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!




Given 1st – 2016.09.05

Blue Green Farm

Blue Green Farm


What does it mean to be a farmer



Of all the people bearing that name




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





Those noble people, sprung from the green Earth,


Beneath the blue sky