Dad's Calloused Hands

Dad's Calloused Hands

 

the scarecrow shivers

he feels so real

his imagined heart

breaking as he surveys the desolate field

 

even the birds have left

there is no corn, the stalks dried up

like fossilized tears

I want to shake his hand, let him know he matters

 

but his straw hands break off in mine

suicide hay leanings

the post barely holds him up

he is leaning in despair

 

the farm is vacant now

someone turned off the rain

and then the land in depression

says goodbye to generations

 

it's a hard life

the toil never stopped

barely dawn mornings at the plow

the scarecrow smiling at the farmer 

but warning the black crooks

 

that was once the scenario

now a skeleton barn remains

still a slight scent of manure

drained pockets

 

have moved to the city

the scarecrows there

are real people thumbing rides

and asking for a pittance to survive.

 

the birds are bigger,

meaner

no plows

just street sweepers

 

in the 

barely dawn mornings.

 

 

erin-cilberto

6/13/23

Reviews

[Lorry]

And who is left to feed us all, as the farmers and hands give up the ghost and leave only haunted looking scarecrow as a reminder of what used to be, of days that now look like they are discarded to the history of us, when we used to look after each other and can now barely look after ourself.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I appreciate your review, Lorry,
j.

[Ted Kniffen]

So many of those old farms gone ... spent many a youthful day stacking hay in the barn then jumping from the rafters when we finished.

Hot, hard work, but satisfying none the less. Cities are not the same neither are the people and the scarecrows beg for quarters and push their shopping carts down the block.

Good one j. Takes me back.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Jumping onto those piles of hay was fun wasn't it?
Can you imagine a Scarecrow hanging in the middle of a NY city block?

[Chris Shaw]

Reminded me of my lineage. Mostly lived in Suffolk, country people. Working the land. They moved to the city of London because they couldn’t make a living off the land. Sad. A way of life disappears. The streets of London weren’t paved with gold either. Life continued to be tough. A poem that will be relatable.

Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for sharing that, Chris...I moved from city to more rural...was glad to get away from the whole concrete jungle thing...

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Fave verse here Jacob but loved all

‘it's a hard life
the toil never stopped
barely dawn mornings at the plow
the scarecrow smiling at the farmer
but warning the black crooks’

Amazing write loved it !

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your kind words, Julie,
j.

[Patricia Wedel]

A Sherlock Holmes Mystery with Watson to unravel in Streets with a Horse and Carriage.
Bravely, Pat

[jacob erin-cilberto]

love those Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films...
j.