The Second in a Series of Untitled Poems

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Yes, a slightly disturbing poem about pulling up corn stalks.

Submitted: May 24, 2010

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Submitted: May 24, 2010



I beat their necks across my shovel,

Once so tall and dead-yellow in their splendor.

Now torn down-a simple feat,

but with implications too many to name.

Colder still,

as fall approached, and wrapped it's chilling fingers 'round

their stalks once proud and straight.

I took them from their earthy homes,

yanking, ripping, --primal in my duties,

yet oh so more knowing in my actions.

Silent, like limp baby dolls,

yet reserved to their fate.

Their soil-blood dripped from lingering roots

now cut in my ventures of harvest.

And then I met him, small and ochre

Green with a pallete of pink within

long thighs too shank for patience.

A Grasshopper, one and the same,

a fellow reminding me of the tale that came blunt and ironic

in this time.

And he told of how the corn made love with the wind

and it's whispering songs were it's children

Wandering and spent upon it's mother breeze.

He spoke of times so long before

such notions came to mind,

when people kept a feeling of solice

with these noble kingsmen

so simple

yet unbending in their purpose.

He spared his penchant thoughts with me,

Me the beggar, Him the teacher.

And I listened, long and careful, he perched upon my ashen fingers

as he stared

so oblique and knowing,

yet flat like stones in his comprehension.

I listened, and absorbed his short-drawn tale

like wine on a lonely night.

Before I could reply, or even thank him,

he fluttered from my fingers into the beds of ground

Reserved, like the corn, to his fate.

Willingly leaping into what would soon be his death.

Death by hunger and cold, but not of indifference,

for he knew his time, and why it would come,

and accepted.

And as I contiued, wrought with a silent revere,

I beat their necks a little softer,

against my grey-hard shovel.

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