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Poetry from The Last Day of Harvest, by Greg German
Kansas farm & rural themed poetry and personal essays.
All writing, poetry & essays in this website - Copyright © by Greg German, 2019
Select poems from The Last Day of Harvest
  • Summer  |  Harvest  |  Fall  |  Winter  | Spring
Other Series
  • The Limestone Cowboy  |  As A...

Harvest Selections
​

The 1st Day Of Harvest
 
Anticipated like Christmas,
it appears like an old friend
at the door.  Sun warmed waves
of wheat, acres of ripe grain
swell and ripple, rattle applause
with the wind.  Poised, the combine
waits, hungry for work.  We tinker
around the machine—slap drive
belts for tightness, search
for missed zerks not yet greased. 
Sieves and screens are aligned,
sickle teeth re-inspected. Oil levels
are checked again.  Pliers fall
into pockets.  Dad starts the engine.
Every nut and bolt shakes
with the first rush of fuel.
Smoke, black diesel, spot-stains
the air.  Crawling, the combine
tastes the crop, harvests its first
bite of bread.  Dry as crust,
chaff and wheat dust sparkle
around us.  Knee-deep
in the warm wake of fresh-cut
stubble, my brother and I wade
into the field.  The day’s heat
spills over our backs as we explore
handfuls of straw, search the ground
for leftovers.  Young again, Grandpa
watches the combine carve faster
into the shimmer of uncut wheat. 
Soon, we will all be running.
A Tired Farmer Goes To Town
                                      Fifth day
 
A locally scattered thundershower
comes through on a full stoked
locomotive wind, and slams
past his house.  He gets out of bed
to watch, and stands there
in the storm's confused
reflection, more a shadow
than a man.  Raindrops.
big as boots,
kick at the windows.
Then it's over.
The farmer can't sleep.
At first light
he gets in his pick-up
and goes to look at his land.
The sun rides up
on a clear sky, a shiny spot
on a porcelain plate.
An eye-batting breeze
flirts with the damp
flour scent of a delayed
harvest.  At the 5-mile corner
the farmer knows that he has drawn
out of a full-house.
He looks at his field
like it was never there.
When hail comes, size don't
matter.  Five minutes
of the pea-sized stuff
is all it takes
to iron a wheat field
flat.  He is tired
and considers never going home.
At the restaurant, some men
are not tired at all.  Conversation
spills across the contour
of damage.  To stop the erosion,
they pull their best jokes
out of their pockets and plant them
between cups of coffee.  Before noon
the farmer antes, and goes back
into his country.  He greases his combine
and enjoys the dust.
 
Originally Published in Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4

An Old Farmer Walks With Sundown
                                         "His thinking is clear,
                                          even from where I sit."
                                                  8:55p.m., 6th day

 
Marooned with age
Grandpa drifts
across the field,
his boots deep
in stubble, each
step deliberate. 
Behind him waves
of years swell up
and break, shower
him with the withered
glitter of some old
day's recollection. 
The sun dissolves. 
Evening gathers
around him,
content. 
A sentinel,
he watches us work. 
Our machines lope
across the field. 
Whirlwinds of dust
and chaff shaken
freshly from cut
wheat rise up,
twist into shapes
of dead horses,
old tractors,
and tired men’s
faces.  Each harvest
is his last.
 
Originally Published in Mid America Review, 2002, V.3, N.2, 
From The Wheat Trucker’s Seat
 
Most trips I make alone.  A slow haul
charted along a rough, dirt road route
toward  town.   A pilgrimage---my truck
loaded too heavy with wheat.  Dust sails
billow from beneath my tires, push me
across a broad country table.  Waves
of  yellow-varnished fields sway in harvest
ripe rhythm.  Others rest.  Dried remains
from a combine’s wake, cut stubble calm.
Saturated with summer, heat crowds the cab;
sweat drains down my back.   At the five
mile corner my foot saddles the clutch.
My arm stretches deep into the transmission. 
Gears juggle.  Strained, second blends
into third.  Third relaxes into fourth.  Inlaid
on a warm wind, the triple thrill trill of an unseen
meadowlark courses through open windows.
Chaff swirls, twists, floats from the floorboard
and flirts around my face.  One fly side-steps
with monotony across the dash.   On the coast,
my Mecca.  Elevators.  Tall pillared monuments,
shimmer like ghosts.   I meet the red Chevy.
The gray Dodge, the yellow Ford---faces blurred
behind bug blotched windshields.  We always wave
---the cowboy, the green scarfed woman, the guy
with the Cargill cap, the shirtless kid.  Cargo dumped,
late for more, they drive panic-fast.  In the middle
of fields combine drivers wait for their first far
glimpse of a dusty, rattle-bounced blur shaped
by an empty truck.  Straw surrenders.  Grain churns
into wheat bins almost full.  In town, over-filled
trucks line the streets, bumper to bumper,
linked in over-heated homage.  The elevator
towers above us---an idol we wait our turn to visit,
deliver our families' treasure to the gods.  Trapped,
I sit here in a hurry, full of everything but time.

Originally Published in KC Show & Tell, 2000, Anthology

The Last Day Of Harvest
 
You climb up and check the oil
same as all the other days,
grease the machine in all the hidden
places until you know
it'll run slick.
Then you start the engine,
feel every nut and bolt
brace against the first surge
of fuel.  And maybe
you feel like the old man
who knows tonight is the last night
he will have to climb into bed.  Field
past field, you think
back trying to remember
how good the first harvest day
felt---how the heat,
and wheat dust welcomed you
like a mother's challenge
to walk.  Acre after acre, grain
has bouquet'd into your throat,
your steel cylinder gut
digesting load after load---hours
monogrammed inside this cab
when you felt like a combine king,
your country a kingdom stretched
to the horizon's black-thread
crease.  More hours you were nothing
---a wrench tightened instinct
lifting and lowering
the header, suggesting the machine
faster and slower, internal sounds
felt before heard, metal and rubber.
Then you live it,
the last round, a narrow swath
where you've never been, tied down
by a row of uncut corners,
tokens from every round,
leading to the road.
And then it's over.
Nothing left but stubble.
The last uncut corner
cut.  A good friend gone.
 
Originally Published in Kansas Quarterly, 1993, V.24, N.4

Select poems from The Last Day of Harvest
  • Summer  |  Harvest  |  Fall  |  Winter  | Spring
Other Series
  • The Limestone Cowboy  |  As A...
Greg German
Kansas City, Kansas
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