"fertilizer" poems
Growth prevaded by a soil of emotions, rain of memories engraving the seed for a flower awaiting to bloom, the gift of life in a moving motion of time, forming and structuring the inner beauty of one,
Over years the spring of this beauty blossoms depending on the deeds, deepest wishes such as kindness and intuitions majestically,
A righteous soul will truly stand proud in the sun, alike a helianthus,
A trecious persons flower will be dead, as if it was drought, burnt in the heat of summer, the sweet aroma of life will still fill the air,
Caught in endless change of a devils distorted, desperate working,
The servants have the chance to either change for the better or to be ruined in their transient existence, fading into the dust they came of,
Beauty cast in the heart remains forever with enough care and work,
So this flower shall never rot, as long as it is protected with a desire and will to do good, to be gentle and truthful, thoughtful and wise,
Compassion, greatness and deep loving concern are a fertilizer,
Spread this kindness and you may have planted the seed for another beautiful child of the earth; A precious flower
~ Umi
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
It seems I was
born with a flawed mind
and an inferior anatomy.
I was raised to be a daisy
soft and dainty
abandoned in the polar air to be
protected
by the starving dirt that
pins us to the earth.
Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer
…every once and a while.
In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked
and my stem grows grungy.
I watch horrified.
Flowers being ripped from their roots
purely out of admiration for their beauty
sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales.
I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil
that will never be stable.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
I like using fire as an analogy, a metaphor, the punchline for most of my poetry
I often describe the heart as if it were a hearth, while its beats were the heat it radiated
I see it—sometimes a roaring flame, often times a steady bonfire, other times a dying match.
It could scorch you if you aren't careful, but it also provides you warmth and light. A sort of clarity. Comfort.
It allows some of the toughest things on Earth to become malleable and mold itself into something new
It turns the bitter into sweet, the biting cold to teeth-sinking warm, the tasteless into delicious
It allows the spirit to soar with columns of smoke to the heavens while the body becomes fertilizer for daisies
It takes beauty, and burns it black and ash to the point of no recognition
Fire is so precious, and dangerous, and essential, and beautiful, and ugly—just like this hearth of a heart
Tended and regulated well, it's the greatest discovery of mankind
Allowed to burn out quick, or spread out of control, then it's the accident that burned down London in 1666
I believe I should end this by saying: find someone who will tend to your hearth as if it were their last dying light, instead of a person who would simply roast marshmallows with forest fires
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
*Friendships come and friendships go,
some may wither, some may grow.
Some die from a careless word
and some from rumors one has heard.
Some fail when "connections" die
and some die from a toxic lie.
But some are nurtured from the start
by "fertilizer" from the heart,
loyalty and "being there"
when others fail, when they should care.
So, as a friend I'd truly be
always listening, if you need.*
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.
- Somme Harvest -
In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.
On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.
Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.
Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.
In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.
Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god vomit’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.
Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.
A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.
As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,
The phoenix has nested.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
your forest’s architecture
verdant in spots, and then a stump
did the dead leaves ever have a heart beat
what made the ballad stop, was it sun?
little larva squirming towards a moon
and their mama maggots weep –
to lose a child, to lose a child
when death-creatures want to be
an astronaut, the green canopies are bars
prosper in the centipede teeth munch
fertilizer for a final seed
without vertebrae they climb over stars
& leave your forest’s architecture
crumbling for buzzards.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Look at yourself
All *****
Blackened with a sour demeanor
Rip the top off
Take a look inside
An endless carousel
See the stars
And be thrown to the next page
Never to come back again
The stories for the next chapter
Clenching to previous excursions
Remnants, recollections of once new beginnings
Once you start you can’t stop
Can't turn and have second thoughts
Once you’re out
You’re gone
Falling to pieces
Smoking, dangling
A mental spasm
A lapse, relapse
Push them away
They speak too loud and bright
A half baked scheme
It’s something to pass the time
Hedges of red
Busted fence posts
Inconspicuously
Punctured shell
To the roots
Vibrations to my brain
Purple furlough
Roofs fall
Pedal till they bleed
Bleed dry to the bone
Till the bone breaks
And the pain grapples me into submission
We ignore the fruits in front
Of us for the mirages
We pretend are real
Putting In hope and taking out lies
Riding the ignorant air of pride
Crawl in desperation to continue
It wouldn’t lie
Stick to the plan
Raise the voice
So they hear and believe
We won’t stop till it’s found
They won’t stop till I’m in the ground
Buried, out to pasture
Fresh fertilizer here
I hear his deceit meshed
Deeply in his voice
Yet I fool myself to
Believe due to my denial of doubts
It won’t let me continue
Smile for no reason
When I think about it
Disorientation follows
Don’t utter another word
The grass is dead on both sides
So let’s make them equally green
Plant the seed
Pack a lunch
As we walk, we remember
The lesson we were taught to never
Tread here
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
I looked out the kitchen window to see the new springtime grass
But fog from your tea on the sill blocked the view.
Rain came pouring down
To expose a sunny day.
You complained your green tea
Was over steeped. It was brown.
Did you open the (cabinet
To get the sugar) from the top shelf?
I used your mug today
As a bowl to hold my soup.
You were raking outside
But there were no leaves to form a substantial collection.
The grass was frogs’ legs
And told you to jump, jump, jump.
Did you open the (shed
To get the fertilizer) from the top shelf?
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
On this tan cutting board
You earn your corrupted name:
“Alligator pear.”
The serrated blade
Punctures your hide—a balloon
Under a pin’s pressure,
Shades of green furling out.
I’m sure you’d prefer
Vegetable status if you developed
Self-awareness; or maybe
You’d withdraw from knowledge
Of the human type.
I trust my cooking songs—
Slowdive and Chaka Khan—
Can’t hurt you anymore
Than your predestined obliteration;
Mastication via your domesticators:
It all ends in fertilizer.
(Where you began!)
O, avocado, phantom “fruit”
Born of the self-same Life Source,
Schopenhauer’s Will,
My transient enjoyment of you
Within this vegetable salad—
An Achaean enclosed by Trojan blades—
Suffices for a life of sanctity.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
just because you're dead
doesn't mean we aren't dating anymore
does it?
i am haunted
hearing you read a poem in my head,
dead
so we must have chemistry
or am i interminably obsessed
like a ghostly house
while your poems
have there way with me
rumbling down my phantom thigh
breathing
on the layaway plan
ghastly pumpkin in the oven
languishing gracefully
your generosity in death
a carnival ride of fascination
like a broken bird
to tormented to hold
your preference
hors d’oeuvres of rat poison
and verse
for the thin air road
a smudged face poets last word
in crumbs of burnt onions and charred meat
your so pretty in penny loafers
bare legs dangling
In this homeless corridor sunken in your blackened
idol of release
and that stupid stare
your weight no longer measured in grief
i was born to late
to die with you
to save a pretty nymph in a downward spiral
precious fertilizer of poetry fields
i'm fixated on your suicide pose
but you're too busy being dead
to give a ****
my sweet eyed snob of smiling hooks
i'm obsessively obsessive
for what could never be
and is
am i not your fan,
your creep?
if i pulled you from the oven
and rattled life
no doubt, you'd be all **** and vinegar
i'd be your despicable hero
a vampire
like a straight jacket of love you hate
your dead now poet of twilight
and i'm left here reading your poems
telling you softly
they are the best poems ever
and making believe
you love me
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
grasses brown up nice,
this time of year, Sun slices,
through the spaces of
branches and the love-
ly leaves, shadow seekers,
and sun bathers wait on,
the changing dark shape,
to place their bodies and at
by the end of the day
such justifies the means,
while buckets of water
empty and fill and liquid
pill fertilizer, is a miser
of plant health, wealth
and chaotic growth,
you can't control your
eating or time,
so why should a ****
heed the call to stop,
why should a plant,
slow down instead,
cant toward the Sun
you worship or hide
your hide from, and
your dog or cat, just
lays about the place,
licks your nose or face,
serve wine over ice and
take a couple of ice cubes
from a heart, that there
is never a chance of thaw,
at the temperature of dry
ice and dry eyes that will
not shed tears, will not
shuck fears, like oysters,
on the life that is a beach,
shoals,
rip tides,
confide and confounded,
leave the corpse in the sand
until the waves have pounded
knowledge of gardening and
gardens of life, go on live
beyond the strife, soften the
take on weed(s).
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC
What goes in, always,
Comes out,
Through the ******** of life,
Which is **** itself.
Such a waste,
That we are born,
Live,
And die,
Fighting for things,
Money
Materials,
******* things,
That we can’t take with us,
When we die.
What a ******* waste it all is,
Yet somehow,
Everything and everyone is needed,
For the next phase of waste.
**** becomes fertilizer,
We become reborn,
Into whatever else is **** out next.
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 8:23 PM UTC
Oh daffodil, you are not what I had hoped for
but you are alright now. Do not weep,
and please, do not wilt on me,
this fertilizer is a necessary evil, to devour
your bad things
in a basin, or howling at the moon –
dogs you left empty-bowelled,
sunken as a level cloth in the rain, still fat
but darker than smoke haze at dusk
not better of what mothers feed the precious
stuck, and stinking sons. I love men, I do,
just not the boys I have been handed
in their snotty noses, copepod backpacks &
bandanas for the laboratory. Promise, though
to make chloroform for your head
as if the sun could slap your eardrums,
what wonder would it be! A yellow plague,
bit the toenails of your baby’s feet,
said to injure petals among tall, lusting slopes,
hope you will die as a blonde woman,
and dye, daffodil, goodbye.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
You do not water me daily,
You allow me to parch
And count the seasons I perennate
With only a drop of what I thought
Was especially for me.
You do not tend to me,
You let me need you needfully;
You burrow deep into my soil
And untangle my roots,
You knew exactly the right fertilizer
To get me to grow.
You do not take me in at night,
You leave me in a greenhouse
I shared with the rest of other plants
You couldn't pick from,
Shivering, waiting for another day
I happen to flush rosier petals
And get your attention again.
You do not choose me,
You do not own me,
You do not love me;
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a confused collector,
Visiting every parterre,
Plucking all the best flowers,
Chancing for the greatest find
Without the intention of keeping it.
You are not the gardener,
No you are not.
You are just a collector,
A lonely little lad
Running out of other pastimes;
And I am just a hobby
You do not take to heart.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding the flower
You knew could use your sunshine,
So you let it hang right where
It is almost there.
But I am not a flower,
No I just am not.
I am the vase
Holding that flower;
Maybe a porcelain you can break
Into many brittle pieces,
But never a plant
You can watch dry and die and be dust,
No I just cannot be.
I am a vase,
Not a flower;
And you are not the gardener.
I do not belong in your collection.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
Eat Venison
strike fear into his bones
appeal to his intellectual bankruptcy
make it run
make it hide
under his own verbal garbage disposal
conquer him
little man
squash egos into fertilizer
for your plants
turn his nothing
into another form
negative
to positive
as he decomposes
inside his tinfoil crap
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
Harvested perfect eggs,
of the mother to be,
are kept, in deep freeze.
enriched sperms of paid donor
(looked after well
to keep perfect fit)
are getting impatient.
the bee, fertilizer nonpareil
handpicked and hired,
fertility specialist,
didn't keep his word;
away on leave,
"pollinating vacation"
over phone, he explains,
"my last chance to
proliferate my clan,
wife is excited,
need to make it happen now
this time, of the year,
the chances are the best"
*a melancholy moon, barren woman
silently weeps moonbeams
over the sparse, still thinning forest*.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
The garden planted in the backyard
Beneath the shadow of the old birch tree
Encircled in stone and marble landscaping
Grows like nothing I've ever seen
In the spot where I buried her dead body
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 4:49 PM UTC
I put light bulbs into roses
And I tried to make them grow,
But no further than my workbench
Would they ever even go.
I connected them with wires, clips –
I’ve tried it all:
Drew out diagrams on yellowed paper,
Labelled in my chicken scrawl.
Once the electrician came to look.
“What have you been doing girl?”
It was then that at my workbench
A bag of fertilizer did he hurl.
Gone then were the wires, clips;
Gone the ashes on the floor.
All that’s left were wilted roses
Piled up right by the door.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
compost
organic
ammonium
aeration
conditioned
fertilizer
I am
or one-
day
will be
anaerobic
digested
unfit for
human
consumption
bio-gas
****
alternative
I.....
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
I'd liken you to an alien
Pulling out a new skin suit from the closet each day,
But that would mean you're extraterrestrial
And you are nothing but ordinary.
Tell me you and him are “just friends”
And we are “close friends”
As you sharpen the fangs you’ll leech me with,
Plastic over your teeth.
It’s not winning if you don’t become someone else.
I’d call you chameleon, but
I have too much respect for them
And your colors just aren’t that bright.
Your slithering tongue won’t be remembered in a year.
Your name gone the next.
Take solace in knowing that what you tried to break
Will forever be etched into his skin
Like the tattoo in mine;
Memorable, but not you.
You stood in my shadow
And tried to call it yours.
Blame the sun for spilling your secrets.
And blame me when you burn.
I warned you,
Sweetheart,
That I crawled up from hell.
You just crawled out of a casket.
I have flames; you have your fears,
And you cannot bury me with them.
You tried to warm your rotting soul
And take the flames as your own.
Smother your ugly in ice
And ask me why I was so cold.
Whirling wardrobe,
Break free.
Mystic?
***** please.
A sunflower doesn’t succumb to weeds.
You’re just fertilizer for me.
This is my summer part three.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 3:55 PM UTC
i.
caren forgot about her morning. caren forgot it was wednesday. caren had an event and she was not there.
caren is a shadow. caren is an absence of space. caren is a gap that people shy away from, women in black dresses sidestepping past her memory.
caren is a woman with a streetcar. caren is a woman with an office job. caren is a woman with a social network. caren goes to functions. caren is no longer a function, but a product of her own actions.
caren forgot herself.
ii.
shattered windshields. broken glass like triangle teeth. more monsters lurk in mirrors than in the recesses of the closet. behemoths wait by water coolers, demons sit in sweaty three-by-fours. the devil wears a motorcycle helmet and caren hasn't learned from her mistakes.
iii.
run a red light. it's december and she's egging on the new year. frosted features and blinkers hide hot flashes. she's impatient for her age, a businesswoman at her best.
a shift in gear. a change in mood. road rage, road rash. a few words from a dark knight on a whinnying bike.
iv.
lane changes and unintentional nudges. motorcycle launches the devil like a dove to heaven. caren stays earthbound, blood spilled to nourish the ground. fertilizer runs through her veins, and vampire trees in city parks drink it up. bystanders drink it up.
v.
caren is a casualty. caren is the victim of her own habits.
caren is a corpse in a coffin. caren is an elephant in the viewing room.
caren is to blame in eyes and minds. caren is condemned in whispers, but caren is lamented out loud, so caren is proud.
caren got **** done.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
I imagine my friends as walking holidays, days that roll off souvenirs like sweat
and become keepsakes in a suitcase that breathes sunscreen
onto my white, hopeless skin.
Green grass is Rachel. When I want to invent
cloud animals, I think of her old backyard, five miles down the road
because it was good for such things
the kind of things that open your pores and your mind and your chest all at once.
She would draw on my eyes
while we sat knee to knee, or knee to something else soft.
I would try to become a model for the world as she understood it, wanted it
and hoped she saw the sky on my eyes,
tinged with magma when I got sad and could no longer take sleep.
Then, there was a day in the alley. A murky place
with brown weeds between concrete, and she was there, too, but she was not a
part of the memory I have somehow –
she only fits against the sunshine and clear air. I remember her most
when I want to lay down
on a blanket without needing to rest and grow a garden without using my tears as
a fertilizer for the only beautiful things I have ever created.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC