too! New username and new password for me. It’s spelled:

[username: FR33; password: FR33d0M) and I don’t mind if I share either.

Hashtag your life, and [reject command] until you find [file transfer] is

successful and you are [free to resume normal usage] thank you for

sharing your thoughts [click to respond to survey] with those who

care to hear, choose to listen and wish to know. [click to restart]


Thinking again about this form, and with the things that have been going on the past few days it seemed to fit.  Enjoy this, and the rest of the poetry on dVerse for #OLN.  Join in! Read poetry! Leave love!

Let’s play a game

_DSC0003.NEF _DSC0025.NEF _DSC0077.NEF



Lego! Lego! Lego! Use that imagination.

Make the sets. Then make something new.

Building. Tearing it down. Laughing. Fun.

Favorite toys become favorites across

the years, and between generations.

Classic figs meeting with new designs.

1970’s astronauts meet the City worker.

Super heroes and regular folk.

Technology! Technology! Technology! iPad or Atari, N64 or Coleco.

Play the games – old ones in monochrome, one dimension.

New ones in HD and stereo sound. What a change to see.

Yet the games become something to build on too.

Toys, and family fun around pigges and flying birds.

Driving cars and virtual bowling on stormy days.

Snow day! Snow day! Snow day! Living the outdoor life.

Farm fun can mean a truck hood, a rope and a quad.

An inner tube behind the gator. Bouncing. Laughing.

Bundle up it’s cold outside. Red cheeks from sliding.

Sore bums from bouncing on frozen mystery bumps.

Dogs and cats, cows and horses watch in wonder.

Krazy Karpets and tubes are timeless, snow a winter treat.

Favorite toys can be anything that brings us joy.

A horse. A dog. Our imagination can run wild with markers.

A game of Sorry can become an interdimensional galactic adventure!

Cards become WAR or a house, maybe even a sound effect.

Riding bikes, riding gators or quads. How about horses.

Our most favorite toys cross the generations.

They are timeless and yet timely.

They return to rise and fall – JENGA!

sTaCk and FaLl – TETRIS!

Read a book, imagine your horse an armored steed.

Ride into battle with cardboard swords.

Dogs loyal companions who speak.

The most important things in life are most often not things, but when those things hold our memories they can be so important!

Mary has us playing with memories and favorite toys for Poetics at dVerse tonight. Stop by, share some memories and have some fun.  Leave some love and then go play!

Googlism: the horse

Shan and LouLou


the horse is comin’
the horse is your mirror
the horse is turned out smart as can be
the horse is an interesting animal
the horse is alive lyrics (is the horse the song, or the words? riding the melody)
the horse is out too,  close the barn
the horse is hieroglyphs
the horse is stolen
the horse is a surprise
the horse is often mentioned in the Icelandic sagas as well
the horse is king
the horse is an extremely likable character
the horse is my #1
the horse is an interesting animal
the horse is alive in my dreams
the horse is fully adult at 7 years
the horse is accompanied by fire
the horse is a nonruminant herbivore
the horse is strengthened naturally
the horse is becoming ‘harder’ on one rein than the other
the horse is (fill in the blank – what is the horse)
the horse is spooked (only when you forget they are a prey animal)
the horse is very quick
the horse is one of the most independent animals on earth (except for the part of being a herd animal)
the horse is distinctive with his curvy rotating ears
the horse is beautiful and continuous only in the textbooks (and in real life – text books are so one dimensional) 
the horse is asked to do all of these things with collection and balance
the horse is running? the position of its legs tells us that the horse is running
the horse is a large ungulate mammal
the horse is taking off and running away with the rider
the horse is capable of deciding what makes it happy or unhappy
the horse is moving in response to the sideways driving aids from the rider’s left leg
the horse is often overlooked
the horse is navigating a path along a cliff or along a rive bank
the horse is being disrespectful all the time (respect needs to be earned, you must be a bit short)
the horse is now ready to be hired out by individuals
the horse is yours once it leaves the starting gate
the horse is a fast
the horse is trying to figure all these things out
the horse is made to accept the contact he may try to comply by putting his head where the rider thinks the horse is “on the bit”
the horse is bored and exhausted
the horse is placed directly opposite the rat
the horse is standing
the horse is free spirited
the horse is either on the left or right lead
the horse is naturally
the horse is a surprise title
the horse is frightened and attempts to run
the horse is all the time
the horse is saying
the horse is not branded and the owner cannot be found
the horse is not subjected to the pounding that track or field work
the horse is literally slung from a hammock of muscles
the horse is judged on performance
the horse is very familiar with it
the horse is placed at fault (only one who doesn’t know better blames the horse first)
the horse is often blamed (when the person is outsmarted)
the horse is made of light
the horse is judged at a walk
the horse is drifting in
the horse is the gait
the horse is now concrete
the horse is one of the precious animals that are very yang

For dVerse Form for All we were invited to go to Googlism.com, enter a seed phrase and use the results to sculpt a list poem.  This is what it came up with for The Horse.  Enjoy more great poetry by reading the poets who are linking up!  Have even more fun by joining in!

« Older entries