Poetry - Calling Me

Although this story could be set in any era,
I think you'll recognize the context.

Ploughing - painted by Constant Troyon (1810-1865)


The wail of a whistle
Drifts o’er the breeze.
Its cries tantalize.
It’s calling me.

I want to fly free,
Not weighted down
By this iron plow.
It’s holding me.

Working, trudging,
Dusty row by row,
No achievement to show.
It’s choking me.

Tied to this farm,
I’ll never be loose,
To do what I choose
It’s crushing me.

Adventures and fame,
Gaiety, pleasures, ease
Oh, Father… please?
It’s calling me.

The lights, excitement,
Friends, money, and wine,
Extravagance is mine!
It’s thrilling me!

Feast, mistress, or music
Laughing, dancing
What is your fancy?
It’s all on me.

Empty? Finished?
Friends turn away.
Come back! Stay!
They’re leaving me.

Hungry and shivering
Picking through trash
Sir, a bit of cash?
It’s shaming me.

Remembering home
Hearth, clothing, and food
But, I’m worth no good.
It’s humbling me.

A servant for hire,
To see home, my desire.
It’s calling me.

Father, I’m sorry.
This honor’s reserved
Not mine, to deserve
He’s forgiving me.

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