Farm Animal Poems | Examples
These Farm Animal poems are examples of Animal poems about Farm. These are the best examples of Animal Farm poems written by international poets.
In the avenues of dreamland,
I met Orwell, who said:
“Man has not awakened.
He still bows to his servants,
who crown themselves as masters,
and he still claps while they rob him blind.”
Look around you:
presidents who eat for free,
live for free, travel for free—
and still plunder the treasury.
Meanwhile, you—their keepers—
starve, and cheer them on.
This is not democracy.
It is a farm of animals
where the pigs dictate the commandments,
erasing truth at night,
and you accept the lies by morning.
The soldier you fear,
the policeman you obey—
they are slaves too,
serving the same master who despises them.
For centuries you have tolerated theft,
you have swallowed corruption,
you have watched kings born from your own apathy.
And still you wait for salvation,
as if it will be handed to you.
But know this:
Power respects only power.
What you allow will continue.
What you fear will govern you.
And what you refuse to confront
will one day consume you whole.
So I ask—
not as prophet, not as poet,
but as a mirror to your cowardice:
When will the people stop behaving like sheep
and finally slaughter the pigs?
Old Man
Old man asleep on the floor, does he dream of all his years from before. When in his youth he ran wild, digging and being the guardian of the farm where nothing dated go near? Or perhaps of escaping to only go to the pound, were they knew him by name, because of his frequent escapes he perfected to a tee. Graciously greeting him with hugs and treats, he was special to them on each one of his retreats.
This old man brought many years of unconditional love and companionship for me, but the end of his days are drawing near. I am grateful for each of those devoted years 18+ years along with great sadness when the end of his days are here. He's not just a dog but a part of me that will forever go on in my memory.
He sleeps more than usual because his body needs rest to prepare for his adventure he has next. I have no doubt his next adventure will be something he will look forward to, because of how great it will be. His adventure next will be no more old man but of youth and unwavering health in God's great hands.
Old Man
Old man asleep on the floor, does he dream of all his years from before. When in his youth he ran wild, digging and being the guardian of the farm where nothing dated go near? Or perhaps of escaping to only go to the pound, were they knew him by name, because of his frequent escapes he perfected to a tee. Graciously greeting him with hugs and treats, he was special to them on each one of his retreats.
This old man brought many years of unconditional love and companionship for me, but the end of his days are drawing near. I am grateful for each of those devoted years 18+ years along with great sadness when the end of his days are here. He's not just a dog but a part of me that will forever go on in my memory.
He sleeps more than usual because his body needs rest to prepare for his adventure he has next. I have no doubt his next adventure will be something he will look forward to, because of how great it will be. His adventure next will be no more old man but of youth and unwavering health in God's great hands.
A Ferris wheel, a magic show
And lots of games of skill,
Food trucks filled with fried or frozen
Fare were on the bill.
Exhibit halls with quilts and varied
Goods, all made by hand
And huge zucchinis shown
With other veggies from the land.
The rides and games and food, to me,
Held little in appeal,
But animals from local farms
Made it a worthwhile deal.
The cows and goats and pigs and sheep,
With every barnyard sound,
Were stretched out in their pens, relaxed
Or nibbling around.
They all looked clean and healthy
And quite fat (except the goats),
With ribbons on display they earned
By gaining judges’ votes.
As a New York City gal
I wasn’t dazzled by the fair,
But the chance to see those critters
Made me glad that I was there.
Sir Billy Pig’s missing his oats
Miss Piggy Wig’s had hers, she gloats
But she’s looking so rough
Her bum’s full of crap stuff
Its output is brown and it floats!
I’m advised by a pal of mine
To “Never cast pearls before swine”
Or put lipstick on a pig
When it’s mouthing off big
Miss Piggy Wig’s an old bovine!
(“Honeybee on Apple Blossom”, 2020, original pen and ink)
Homing Bees
Up before dawn
To bring home the bees,
Last evening’s swarm
So full and feisty,
And nestled in
Their new hive
They seem contented
Distracted and without concern
That in the end
They have only
Travelled a few feet
From their old home.
(7/3/25)
classy as a diamond ring
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
foghorn leghorn forming
dialed in the farm yard run
roosters my word
strutting with pep
do nothing wrong
in this manure and goo
Sing’n with gusto into morning dew
These sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
Razzling and dazzling throughout the night
Foghorn leghorn forming
Dialed in the farm yard run
Roosters my word
Strutting with pep
Do nothing wrong
In this manure and goo
Sing’n with gusto into morning dew
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzlng and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
these sweater wearing roosters are sparkling
razzling and dazzling throughout the night
It was grandma’s last winter.
I watched her hurry outside
to split enough wood so her old kitchen stove
would burn through the new storm
she felt gathering
along the horizon,
its first eiderdown already afloat
on the twilight
settling over her white garden.
From nowhere
a dog tormented by visions
plunged through the drifts
and laid ahold of her leg.
She hacked half through its neck
and crawled to the house,
dragging the axe in her blood-trail
lest she lose it in the snow.
She bandaged her wound at the sink.
My breath frosted the pane,
and rubbing a hole
I peered through the gloom
at the scarlet peony
blooming ‘round the dog’s matted head.
The thickening whorl of snow
gently tousled its fur,
tucking it in
until spring.
The furrows of Life
The narrow way leading up to the farm from the main
the road had a gate, so cattle could not wander off to
the main road getting. The way had three furrows, two
caused by a narrow cartwheel and one- much wider- from
the horse´s hoofs. Deep furrows meant a hard-working
farm. The landscape was flat and often windy on my
way to school, I tried to walk where the horses had trod
the soil was softer there, the horseshoe patterns told
me if it had been a small or big horse that last had pulled
a cart here if the load had been heavy
A useless knowledge, I often wonder
why do I remember it so clearly
like a black-and-white photo?
Lately, I have been remembering these dirt road
the people and animals
I often wonder if there is a message here
I have overlooked it.
Hawaii is the place, raccoon decided, loving the idea of course
He sold his farm, plow, tractor, combine, goats, pigs and horse
Ran to Hawaii to sit on a pink beach and enjoy the sand
He said to his mixed drink, I have found the promised land!
The mixed drink began laughing and could not stop.
You have not seen the prices here, he said. They are at the top.
You should have waited until summer and bought a flowered shirt.
And stayed in Illinois where the houses are as cheap as dirt.
He came back wrong.
They said he'd graze in peace,
a living museum piece—
proof we could right old wrongs.
But the mammoth didn’t come back peaceful.
He came back pissed.
Like he remembered
the trap pits,
the fires,
the arrows.
Came back heavy
with old rage packed in every stomp.
We thought he'd roam in northern parks,
let tourists snap their pictures.
Instead, he tore down a wind farm
and flattened three towns
before the drones even launched.
The ice in his blood
froze rivers.
His tusks?
Ripped steel like wet cloth.
His eyes weren’t kind.
They were old.
Like he saw through us—
and found nothing worth keeping.
They tried to contain him.
Shot him full of tranquilizers.
But his skin was tougher than our tech,
and his will
was older than our machines.
He doesn’t run in herds.
He doesn’t need to.
One is enough
to silence cities.
Now we live underground,
listening to the rumble.
Not thunder.
Him.
Still walking.
Still mad.
And we know now—
extinction wasn’t the tragedy.
Resurrection was.
The reason the rooster will crow,
Is not just to offily show.
The sun hits its beak,
Which it thinks unique,
And proudly lets all the world know.
There's nothing funnier than a cross-eyed chicken
With legs the size of your arm
The Chicken Emporiums would sure love to know
The name of this progressive farm
Aside from the unnerving cross-eyed feature
The implications are really immense
Imagine a leg on your plate so humongous
You wouldn't know where to commence
The cross-eyed feature might cause some concern
If the patrons viewed this poor old bird
Before it was rendered suitable for consumption
It sure looked hilariously absurd
The cross eyes were caused by trying to eject
A super sized extra large egg
Probably gave the poor brave chicken a hernia
Before passing it, for mercy it begged
Such is the way of us civilized humans
Thinking of our bellies all day
Paying no attention to these cross-eyed chickens
As they dance to the hen house ballet
hhmmmmm
Piggies Pinky, Poinky, and Puck
were sloshing in the summery farmyard's murky muck.
It was the day before slaughter,
and they were enjoying the lukewarm water,
and the chorus of the cackly goose and the quaky duck.
In the quiet morning light I see
the deep oshanas breaking round
like a boundless oasis that is bright
and the echoes of the cattle happily resound.
Manna of the north is planted
and the mielies grow around the homestead
harrowed as the family toiled
the soil swallows the breeze of the drizzle ahead.
Oh, how peaceful northern life
its addictive memory is unerasable
as the sun tiptoes towards the West
and the herder's whistle resurges in the lovable forest.