I’m in a bit of a situation
There seem to be weeds blooming all across my face
The weeds are red
They are blooming all aross my cheeks
All across my forehead and chin
and even some buds on my nose
I don’t like the weeds
And neither does anyone else
I’ve tried everything to get them go away
but nothing works, and they’ll always stay
these weeds make me sad
oh so sad
and now my tears just water these weeds
I refuse to show the world these hideous red weeds
i have been taught to hate the unwanted
and to strive for perfection
but perfection is something i’ve never known
so for the moment i cannot make these red weeds disappear
and from now on i’ll stop quenching their thurst with my tears
for now all i can do is love them
love these red weeds that cover my face
and hope that one day i’ll find someone who can love them too.

Spring sneaks by the door to the ghetto.
That's okay, they can't afford the seed.
Trees take too much room from the rentals.
No one saw the end of ghetto weeds.

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.

Yesterday a man sold his garden
Bragging how he made such a deal.
Bought himself a high-rise apartment.
Who can tell the fruit by the peel?

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.

What about the children of the ghetto,
Do they have the playgrounds they need?
Have you seen the children how they're growing?
Don't they shoot up just like a ****?

Ghetto weeds once grew up sudden.
They took the food of those in bloom.
Ghetto weeds we're awful sorry,
But we haven't got the room.

Pull the weeds, plant the seeds
this is what the garden said

choose what stays
choose what goes

be mindful when you do

the silver oaks darken the sun in the mind
trim the trunks, so light may you find

the bindweed traps the heart
clip the vine, free the art

the poison oak stings your delicate hand
let the goats eat these weeds right off the land

the pompous grass clouds the soul in your eyes
pluck these weeds before they set and rise

the deadweed piles darken your spirit
compost the weeds, lighten your merit

plant the seeds of love, hope and color
water with nourishment, fertilize with wonder
and you will warm the heart of another

and then,

begin again,

pull the weeds
plant the seeds

A farmer, a diligent worker, I am.
Passed down the same employment
The same land, generation to generation
This field has never grown the best crops
But always enough to scrape by
It has always been, to the naked eye,
Filled with weeds
But I labor all day, sometimes in the blaring heat
Pulling weeds and caring for each precious plant
For not being one more **** I have to pick.
Some weeds are deep-rooted and will not pull
And I pass them by
Acres and acres of land with weeds
Harbored off into sections
Singly alone, it takes weeks
To rid one of weeds and then harvest
But the little money I gain back from that
I cherish that much core.
A farmer from generations and generations of diligent workers am I
And this is my story.

As I was working in my field one day a man came up to me
He had a clean pressed black suit
And hundred dollar sunglasses
Well dressed for business.
He asked me, "Why do you work so long and hard with pulling deep-rooted weeds when you hardly get any pay?"
I explained my family's field of generations and generations.
It never gets any better, but hey, it never gets any worse.
I could feel him looking down upon my labor in my family's field of generation after generation
He said to me, "A pretty lady such as yourself should not be working in such heat."
This man, he told me of his fields back home.
He had cows, even. Chickens and horses.
"The finest of the finest," he assured me, "bred from rare and royal breeds."
He told me of a home where I would be cool and looked after and no longer would have to
"scratch such pretty hands working in such a lowdown field."
Well this business man in his clean pressed black suit
And his hundred dollar sunglasses,
He took my hand, looked me in the eyes
and tenderly said,
"It doesn't have to be this way.
Come with me, I will show you."
And I followed him to his red corvette
And we drove into the sunset
On passed the moon
And when we arrived
It was as splendid as he had said.
Fields and fields of green
"All of this is yours," he said, "just stay with me."

And for days I was cared for by him
I spent my time in the cool house
Both of us together
He rarely left, but when he did it was to harvest the field
It had few **** that he didn't bother pulling
Or to feed and care for the prized chickens, horses, cows.
Or to cash the money the fields had earned
Always giving me
Much more than I needed.
He massaged my back and sang me songs
And told me I would never have to worry about anymore weeds for the rest of my life
Let him do all the worrying.
And I did.
And all was well.

That night I awoke with an itch in my throat
That itch turned to a cough and I fully opened my lids
To a thick grey haze that turned at the soft flesh of my eyes
I coughed again and again to sit up and look around the smoke-filled room.
I crawled my way out of my silk-sheeted bed in my silk nightgown and tried to call out
But nothing but tears came from my eyes
I felt my way to the door, touching my money on the dresser and I pocketed it.
I struggled though the flames and the heat of the smoke.
My vision blurry, head light, lungs shriveling, eyes burning, feet cut and scraped from broken glass upon the floor
And as I finally mad my way to the front door
My hand passed over a note taped to the wall in the entry way.
I pocketed this as well.
I rushed out into the cold night air that felt free from the heat of the thick haze
I blinked away the tears in my eyes, took a few breath and cleared the dizziness
I pulled out the note and it read:
"If you survive, I want you to know: I'm sorry."
I continued to cough.
And I didn't bother to blink away these tears.

The police arrived a few hours later.
The house and barn and field burned down,
They were still able to identify the cause:
There was a storm that night and lightening had struck
A tall **** near the edge of the field
By the barn
This **** was big, tall, and deep-rooted.
No one had bothered to pull it.
The barn caught fire first and all the finest of the finest chickens and horses and cows bred from rare and royal breeds
Were laid to wast,
Bones found in the ashes.
The field and home burned at the same rate,
No bones found in the ashes.
And the man dressed for business
In his clean-pressed black suit
And his hundred dollar sunglasses
Was no where to be found.
The police said they would do their best to find him
But I knew they wouldn't do either.

I ran back home in the chill of the night that had once seemed comforting
It bit at my toes and my ears and the tears on my cheeks
It numbed everything else that the protection the silk offered
My rubbed-soft feet found it hard to run more than a mild in the cold dirt and rough rocks
But they ran back past the moon and out of the sunrise,
Coarse and calloused by the time they reached the old farm.
There were now more weeds than ever and my hands had run smooth from not a days work, not a **** pulled so long
And I removed the burnt, torn, frozen silk and bought new sturdy working clothes with the money I pocketed
I looked out upon the old abandoned field of generations and generations of my mothers
And I prepared for the fresh open wounds I would have by the ned of this day
Determined to make this field as beautiful as it once had been I grabbed the base
Of the first **** at my feet.
And pulled.

FROM the time of the early radishes
To the time of the standing corn
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes.
  
There are laws in the village against weeds.
The law says a **** is wrong and shall be killed.
The weeds say life is a white and lovely thing
And the weeds come on and on in irrepressible regiments.
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes; and the village law uttering a ban on weeds is unchangeable law.

PULLING WEEDS

Here I sit contemplating the things I have been through
A long list of ugliness mixed in with the good things, too
It reminds me of a flower garden with weeds mixed in
A lot like the beauty of life with an assorted mix of sin

The flowers are calling out to you
Their life depends on what you do
The weeds can drain them of their life
Growing around their roots causing great strife

Just like life if you do not rid yourself of the bad
It can drain you of all the good things you have ever had
So, take the time to check your weeds
Pulling them out to plant your new seeds

It may take hours, days or even years
Your garden is getting full so get into gear
It starts with just pulling one
You will be surprised when you are done

The flowers, just like life, will prosper
Thanking you for making things proper
You see, God knows the weeds your garden contains
He wants you to pull them and start to maintain

As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things

That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset

My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it

But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because

In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers

I ran there today
in one of those moments of euphoric need.
I wanted to see the view they told me was so appealing.
I ran there today,
and even though I was accompanied by several strangers,
they were invisible to my eye,
so the lake’s peaceful atmosphere wouldn’t escape me
as sweet classical music whispered melodies in my ear,
a solitary canoe sent soft ripples from its path,
and eyes locked on a view framed by the most beautiful mess of weeds
on top of the hill where I stood.

“This was so much prettier last year.
They need to mow this whole hillside.”

I guess those melodies weren’t whispering loud enough
if I could hear an invisible stranger’s voice.

I loved those weeds.

You know when you see a cluster of friends together
and just by looking at them,
you know that they each have a sense of belonging in that group?
I don’t remember what that feels like.
There are pieces of me that fit into separate puzzles,
but I have not found the one that rounds with each curve
and shifts with each edge so perfectly that I am secure.
So when I look at these weeds,
I understand them,
and even though they are spiritless beings,
I can relate to them in a way I have never related
to someone of my own kind.

I am not a gentle flower
that must be nurtured to growth and bloom.
I am the white dandelion you picked from a patch of grass as a child
so you could almost effortlessly blow every seed into the wind,
scattering me in so many directions that my personas
fall far from my roots,
no two of them planting close together.
In college
I felt too goody two shoes for the theatre department,
too eccentric for the fitness nerds,
too simple for the city-lovers,
and too urbane for the country.
So,
though you may think these weeds are chaotic
and ugly
and unwanted,
these weeds are life,
and they echo our time here
far better than the flowers or grass you desire.
We are not clean;
We are wild,
confused,
and aching for the love of our onlookers,
when oftentimes we are ignored.

Sometimes
I whisper the words
“I love you”
into absent air
just to remember what it sounds like
coming from my lips.
The silence I hear in reply is a reminder
that my words ricochet off of the walls
and back to me,
bouncing off of my ear’s bass drum
a beat that lets me know I am okay,
but this beat is one that most can’t follow.
You see,
within me are two opposing existences,
both equally me,
but different nonetheless.
I am not emotional,
but I feel all of life’s idiosyncrasies deep within me:
the light that peeks through my blinds as I wake in the morning,
the solitary solidarity of a morning run when the town is still asleep,
the sound of nature’s white noise,
the crunch of autumn leaves and twigs beneath my feet…
I feel these things,
and my heart swells with a sense of liberation with each experience,
though I have not yet been liberated.

We may not be pretty to you.
We may not be cultivated.
You may think we are competing with your ideal aesthetic,
but we are just trying to make it through this tangled life
alive and well,
while the rest of the world attempts to rid itself of us.
Little do you know that we are your backbone.
We are your strength.
We are independence.
We are beautiful.

Don’t mow us away.

We are all a garden
of sorts.
We all spring up
from a single seed.
And like a flourishing tree
or an expanding bush
we can branch out
and multiply
in number and in strength
surrounded by tender loving care,
being watered by others,
paid close attention to
as the gardener nurtures us
to maturity.

We bloom.
We blossum.
Beauty abounds.
Our colors come forth
in a harmony of hues
upon every petal
and every leaf.

But then come the weeds
that choke out our foliage
and wrap around our roots,
our foundations.
The weeds of hatred,
the weeds of bitterness
the weeds of loneliness,
the weeds of shame,
the weeds of fear,
and depression
invade.

Bugs infest our garden
and eat away at us,
tormenting us,
picking away at us,
and the beauty
and produce
that once was the glory
of our garden
has gone away.

Did we do this to ourselves?
We often wonder.
Did the gardener get too passive,
get too neglectul and uncaring
and forget to tend the garden?
Maybe we were not strong enough
to take up the fight,
wilting, fading in the sun.

Yet even a dying flower
produces seeds of growth,
and of renewal,
as a rebirth will come from
its entrance into the earth.
Even the most tragic looking
of sickly plant life
will have a comeback,
a resurrection
of sorts
when golden raindrops
do fall again
like prayers from the sky.

And so it is the gardener
was never asleep on the job,
did not neglect the duties.
And like all healthy ones do
abundant food
shall grow once again
in our garden,
fragrant flowers,
and branches
for the birds to perch upon
when at one time
all seemed dead
and hopeless
and lost.

The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim

The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless

The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind

We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"

Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass

They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft

When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds

Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards

Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight

In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer

One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door

We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp

On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp

When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs

The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences

Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss

Eden’s Weeds (Andrew Crawford)


“seed buried somewhere six feet deep beneath dry bones
and brittle debris, lost in all of eden's weeds” Andrew Crawford

<><>><>
you tripped exploring mine own eden's weeds,
more precisely, tripped me up, your poring over,
my one hundred year old poems, flawed, by
many spilled tears, aged old, for and over them,
and now, once again, je vous réponds s'il vous plait

this poem planned, title chosen, well before you
exercised my memories, disinterring by your fingers,
(surprise!} but the content you also now provided,
@ ten to midnight, your privacy invasion, a very fine
sleep deprivation excuse to compose one more time

who knows, perhaps this next one could be ”flawless”^
not likely though, flawless never found amidst the weeds
though in Eden chances are, chances are, not impossible,
for that’s the place where slow, simple songs get replayed,
celebrating lovers of life, its pleasant harmonies, go figure

over, over again, like a rolling stone, until friction finally wins,
yes ”my own chosen speed”^ is a-slowing, direction home, finally,
the mosses occluding new words and combinations, concealed,
like a moss, got no roots, birthed by shedding spores airborne,
my new old poems, plucked from air, words passing by in phrases

your phrase,
eden’s weeds,
hit my irises,
insisting it deserved,
instant cognition,
two words,
demanding special education,
accolade recognition,
perhaps if I
stick around,
for a few more poems,
I’ll learn to write
as beautiful as you.