Farm

What does it mean to be a farmer anymore?

Who owns that title?

Is it the…

Landlord-farmer, floating above the loamy-green

Detached from the earth

The farmer who does not plant or work in the soil

Absent from the field

Tractors driven by satellite, the spring plantings

Artificial stars

Who is the farmer? The landlord or the field-hand

The sewer, reaper

Crawling down the rows, fingers pressed into the dirt

Seeds and prayers and hope

Is she the farmer; is he? The unnamed hireling

Toiling in the sun

Sweat dripping from the brow, laborers watering

Nameless boys and girls

People without a claim, or recourse to the law

Dreamers without land

Labor Day

Labor Day

 

It is Labor Day, a national holiday; I am working.

 

This is not unusual.

 

I believe that one or two Labor Days have passed in the past ten years, on which I have had the day off. I cannot exactly recall when, or what I did.

 

This is a day to honor laborers, a day to honor work, a day of rest, repose, respite.

 

I work in the hospitality industry. There are many restaurants that close, and a few who see this as an opportunity to make hay, as they say, never mind the lives of the staff whose labor the business depends upon.

 

It is Labor Day in America, and many people are working. Though, it is virtually guaranteed that the bankers, the office managers, and the whole white collar world have taken this day for themselves, and paid themselves for it as well.

 

Well paid, well rested managers…I guess the world needs more of those, and someone needs to be on task to pour their coffee, to serve their brunch, and fuel their frolicking.

 

I am a manager also, and the bakery I work for is closed for the day (we are always closed on Monday). Nevertheless, there is work to be done, work that cannot wait. Work that piles up through long days of the week.

 

For me, I guess, this year it is a choice…for so many others in the world that I work in, it is compulsory.

 

Happy Labor Day, you laborers!

 

Unite!

 

Given 1st – 2016.09.05

Blue Green Farm

Blue Green Farm

 

What does it mean to be a farmer

Anymore?

 

Of all the people bearing that name

Farmer;

 

 

Who owns that title more?

 

 

Landlord, farmer floating above the green

 

And grime

 

Landlord, farmer detached from the earth

 

Your fingers do not push in the soil

 

Landlord, farmer absent from the field

 

The nurturing field

 

 

To whom does the title belong?

 

 

Is the fieldhand the farmer

The worker?

 

The unnamed laborer who plots

plucks and picks

 

 

Is she the farmer; is he?

 

 

Sweat of the hireling drips from her brow

 

Waters the rows

 

Field-hand-not farmer, he carries

 

No title

 

Worker-not-farmer with no claim

 

To the land

 

 

There are tractors that cost millions of dollars

 

Driven by satellites from beyond the world

 

A thousand laborers could live like princes for such

 

Wages

 

 

Those noble people, sprung from the green Earth,

 

Beneath the blue sky

Farm