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Two poems for spring
"Scrubbing the Sheep Tank" and "Scything Lessons: A Villanelle, Roughly"
"You Scots is sure pushy."
Scrubbing the Sheep Tank
- Even in midwinter, algae thrives in the tank
- So I find myself on this 18-degree day
- Bending to it, circling the surface,
- January wind scouring my face.
- I scrub the scum, naked hands numb
- And the goats and Shetlands scrum
- Around me, nosing in, bleating for hay.
- “Yeah, I’ll get to it,” I bleat in reply.
- “You Scots is sure pushy,” I say.
- “You Boers shoulda stayed in Africa.”
- They ignore me, as is natural.
- The scrubbing is done now.
- But I am still bent; my back makes a plane.
- The fluffy cat, gray Judy, arrives, on time,
- Traversing daintily the top fence row,
- Eschewing, cattily, untidy snow.
- She leaps and lights on my overalls—
- Me being yet bent at right angles.
- “You would, Judy, you would,” I laugh.
- Judy meows. Sheep bleat. Goats cough.
- I rise, rinse the tank, dump, rinse again,
- Bucket icy water till it lips the rim,
- Drop the heater back in,
- Step back, watch ‘em drink, grin.
- This is why the farmer puts up with the chores—
- Because the chores put up with him.
Scything Lessons: A Villanelle, Roughly
- Swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- If brome grass should slow you up and make you strain,
- Suppress the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- You’ll want to begin when the hay still wears its dew.
- Or if it fell lightly, commence just after a rain.
- Then swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- An Austrian scythe is really the way to go.
- The snath is light, and there’s poetry in the name,
- Thus reducing the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- Alfalfa is stemmy, yet moist and laid easily low,
- But if your scything slows, stop and whet the blade.
- Then swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- The bellied blade should ride along the loam.
- If it bites the dirt, then stop to adjust the tang,
- Yet suppress the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- Remember, if you lose your edge, take time to freshen the hone,
- For it profit a man nothing to muscle through the grain.
- Rather, swing the scythe and whistle as you mow--
- And you’ll avoid the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
Pete Beurskens has taught college writing and literature since 1990 (in Iowa, Colorado, Nebraska, Wisconsin, and Minnesota) and has published a number of articles, poems, and essays in regional and national publications. He has worked as a salesman, non-profit director, grant writer, and forest fire fighter. He enjoys canoeing, kayaking, fishing, and hiking with his family, and lives on a hobby farm in western Wisconsin near the Mississippi River, where he and his wife raise Shetland sheep. He cuts his hay the old fashioned way.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Two poems for spring
"Scrubbing the Sheep Tank" and "Scything Lessons: A Villanelle, Roughly"
Two poems for spring
"Scrubbing the Sheep Tank" and "Scything Lessons: A Villanelle, Roughly"
"You Scots is sure pushy."
Scrubbing the Sheep Tank
- Even in midwinter, algae thrives in the tank
- So I find myself on this 18-degree day
- Bending to it, circling the surface,
- January wind scouring my face.
- I scrub the scum, naked hands numb
- And the goats and Shetlands scrum
- Around me, nosing in, bleating for hay.
- “Yeah, I’ll get to it,” I bleat in reply.
- “You Scots is sure pushy,” I say.
- “You Boers shoulda stayed in Africa.”
- They ignore me, as is natural.
- The scrubbing is done now.
- But I am still bent; my back makes a plane.
- The fluffy cat, gray Judy, arrives, on time,
- Traversing daintily the top fence row,
- Eschewing, cattily, untidy snow.
- She leaps and lights on my overalls—
- Me being yet bent at right angles.
- “You would, Judy, you would,” I laugh.
- Judy meows. Sheep bleat. Goats cough.
- I rise, rinse the tank, dump, rinse again,
- Bucket icy water till it lips the rim,
- Drop the heater back in,
- Step back, watch ‘em drink, grin.
- This is why the farmer puts up with the chores—
- Because the chores put up with him.
Scything Lessons: A Villanelle, Roughly
- Swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- If brome grass should slow you up and make you strain,
- Suppress the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- You’ll want to begin when the hay still wears its dew.
- Or if it fell lightly, commence just after a rain.
- Then swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- An Austrian scythe is really the way to go.
- The snath is light, and there’s poetry in the name,
- Thus reducing the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- Alfalfa is stemmy, yet moist and laid easily low,
- But if your scything slows, stop and whet the blade.
- Then swing the scythe and whistle as you mow.
- The bellied blade should ride along the loam.
- If it bites the dirt, then stop to adjust the tang,
- Yet suppress the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
- Remember, if you lose your edge, take time to freshen the hone,
- For it profit a man nothing to muscle through the grain.
- Rather, swing the scythe and whistle as you mow--
- And you’ll avoid the urge to glimpse the end of your row.
Pete Beurskens has taught college writing and literature since 1990 (in Iowa, Colorado, Nebraska, Wisconsin, and Minnesota) and has published a number of articles, poems, and essays in regional and national publications. He has worked as a salesman, non-profit director, grant writer, and forest fire fighter. He enjoys canoeing, kayaking, fishing, and hiking with his family, and lives on a hobby farm in western Wisconsin near the Mississippi River, where he and his wife raise Shetland sheep. He cuts his hay the old fashioned way.
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