by Shirley Love

Created on: October 03, 2010

The shabby weather-worn scarecrow is a sad and lonely sight,
Dressed in hand-me-downs that have been handed down once too often,
His faded plaid shirt is torn at both elbows, and only two buttons remain
To hold it close to his straw-filled body, which shows signs of decay.

His skeleton is comprised of scrap wood from a farmer’s barn,
His arms are made from a branch nailed to his woody spine

And he holds them in an outstretched position as if asking for mercy.
Two  gloves, oily and dirty comprise his hands, limp as if in defeat.

A pair of thread-bare faded Levis are attached as make-shift legs,
And the cap on his gunnysack stuffed head signifies that he is Cubs fan,
His grotesque face has been painted with a horrifying expression,
And his stuffing is loose enough to dance in the wind, which is his job.

His pathetic existence evokes sympathy from passersby, yet he requests nothing,
He just stands in the field, dances when able, and scares crows from the crops.
Through the heat of summer, and the crisp cool air of Autumn he is steadfast.
When raging storms make him dance erratically he is frightening indeed.

After harvest, his worn body hangs limp in surrender to the elements,
And the farmer discards him with no mention of gratitude for a job well-done.
But if there is by any chance a spark of intelligence within that straw head,
He must feel the satisfaction of doing his very best during his short unhappy life.

How sad that so many humans spend their lives like the scarecrow,
Dancing to the whim of others, unaware of the world around them,
Never knowing the warmth of love nor finding pleasure in simple things,                                                        While serving the ungrateful powers that be.

Learn more about this author, Shirley Love.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.