"flowerbeds" poems
People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
beyond Montana’s yellow lines
there is a field
~a field of painted soles
and laces rubber tread
~a field of ****** curls
and fallen headlights
where kaleidoscope lenses
look onto twisted frames like origami halos
where teddy bears hug stop signs like pickets
fringed in anger
runaway childhoods sleep cautionary tales
beyond Montana’s blushing acne
there are red cup melodies
blasting from blacked out tints
weaving blues notes through Rock & Rap
distant cries are drowned by Bass
or maybe Bud (light)
a haze of teenage eyes
they might as well be ghost riders
whip game copped from GTA
these pubescents are a Vice to their City
blooming sidewalk sloths
like flowerbeds
beyond Montana
is a country of bar stools
where bar tenders play therapists
and therapists play coroners
precedents are shots of whiskey - taken to the head
and reflected in flooded eyes
beyond Montana
is a country of MADD mothers and SADD students
beyond Montana
is a country of unexpecting pedestrians
beyond Montana
is a field
~a field of wing-clipped snow angels
That field is Mariah's home now
and she challenges you to change
yourself
your friends
your country
she challenges you to
STOP DRUNK DRIVING
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a *****
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
6.6k
What could be worse
Than a garden
Full of gnomes and trolls?
Is it:
Lawn jockeys and yardells;
Chuck adjusting his carb every Sunday afternoon;
Bathtub ****** Marys beseaching us to love;
Metal flowers on outside garage walls;
Fish ponds with gills in the filter;
Red gravel flowerbeds with little white fences;
Cosmetic door knockers;
Swimming pools without diving boards;
Mirrors on fences;
Burning ******* in fire pits;
Backyard landfills;
Icicle lights;
Weedy neighbours and an east wind;
The screech of tires;
The thump of metal;
The sound of screaming;
The absence?
Yeah. Plenty could be worse.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
we are the people
of contrast.
storm in the cloud.
glory in the blood.
joy despite fury.
peace in the flowerbeds.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 4:21 AM UTC
I laughed in places
Where Laughter was not asked for,
In granite market towns
Beneath refugee palm trees shivering.
Running from giant hands
That were covered in car wash fluids,
The back of children's heads imprinted
On their palms.
I laughed during disciplinary procedures,
Before authority figures
With cornflakes in their red beards
And my laughter crept over the edges of their flowerbeds
And the grass laughed with me.
I laughed at funerals,
The sounds of horses beyond the churchyard
And a messenger ran down the aisle
panting and exhausted,
He had a message for my laughter
' Quick you must come at once'.
I laughed during marital feuds,
Laughter rising out of its own body
above broken guitars and dried up bonsai,
Above all the things I said
That contradict me now.
I laughed during serious films,
The tulips drooping on top of the T.V.
The sun slumped against the door,
Behind heavy curtains
I mistook for pigs on hooks.
I laughed over exercise books,
Above algebra and history
Behind impossible bra straps
That appeared out of acne and ink flicked backs.
I laughed at the swimming pool
Hiding birthmarks like stains,
Drowning above the water saying
'I am a fish I must get back in!'.
I laughed in surgeries among migraines
and told my mother that robots were taking over,
in the same rooms where they removed my brothers' verucas
And I saw the doctors small blade
escape through the window.
I laughed during friends confessions,
In between the silences of repeated songs
While pantomime dames walked past windows
make-up running in black and yellow rain.
I'm laughing while making coffee in a campervan,
I'm laughing because its a monday morning,
Because everyone else is busy,
Because we have an oil lamp from a pound-shop
Burning beneath the sound of rain on the roof,
Because the radio's silent…..
And because sausages are best done slowly.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
With meadow eyes come daisies and trouble.
Flowerbeds picked on and whimsiness doubled.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Our once baron land
nothing but blackened sand
Tis now a place of beauty
So come take my hand
so we may stroll through our garden forever
Along the crazy paving pathway
We shall stroll through our garden togeather
Flowerbeds of
Salvia
Delphinium
Coneflower
Cosmos
Alyssum
daisies
Aster
Clavillia
Hollyhock
Poppies
Just to name a few
So come sit with me my love
on our swingseat made for two
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 10:56 PM UTC
i.
her dress laced with
icicles, winter streams,
on her head she
wore a bluebell hat.
her hair wild roses,
her little hands gathered love like
wild roses, until her
cheeks melted like wild
roses, and everything of
her was the rose wild wind and
the silvery song of the moon.
ii.
winter wove it's dull aches,
it's rose powder rains, its
clouds of dream around
her, but she refused to believe
in the scrolled iron gates of winter
where nothing would open into
the garden of her dreams and
she was left a wood sprite,
magical as freezing midnight
cloud-like in her roses and
blanched cheeks, a snow-rose,
deeply beautiful.
iii.
pale as a midnight cloud,
the flowerbeds soft stars
of february, moments of
ice, tears, tears of a doll
in the frost.
iv.
love, surreal and ceramic,
pink blossom kisses on your
cheeks and your cherry-white lips
winter harness of bells and softest
leather.
v.
clouds sing of roses, winter sinks
like a dark rose, magical inks, rose-
girl, roses, dark thorn of black,
muse in the hedgerow, singing
of a long forgotten world. wounded
bird, drawn of paper and the ringing,
ringing air.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
who broke the moon? its
slivers shatter on tile and you
emptied them in our flowerbeds,
waiting, i think, for the rain.
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
*Dragonfly
zips across thine eye
flowerbeds
fields of somber song*
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 7:08 AM UTC
Man and mouse holding hands, beholding
what they have done together.
A magic Marcelline, MO:
a portal to lands that beckon, but never compel.
Trees, silent water, castle walls dividing
off magic gardens and sacred
spaces.Tiki torches leading in
to a real rainforest with fake animals,
fedora'd adventurers and no dust
or hunger or poison. A whilring, infernal
rocket sprung from the mind
of Jules Verne, raisng your hopes that
one day you'll own that jetpack,
flying car, ticket to the moon.
A fairytale castle, draw-bridge down—
a glittering carousel inviting from behind forbidding walls.
A fort with wide open doors that fear only animatronic
Indians and where every frontiersman is a hero to be
emulated by your children.
You need not choose right away.
No need to be hasty. If you wish, you may
choose to stay here, to linger, the aroma of the popcorn
cart competing with the fragrance
of the popcorn blossoms on the sheltering trees
and the flowerbeds decorating, protecting
Walt's silent, inanimate memorial,
until the stars come out and
the crickets chirp in the voice of a
conscience content, and popcorn
lights form haunting outlines, constellations
telling whispered stories and seductively
suggesting that tomorrow you stand
in line for a new ride: falling in
love, signing the papers, applying
for that loan, giving it just
one more chance. Here, you cannot
sleep, but you will dream.
And rest in the heart, in the womb.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
She is a landscape
Her eyes, filled with lakes
Her body is the rolling hills
Her hair, the grass and leaves
Her voice is the brush of wind
Her eyes, the dirt of flowerbeds
She is a landscape
But all she sees is destruction
She sees the pollution in the lakes
The bumps in the hills
The dying leaves of fall
The plainness of dirt
The sadness in the birds call
We look upon her
And see the beautiful landscape
But alas, her eyes are the dirt
And cannot see
What beauty is built around it.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
i used to lay on the snowed-in flowerbeds
of nan's backyard. once it snowed enough,
you couldn't tell that a ****** of perrenials
slept peacefully there: all crushed
and crooked beneath
dirt and ice.
some days she'd come and join me
if the ground was soft enough:
we'd stargaze up into the cosmos
of pine trees overhead and listen
for the stillness of winter - the hush
of silence that lingered in the air.
ivy and henbit writhed
gingerly underfoot:
a quiet dogfight
of frozen earth
that begged a
sluggish spring
to come out of
hiding.
Mar 14, 2022
Mar 14, 2022 at 9:47 PM UTC
I wanted to write a poem
about the incessant discomfort
I always feel in my left eye
whenever my contact lenses
become old and dry
I thought about how it tickles
but scratches at the same time
and starts off alright
just a minor annoyance
but quickly, overtime
becomes almost unbearable
like my pre-school bully himself
is folding down one of my eyelashes
just enough for it to poke me
at the slightest movement
then I thought about how
I'd sooner write a poem about my life
and how it started out equally alright
and quickly, overtime became almost unbearable
as if my pre-school bully didn't do it right
so I found him in his adult life many years later
wife, two kids and a mortgage
yappy staffy-cross, two cars
and an alright job as a graphic designer
his garden full of gorgeous flowerbeds,
a full head of hair and a fading right hook
"MAKE ME FEEL **** LIKE YOU DID THEN."
a puzzled look on his face,
garden hose flooding his drive and the yappy
staffy-cross still yapping away
at the living room window
"I'M DEAD SERIOUS ANDREW,
NOTHING HURTS LIKE IT USED TO."
so he called the police
and I never got to feel young again
unless you count scurrying away from
a council estate under the threat of
a poor meal at Parkside police station
the rekindling of my youth
so this is my infomercial poem
about how not to confront someone
always be fully clothed
that's very important
avoid being drunk
any mind altering substance
is best avoided in my opinion
remember just because you care
just because you remember
does not mean anyone else does
oh and
don't eyeball craft beer when
you still have your contacts in
you know what?
-just don't eyeball craft beer
Feb 1, 2021
Feb 1, 2021 at 6:02 PM UTC
The ace of spades
Was digging in the flowerbeds
Last night under the shade of the moon
Her rosy lips were clipped and
Her hair in disarray,
As the traffic down in
the valley disapproved.
What happened to Clara at the click of nine,
Down on the corner at fifth and dime ?
Silk stockings and stillettoes
stabbed the night
Traced out in tendrils
Of wispy smoke at bar ends
Aye the glint in his eyes,
That ace of spades,
Put paid to his debt
Of knives.
Oct 13, 2011
Oct 13, 2011 at 3:01 AM UTC
i could not feel anything but your grassbeats under my fingertips, quicker in the anticipation of neck-snapping.
"i hope you know that we are so very sorry about the accident. there will be measures taken to ensure that nothing like it occurs again. freshly, our extremely sincere apologies."
the curve of bird spines decorated my eyelids, question marks displaying assumptions to the turnablindeye world.
"no, sir, you are the one who is incorrect. the blood you see isn't really there, look at it. look at the transparency of your hallucinations."
october grew three heads and shredded the chunks of grass it ripped from the ground, spreading you as mulch across stranger's flowerbeds.
"three hours ago, a messenger twicely found you screaming and ranting about various invisibilities on separate corners in this very city. can you explain?"
i stood on curbs and spoke for change, spoke through three woolen ideas to the desperately closing ears of people that refused to look quietly at themselves, look at their thoughts without noise.
"no. we have broken you. there are not voices, nor stars, no hexagons spelling curses onto your forehead. look at me! sir, you are undeserving of a name."
ghostings are immensely entertaining things. i hope you'll come on one with me, some time after i ***** my thoughts back into their shoulder-blade space.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 6:12 PM UTC
i.
In the hysteria of absolute clarity
- *Otherwise known as the aftermath
Of an epiphanic experience or
47 revelations of elemental semblance* -
One sees one in all, and in
All men, Angels.
____________
ii.
I live in the suburbs;
New subdivisions sitting on
Sliced up ground, where elvish houses sat
Comfortably twelve years prior.
The flowerbeds tell stories
In a Tolkeinesque script.
iii.
But the air's clear here, I can't complain.
We've sunshine and enough rain to sustain
The whole football team... we're in A division this year,
My last in high school...
*but I still pigged out on candy today,
don't tell mom*
iv.
I've been listening more to the silence
And counted seventeen days,
Sequentially (and to my disgruntlement;
thus I dare not jest),
Wherein alarum bells did roar
From iron red chest
v.
Took Casper to the hospital downtown
On a day like today, hey
It was raining then too...
He had candy in his veins,
And purpley-white too tight skin.
I still pray for his life every Sunday night.
vi.
All Hallows' Eve, now two years past,
Beneath a blood moon
Did the two dance, and sat inside
A crippled tree
To laugh and kiss;
Make merry of a mutual sense of entropy
vii.
In slow motion with
devils dust and funguses and herbs
They brewed and spewed as
We watched and sang to each other
And I learned that demons are in
All men
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
i'll pluck poetry
from the flowerbeds to read.
you are not alone.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
A little rain then
Sun, the wilted flower speaks
Its song of the truth.
Graveyards turn to flowerbeds,
Watch the petals dance with me.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 5:45 AM UTC
A little rain then
Sun, save us a seat for two.
In time, I know that
Our flowerbeds may wither,
But I will still dance with you.
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 5:47 AM UTC
The afternoon light filters in through the shutters,
that look out towards the quiet cul-de-sac;
festooned with houses and quiet green lawns.
My room's walls are licked with yellow slashes
and lattices. Evening smooths the afternoon
into darkness with its brittle fingers and those yellow
slashes are interchanged with a diffusion of white neon
from the buzzing streetlamps. Oh how noisily they buzz
next to the flowerbeds! And people fold their lawn chairs and
go into their warmly lit houses and house pets roam blackened
curbs amongst the hedge delineations between homes and old
clocks wind down throughout the houses in cul-de-sac laced with
bitumen and broken glass.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 8:58 AM UTC
You tear our kind away,
those pesky weeds
that stunt
your plump full seeds -
that steal and cause decay.
You landed by fortune,
fortune of the windy chance -
you earned it. What is different is dangerous
less valued - not worth a glance.
Warm soil in-between your fingers,
You have power here in the garden,
Pulling and wrenching the stems from
home
We’re unwanted, not needed
Not useful, not beautiful,
Not enough,
but too much.
Strong weathered fingers grip our necks,
Trampled under steel studded boots,
We seep into the soil disappearing,
Just like you wanted us to.
Suffocating ignored as grassroots,
condemned to be always taboo.
Weeding is good, you say.
Weeding is important.
It keeps the garden healthy, comely,
presentable.
We’re the intruders, thieves!
in search for better light.
Worn down we grieve.
why do you see not our might?
A garden improved
Standing up I arch my back,
rusty and cramped.
Tiresome work removing the
unwanted.
My hands scratched and torn,
the limp bodies neatly packed,
the garden is reborn.
The flora look uniform now
no insulting dark stems,
only the long strong boughs
of rightful King Oak,
and no more of them.
But a king without his subjects is a peasant.
With our loss fades your treasured soil,
your sterling root networks anchoring your
flowerbeds of wealth.
We are the pests,
we stole your soil,
so why does it grow grey?
You wanted growth
I heard you say.
You can’t have both.
What a nuisance.
Us or the decay?
So I am a pest, you say?
Well, to that I say, we pests always grow.
Your tulips and rose corrode,
but you reap what you sow.
No matter the hate that spits our existence,
the sharp teeth of the chainsaw or
poisonous pesticide bidding good riddance,
we are green, and life sustaining, and we are resistant.
The aim is not good riddance,
but co-existence.
Mar 4, 2021
Mar 4, 2021 at 10:45 AM UTC
You are the first person
whose **** left me with a mouthful of flowers,
flowers of flesh and blood, our shell
a garden I nurture
reap, sow, *** and I know I can recover
as long there are babycurls on the back of your neck
riding piggy back
they are a peacock tail between my thighs.
You are the first person
that made me believe I could climb in a geode,
maybe meadows are not magic after all
just maybe things grow beautifully when fostered
as I am now,
touched by the thought that I may not be safer
alone and that drinking up an ocean
will not help me discover what I am missing.
You are the first person
to read books about plants falling in love,
just as long as butterflies kiss their babycurl vines.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
my heart needs magic,
healing, birdseeds and birdsong.
girl with garden hair.
monet's garden or
galapagos islands.
green swamp, barefoot wild.
heart open to winter,
frostbitten hands and open fields,
yellow butterflies and someone to dance with
i think. i
want to walk barefoot in the grass,
not like monet's garden,
not like a stroll through the flowerbeds
but at home, at peace, with my hands full of song.
Hope. a thing that never stops singing,
i want to spin magic out like thread. I want to walk in the sun,
I want to be soft and pure and free, and only be afraid
of too much rain and holes in the leaves.
i want to feel safe in my bed.
i want to kiss a girl with her hair up
and see someone dance.
but i feel like a plant without roots,
disoriented, cast out, careening free
like stumbling barefoot out the front door
with your body aching and heart in your fist.
and birds don't want my seeds.
i don't want to be a girl, a woman, a person
anymore, i don't want to strive
except in the way a wave pushes out,
or water runs down, i want to be a crane, a bell, a tree
a worm chewing through the leaves
a steady lull of waves, a fish that knows its school
or a bird at the beginning of spring.
as steady as the outpush of spring.
i want to flee at winter.
o! they talk about mangoes,
about trees dripping with mangoes
i want to be sweet
and empty of expectations,
no history.
i want to be eve
and only think of love and naming trees.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC