#mower
Nature can be, savage or kind
Which way does it go; can it be defined
A young toad was trapped by a sprinkler today
His life could have ended and be swept away
I noticed him there and expected him to hop
He was stuck I could see and I needed to stop
The mower, would and could have, swallowed him up
Had I not looked his way and stopped so abrupt
His leg was trapped in a sprinkler retract
In came down quite hard with a vicious impact
I was able to raise it and help the toad out
His pour leg looked broke, in that there's no doubt
I hope that he lives and heals up real quick
I'm glad I could help, the toad I named Rick...!
Brian Hill - 2019 # 197
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
Yellow congregation
Discusses their front lines
Lawn mower arrives
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.
With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.
To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.
And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him 'Spic', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.
Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.
The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.
Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.
Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.
I'll keep pushing.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
Typing
Writing
Watching the blades of grass
And lawn-mower
How I wish I could mow lawns
But no
My life is much harder
I have to be a writer
Now,
Or at least
Other times,
I don’t know what I am
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC