Best Bought The Farm Poems
~When "light upon yon window” tends to break
into my hollow head by early dawn,
such brilliant prose pours in as I awake
but by the time I stretch the words are gone.
And like two roads that ’verged in yellow wood,
some perfect metaphors have come my way,
but in a blink, they're merely gone for good,
and where they go, I simply cannot say.
”How do I love thee” surfaced in a dream
with similes of everlasting charm,
but in a flash, I lost the thread midstream
so, “let me count the ways” soon bought the farm.
Those brilliant words of art would just astound
if I was quick enough to write them down.
10-6-22
Today I crossed a milestone in a most eventful life
Fourscore years of wonder in a world awash in strife
I’ve kept a sense of humor in the face of utter gloom
Honored my commitments, married an incredible wife.
I’ve lived through awful wars and horrible pandemics
Frightening social upheavals with prejudices endemic,
But I’ve also seen a great many achievements for good
Encountered a majority of folks doing what they should
I’ve loved and lost, while enjoying many friendships
Along the way, and I can say, I’ve had a darn good run,
So when I go, I hope folks’ll say, “He surely did have fun!”
Please no tears when you learn I’ve bought the farm
I’ve tried to live my life without doing anyone harm,
I’ve done the best I could with what little I was given
I’m looking forward to a longer run, of course, in heaven.
written on December 5, 2021
my 80th birthday!
The invitations were sent to alumni far and near,
To gather for the school reunion later in the year.
The ultimate occasion to turn on all the old charm,
And fondly remember those who have bought the farm!
Ladies wear tight-fitting girdles to shrink the pounds.
Guys try crash diets to reduce flabbiness that abounds.
It's been over half a century since our graduation day.
It'll be intriguing to see how others fared along the way!
Old pals circulate boasting and bending my weary ear,
Regaling with boring trivia that I really don't want to hear.
I tell others how great they look, looking them straight in the eye,
As I cross my fingers behind my back for telling such a lie!
It appears that the campus queen totes a bit of additional weight.
That once haughty snob now tips the scales nigh one ninety-eight!
There's the big man on campus, voted the most apt to score success,
Guzzling booze as is his bent, displaying a bit of queasiness!
The years have elapsed, rolling on at a frightful pace,
But as long as docs keep us patched up we'll stay in the race!
To perhaps convene once again down life's treacherous road.
If not here, than a rousing reunion in that heavenly abode!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Today wasn’t a good morning at all for Hassan,
a victual merchant in Baghdad
Thirty four customers got killed by a suicide bomb
A jihadist Arab wearing an explosive vest,
proclaiming to be fighting against the west,
ended up only murdering his own people
The sun rising on the eastern horizon
cast a bloody pale
Screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Ambulance sirens blaring ... death is a hard item to sell
Innocent people shopping for meat, dairy, nuts and fruit,
in a tragic transaction bought the farm
The sign outside the market said half-off,
it didn’t mean exiting with half a leg or one arm
Somehow, Hassan in dust-covered anger survived
He was one of the fortunate few to make it out alive
with every body part intact, except his calm Iraqi mind;
it keeps expanding and contracting
in violent, kinetic convulsions a million times
from such a vile, humanitarian crime
Anxiety fruit flies hover over unsold crates of apricots,
seething vengeance
ferments the not bought bottles of apple vinegar
Mass killing is always bad for business —
a lot of potential repeat customers will only
come to the open air stalls one time
Nobody wants to buy ripe pomegranates, fresh goat milk
and vintage premature dying
Terrorism is bad for consumerism,
fanatical death wish ain’t good for the merchant gift registry
Not when buying a bouquet of flowers becomes a morgue delivery
Suicidal shrapnel kisses don’t welcome tourism,
foreigners eschew dying on vacation ... death ain’t an easy item to sell
Prayer vigil purchases of screams and sobs, weeps and wails
Hassan says business has been bad
ever since that fatal, holiday dawn mourn
Only rueful disaffection comes
with the bagging of the cabbage and corn
If there are humans on earth some years
in the future
They'll notice the sun has turned into a fiery
red creature
The sun is on a mission to eat the earth
In days to come sun will swallow earth, not
even burp
If this is thought to be a SciFi invention
It's 100% true this is the sun's intention
The solar system's end comes with sun's
cannibalistic feat
When he's eaten the other planets as an
after dinner treat
The reason for such actions is sun's
burning days are thru
And if he's burning out the rest of his
system is going too
THE UNIVERSE IS STRANGER THAN IMAGINED
THE UNIVERSE IS STRANGER THAN CAN BE IMAGINED
What's not even mentioned is sun's other tricks to harm
A coronal mass ejection and earth's bought the farm
The last CME (2012) missed earth by a cosmic inch
The next will hit earth and that's a cinch
Little Jimmy riding bike, somehow
Was run over by passing snow plow
He lost his left arm
Left leg bought the farm
And after a day, he’s all RIGHT now
My name is Wile E. Coyote and I fall off cliffs.
Some consider it misfortune, the Road Runner considers it a gift.
Those damn Acme products never work.
When they backfire, I look like a jerk.
I'm getting sick and tired of always suffering bodily harm.
If I wasn't a cartoon character, I would've bought the farm.
People find my antics amusing but I don't think it's funny.
Why could I only talk when I starred with Bugs Bunny?
If I live to be thirty, I'll never chase the Road Runner again.
My broken bones have convinced me to be a vegetarian.
NEVERTHELESS IT ALL ENDED IN 19 And 64
By Roy Merritt
(When reading it use a Cockney accent and the h is silent)
Oh alas poor Jimmy Bond 'e didn't go past sixty four
Cause you know 'is creator that's the year 'e went out the door
Yes indeed Ian Fleming that was the year that 'e croaked
That was the year the Good Lord 'is license to kill revoked
'e was only fifty six when 'e bought the farm
Through a 'aze of cigarette smoke and Jimmy Bond's great charm
'e really liked to drink and smoked seventy fags a day
So is it any wonder the Grim Reaper up 'auled 'im away
'e was in the Royal Navy and worked there as a spy
During World War Two and the Nazi's 'e defied
While in the Navy 'e worked on Golden Eye
An operation 'e would later on in one 'is books apply
'e wrote "Casino Royale" and that pulp 'ad three great runs
And later on "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" for the little ones
And I don't know who was the best in movies based on what 'e did write
Whether it was Sean Connery, Mister Craig or that limber Dick Van Dyke
Or maybe it was Julie Andrews or maybe Ms. P. Galore
Nevertheless it all ended in nineteen and sixty four
Yes indeed it all ended in nineteen and sixty four
Nevertheless it all ended in nineteen and sixty four
III.
Scott bought the farm and some dairy cows,
and set about building himself up.
He soon made a name for quality milk,
local wholesalers could not get enough!
One summer day he took to the plow,
preparing and old field to grow hay.
The plow hit something, twisting it hard,
just badly enough to ruin his day.
He grumbled loud, went back to look,
and saw there, to his great surprise,
a hole in the ground, empty and long.
A new cavern there before his eyes!
Now caves were quite common where he lived,
several were open to tourists for show.
The thought of building up just such a place
made the dollar signs in his head grow.
The next day he returned with lanterns and lines,
carefully descending into the dim.
When he touched bottom and lighted it up,
what he saw laying close by shocked him.
Two skeletons lay just five feet away,
it was a miracle he hadn’t crushed one.
Both looked human and one of the dead
lay with the moldering remains of a gun.
The other was huge, at least eight feet,
and the bones too thick, impossibly large.
The skull was giant, the teeth oversized,
Scott found the sight of it quite bizarre.
In the middle of the great ribs did lay
two balls, the kind from old muskets.
And near the spine was the rusty head
of an aged and battered hatchet.
Turning to the other, Scott Bairns saw
they were the bones of a normal man.
The ribs were broken, every one,
so were both of the man’s hands.
And on the stock of the old gun,
Scott found an old, tin name plate.
He bent down low to read it clearly,
‘Amos Bairns’ in the metal was scraped!
Scott flinched back, remembering tales
told in childhood long, long ago,
Campfire stories of bigfoots run wild,
to his mind they all started to flow.
And now when he stared at either of them,
both the large and the small skeletons,
he realized the truth behind all the myths,
he was staring down onto his kin!
Scott hurried out, and filled in the hole,
then gave the field over to brambles and berries.
He never plowed there, or spoke of it at all,
for some truths are better left buried...
Soon after Dad bought the little farm
He bought a Jersey milk cow
Said Old Blue's a real milk producer
I’ll hand milk since I know how
Then we had fresh raw milk all the time
Made butter by using a churn
Sold all the raw milk we didn’t use
So some extra bucks were earned
There was no waste from butter or cream
The pigs would just get a treat
Of course dad milked early each morn
Tote hot water, wash the teats
No getting away with a milk cow
Twice a day Dad milked Old Blue
Hated to milk cold winter mornings
Just something he had to do
The farm let Dad get back to his roots
Said it was good for the boys
That why he bought the farm and live stock
To live a life he enjoyed
I knew a man who always traveled,
he worked hard and was ever on the go.
He said that he would like to own property,
a Squire or Country Gentleman, as you may know.
I could not believe it,
as one day he came with cash in hand.
He said he wanted to get away to quiet,
but all he wanted was the land.
I thought it strange that he do this,
as he never liked staying in one place.
He said he still wanted to travel,
but would use this for his base.
I wondered why the big One-Eighty,
for he turned completely around.
He said it was just a change of direction,
one he had never before found.
I hoped that it would settle him,
because he was strange enough.
He said that if I did not want his money,
that he just leave and take all of his stuff.
I wanted him to know my feelings,
about how his life would change.
He said that I was not to worry,
he was not going to join a Monastic Grange.
I sold him the property he wanted,
and put the money in several banks.
He did not have very much to say,
but just gave me a word or two of thanks.
I wandered by there the other day,
not trying to raise any alarm.
The place was run down, unkempt, and shoddy,
apparently...he "bought the farm".
I was gonna kick the bucket
When I turned on the TV
They were all in it for money
And there was none left for me
So I called up my accountant
Had me start a new web site
I sold them stuff they wanted
And it kept me up all night
Then I went all Egypt on them
And I just collected Dough
I became a master baker
And I watched the kitchen grow
When I thought I’d bought the farm
And I’d be forclosed on by summer
Who knew back in the spring
That by fall I’d have a hummer
Don’t rush to cash in your chips
The casino’s up all night
Have some faith in god and self
The sunrise is soo bright
You can’t get used to dying
And your times a one shot game
Don’t predict your wins and losses
It’ll never be the same
To size up for the box
Before the shoes are tried on
Doesn’t say much for the sox’s
Or the Genes when you are gone
So next time you think its over
Go to bed for another day
Hold your dreams close to your chest
And play your hand just one more way
And maybe your dream lover
Or the fans can see you dunk
When you play the game tomorrow
And come out of your funk
Welcome to the jungle, where you might not wake up the next day,
Where your best friend just bought the farm, courtesy of a friendly mortar gone astray,
And where Charlie's ghosts, come out to play.
Welcome to the jungle, your innocence won't stay,
In a bath of blood, it'll be washed away,
While for the sins of some foreigner you pay.
Welcome to the jungle, where disease will eat you away,
And the bush grows thick, despite the chemicals they spray.
Farewell to the jungle, you barely lasted a day,
Just another body that they tossed into the fray,
And now your body rots in this country,
Far, far away.
Tommy Atkins was a good boy
grew to be a good man, good soldier,
packed up his troubles in an old kit bag and smiled
as his entrails blew out with aplomb;
he died as the black rain struck his slowly glazing eyes
good son, good husband, good father
left only good for fertilizing the Somme.
Damned carnage-strewn carnival
of barbed wire bisected mustard gas days;
how “great” was the great war,
how “great” was the harm
when old strategists cast generations of youth
into the stalemate jaws of trench warfare death
and all those young hopefuls who bought the dream
unwittingly bought the farm.
Two decades down the smouldering road,
up rolls Euro Death Circus
rolling out Four Horsemen and a Fascist regime insane;
now technology enhanced the butchery
with planes and tanks, boats and submarines
and all the young hopefuls bought the farm again.
Proudly she revels in her past glory,
wallowing and exalting, sucking rotten cold comfort
from the memorial corpse of a golden fleece;
learning nothing;
we’ll meet again, no doubt,
over the white cliffs of Dover
beneath Spitfire engine trails, perhaps;
for she may have won the war,
yet she has surely lost the peace.
A land once fit for heroes, warrior kings and demigods,
now freezes crippled and immobile
when the race into the future has begun;
in a pox of politically correct Fascism on one hand
and the real thing on the other,
where is the hand of reason to stop the fall of night,
stop the setting of the sun...?
Spawny, Spawny, he’s our man!
Bought the farm without the land,
fury-fueled, he took his stand.
Life had not gone as he planned.
Evil came to him unjust.
Sent to Hell in sudden thrust.
Return to Wanda, he must
become foul Hellspawn or bust.
Right the wrong unfairly dealt,
he sought evil where it dwelt.
Moral rightness is his belt,
doing good is how he felt.
Stopping evil now his quest.
Evil men he does detest.
Justice comes at his behest,
anti-hero full of zest.