Tag Archives: farms

CALIFORNIA OR BUST

Exeter, California mural painted by Morgan McCall and Mitchell-Veyna in 1996



He ain't got no loan
Cant grow no corn
He ain't got no loan

- Levon Helm (“Poor Old Dirt Farmer”)

A cattlemen’s get-together,
a fund-raising dinner—awards
and not-so-silent auctions
at the end of summer
before the calves come,

to rub shoulders with the neighbors
who’ve gotten older
or by surprise disappeared
altogether

like the uneven ground shrinking
for grazing cattle
and our flat ground sinking
with too much pumping
on the same old cow.

The banks are nervous
with farm ground worth
half of what it was
without water
to plant and raise a crop
to feed us
and pay the growing costs
(plus taxes and interest)

and threaten to foreclose
on homesteads with row crops
or orchards in piles
that have become bare ground
to develop, for speculators
to make small fortunes
for corporate investors.

Mom and Pop
have moved to town,
following the kids
the land couldn’t support—

but it’ll be so much easier
for everyone to shop
for third world groceries
at the Wall Street outlets.


THE OLD FARMER’S ALMANAC

The real old boys who found their weather in the stars,
within explosive storms on the sun, years in advance—
would be dismayed with how we farm today.
 
My father’s shadow, I followed disc and tractor straining
to turn the earth, blackbirds diving like swarming sea gulls
behind us, as we broke clods in lace-up boots to test the soil.
 
Trading energy, no one cultivates today to turn green weeds 
and stinging nitrogen back into the ground—no one marks-out
furrows in sandy loam, no one irrigates with a hoe.
 
We spray chemicals (‘herbicides’ sounds nice and friendly)
in the naked space between the trunks of vines and trees.
We run trillions of miles of black plastic for a sip in drips
 
to save water for more crops we can seldom sell at a profit.
Still the perpetual motion of new money: each depreciation
offsetting taxes for urban investors on the next farm 
 
they sell to one another like summer homes and yachts.
Why bother to predict tomorrow’s weather when farms
change hands in a swirl of smoke and yellow steel?