Poetry from the book {Bunny Hop} by Artist Troy Richard Thomas

Come down to the farm and meet me on the storm

On the plate it will greet the most treasured meat

Though one is missed one woman does fit on this here farm

I want to hug my grandmother but I am traveling away from humanity

I shift my spade through the sod and look in wonder at the sheer black earth amazing

They could not have picked a better place, than to pull the rocks, the stumps, and the prairie away

It is destiny that the prairie dies and that farming doesn't pay

I walk off into the field till everything is an invisible speck and I am alone

This loneness is complete on this barren spot yet the sky is always a high promise of beauty

Is this life yet to be or do I turn and face the crowd

The field is spring bare and I am the only weed

I enjoy running the bare path to the rivers edge to dunk my sore body in relief in the wet sand

And on the island there are footprints amid the coral bank

Our streets are not gold but pavement and we earn profit from toil 

We turn into the forest with great thanks and find the bells and blood root awake

A pie and spaghetti dinner sit on the table among eighteen others, eating is a part of the farm

Mowing around the spruces, jousting on the Deers, pulling out the nests, shooting at the vents on the hog house

I tried to find the fox but he was gone and I did miss, the children played on

The fox caught by bullets and to think he giggled and drank the cup of blood and sat on a treasure trove of chicken feathers

I go to where the wild plums grow, the flowers smell like a hundred perfume counters

Iowa is bare earth till the corn grows up again

In Spring there is a special glow that flares from the grass

The swing sways in the wind with the chain swinging wildly and the pipes chime.

Poetry from the book {Bunny Hop} by Artist Troy Richard Thomas