My backyard fence was probably the most traversed place in my whole yard. To get to the fence, I had to squeeze through a narrow gap between a sharp evergreen and a pungent forsythia bush. As a child, this fence seemed like a great wall with an unknown force drawing me to the other side.
        Before my parents allowed me to climb over  my fence, I would sit under the yellow canopy of drooping forsythia branches and enjoy the sweet smelling flowers. I’d gaze through the chain link and imagine what great adventures I could have with the neighbor kids, if I could go over that fence. After school, both my neighbor and I would run home to our backyards to talk and pass sticks through the fence. To pass the time, we would spend hours trying to disentangle grape vines from the fence, stopping to snack on a few when they were ripe. We would weave crowns with the broken vines or wilted branches from the forsythia, and we would craft swords from fallen branches out of their maple tree. With these effects, we would wage grand battles through the fence until we were separated by the call for dinner. When I found a baseball in the school field, I could not wait to take it home to share with my neighbor. Together we wore the skin off that baseball playing catch, seeing who could throw it the highest or farthest, and trying to throw it through the diamonds between each link. The fence drew us together.
        My parents finally gave in to my ample requests and decided that I was officially "old enough to climb the fence." I rushed out of my house and darted between the evergreen and forsythia to tell my friend the great news. After getting consent from his parents, I clambered up the fence for the first time. The first time was a struggle. It was hard to get foot holds in the small openings. It seemed dizzyingly tall. Although it was one small step, I was thrilled when I set foot in the foreign land because I would finally be able to explore what I had observed through the fence and dreamed about for so long.
        His yard was full of wonders that mine did not have. He had a play set with two swings and a slide, a large plastic log cabin play house, and a deck, which was a novelty compared to the concrete slab my house had. I quickly looked past these things; why would I waste my time on a swing when I could run around and play games without a fence impeding me. When we played baseball, the section of the fence where our yards met was always home plate. At school all my other friends only talked about video games and television shows.  I tried the video games they talked about, but when I tried them I never understood the thrill of sitting on a couch and controlling an image. Being outside under my forsythia bush or running around with my neighbor appealed to me. It was where I felt the most natural and where I felt I could be myself.
        That section of fence behind the forsythia bush and evergreen tree impacts me still, even though I have moved away and have not laid eyes upon those yellow flowers in years. Whenever I am presented the option between watching a movie or going outside to walk or play catch, I will always opt for the latter. Something about a light breeze or a rustle of leaves or the song of a bird as it flies over helps relax me and ease away the day's tensions. I attribute this to the freedom I felt under the forsythia. Free from judging eyes, free from problems of the world, free from expectations.

Forsythia enflamed,
with not yet budded rose,
together in bed,
together they grow.

thorn on bark climbed,
coming of red rose,
but yellow flames,
fell away long ago.

Rose petals,
Become rose hips,
No golden beauty,
His petals slip,
A wedding photo,
a wedding kiss,
Perrenial memories,
They always miss.

And not for him,
She fits into wedding dress,
And not for her he will look his best,
Hot summer and early spring,
Meet and marry with no engagement ring.


Together in bed, they grow old,
hugging in the autumn cold,
no more vain red rose,
no more gold to behold,
Not blooming for bees not blooming for snow,
No blooming for others, nor blooming for show.

Forsythia,
here blazing out,
in,
is it tractor,
   center stripe,
      or school bus yellow?
A distant cousin to the olive tree.
Would that a rioting branch,
when offered,
would never fail to restore
tranquility and peace.

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

Who knows what stops the heart of a song
I take note

of tiny thud—
robin in the wheel well of my car

the limp head
of a cat’s prey

sigh of wings
defrocked by power lines

baby starling’s fledgling flight
falling short of a pond’s edge

The slate morsel unearthed
by the tines of my rake

…and the world is vacant for a moment

Grief ***** a womb of air
but how it lives— I cannot say
Upended creature of us

Stops the throbs that herald life

Never sure who's boss between us
He comes when called
several minutes later...

Blinking sweetly
smiling as only cats can
Golden, half-moons of sunlit bliss
watch fat yellow-jacket
marginally motivated

The hunt cannot compare
to the soft grass with its tender clover
a  full belly
and the meeter-of-all-needs nearby

But the quick jitter-dance
of an easy moth
sends the tiger
to the jungle of forsythia
Gleaming, stalking stripes
Alternating white of paws in precise approach
The prey?  Too quick
The predator?  Too old and lazy
prefers attention
Lumbers slowly back
lolling against coffee cup
Enough....

On needles of white pine
a secret lion has lain down

waiting only for the lamb

Raking Under Forsythia

Who knows what stops the heart of a song
I take note

of tiny thud—
robin in the wheel well of my car

the limp head
of a cat’s prey

Sigh of wings
defrocked by power lines

Baby starling’s fledgling flight
falling short of a pond’s edge

That slate morsel unearthed
by the tines of my rake

…and the world is vacant for a moment

Grief ***** a womb of air
but how it lives— I cannot say
Upended creature of us

Stops the throbs that herald life

I always wanted to be that random style of writer
Writing about things which have no connection
In reality but they are connective only by the ingenuity
Of his genuflection; the circumvention of his
Circuitous routing, his plaintive perturbing petulance
Which insists on stacking things of different orders
Flying birds together of different species
If I could write something of the ticking of clocks
Not as though the ticking were of premeditated duration
Embedded in metal tracks around perimeters
Of prevaricated die-cast hours; but as though the ticking
Were only a random fixture of a theoretical day
In which random clocks ticking played a minor role
During the still life of which a poet happened along
And copied it all down dutifully, not caring if
Ticking clocks were related to pitchers of Forsythia
Or falling off of cliffs into the Aegean;
The only task of the poet to capture it all
And let the reader sort it out later
In the random tracks of his circuitous brain:
Whether the pitcher was full of sea
Or the sea was stealing into the pitcher
One blue, serendipitous drop at a time
And where no clocks were keeping time.

Silently sitting
out on my chair
Lilac scent wafting
up thru the air

Forsythia blooms
so yellow and bright
Peony flowers
a pure snowy white

Birds are singing
Songs set me at ease
Trees are growing
pollen makes me sneeze

Winter has loosened
It's icy cold grip
Now it's springs turn
to captain the ship

Poem

I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?

Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.

Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like

a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels

and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall.  I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars

My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards

I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.

If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me

and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature

though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.

The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.

I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.

Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves

And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal

Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed

...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?

Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?

And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!

YES!

Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret

and **** yourself!

You know you don’t—love her?

Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!  
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....

Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...

And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!

Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call

And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!

And if you had really loved
who you had seen

I MEAN—LOVED HER!

You would have—
You would have done—

ANYTHING!

Spring in Kansas.
It doesn’t come in softly.
It roars in with the wind and rain beating against a steel roof, washing into the old soddies and stone,
Clearing out winter in one giant breath.
The change comes within a week,
From dry dead, brown, to startling green, an emerald landscape of winter wheat.  
The emerald isle has nothing on Kansas in the Spring.  
Then the color starts, red buds against glorious green fields
and thunderous skies, a painters dream uncaptured.
And forsythia, the first blooms, beautiful and stark.
Crocus, daffodil and dandelion crowning the ground with gold.
The trees, bare of leaves, burst forth with flowers in shades of white and pink and the magnolias burst forth, ready to fly off the tree.
Our mighty cotton wood, drooping with frills that will become light catching tufts in the early summer sun as the leaves murmur their constant song, piling like snow in the heated streets.
Thunder rolls as lightning strike turning day into night with hail filled clouds and twisters striking like Greek gods, angry and awesome.
Creeks flood and clear the way for tadpoles and crawdads in streams and pools.
Spring comes, the earth warms, we all wake and stretch and wait for the sunflowers to do the same, yearning to the summer sun.

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

one halcyon summer, when
we strung ourselves out on fat couches, wilting
like thirsty, overheated forsythia, one
hundred or more crimson carcases found themselves
turned upside down on my floor. ladybugs discarded
from the designs of nature. i swept them under the bed.
i promise, when you die, i will not flick you out of sight
with a careless index finger (there will be sorrow, outrage, and flowers
picked clean of aphids).

(repost)

Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves

And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal

Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed

...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?

Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?

And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!

YES!

Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret

and **** yourself!

You know you don’t—love her?

Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!  
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....

Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...

And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!

Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call

And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!

And if you had really loved
who you had seen

I MEAN—LOVED HER!

You would have—
You would have done—

ANYTHING!

Poem

I watched a truck churning under a wire convergence
and the sky above doped entrails coming from Europe
Where had the turtle gone, the one puffed in the curve of the fox?

Now clambering onto the icy porch
I open the door into
smells of brass polish, wood polish
pots full of bones.

Winter’s wind rattling time holds me in
I must make marmalade with Seville oranges
with their thick rutted craters, sadly moon-like

a little sweetness of the blossom
worn on bridal veils will come back
as the flesh boils soggy with pips
and Demerara’s sweetness pummels

and I’ll be beaming ear to ear, beaming, full
of a sugar high, then fall.  I don’t think I’ll be flying
to Jamaica, but at least I have a box of jars

My house will be dressed
of stiff forsythia branches, blooming
while I pull on stupoods of wool
socks, and wax my boards

I watched whirling snow collapse, loshing
on my face, signs of a dream, unsettling
separating mills and boon from reality.

If I had cast a spell stirring boiling sugar
And whispered ancient simple words
And as spring soars from
the dirt he would say agapa me

and my house full of worms, fat as fingers would dissolve
which is why I must plant, for butterflies to flutter
O my mighty easel, you are not like nature

though you are like a highway
of roots, clamped with straps
Supported or shaded, you reveal
all that I am.

The light begins to drop out of ticking stars
onto the snow bank behind the studio
the place where crimson and ochre mate.

I am really a painter
and my brushes are words
which glaze accidentally across
vellum, spurning censure.

Central Park transformed,
a natural stadium
of tourists, strollers,
drunk on:

spring beer Buds,
or
buds of forsythia

maps upside down,
smiles right-side up

Amazing,
they don't even notice,
'walk on by,'

the white shirted, black suited  
unicorn playing the accordion

or the

violinist
imitating Charlie Chaplin,
playing both her instrument and
her hula hoop,
simultaneously

ah Central Park,
your air is like
a first cup of spring,
a first morning coffee,
a fresh breath of
a special new,
if you know
how to
just be,
in NYC

When it is springtime, I open my windows wide.
The smells of flowers and cut grass are such a delight,
When, they come inside.

What does Spring smell like?

It smells like;
forsythia bushes,
daffodils, crocus, tulips,
cherry blossoms and cut dandelions.

What does Spring smell like?

Spring smells like;
The wonderful smells of;
laundry drying on the clothes lines,
rain,
fresh breezes,
and dirt.

All the smells of springtime,
are all so excellent, fresh, new and
such a delight!

© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.

Once you’ve gone
what more is there
to say about leaving

or, for that matter,
the impermanence
of measured words.

All I can do is stand
alone in the backyard
and listen to the wind.

A late frost killed
the magnolia buds

and the forsythia
never materialized.

And so I wait for the worms
to begin their earthy work.

I wait for the pink moon
to rise above the rooftops.

I wait for the smell of mock orange
and the blue of a broken robin’s egg.

But most of all
I wait for your
words to bloom,

to tell me, finally,
that spring is here—

that the gardens we tend to
have something more to say.

i.

i await
the sudden
awakening
of colour, in
the straw air
the clouds of
yellow flowers
wrap the
forsythia in gold.

ii.

the land is
ivy and moss,
thick-blades
of grass bend
in rain so
light that the
grass hardly
weighs down,

the rain is a
bare breeze

a time-surrendering
blossoming of air.

iii.

you said,
i love you
and it meant
more than i can
say and
i cried for joy.

iv.

boy, with your
brown eyes
dark with the
wild brooding shore,

your touch is
fire on my skin

and i brood too,
wilder than air.

v.

a bird sings,
sings of wilderness
and beauty
and that a heart
must be free.

the white
sheets of the
sky are still
in their mists.

She was
the Queen of Spring;
even her softest sighs
could sing.

Daffodils sprouted
from her lips;
Lilacs grew
around her hips.

Tulips blossomed
in her eyes;
Forsythia
bedecked her thighs.

Oh, she really was
the Queen of Spring;
even her softest sighs
did sing.
  - mce

sweet day,
birds kissing
the air in
rapid flight.

we wait, stones
of the morning
sun

for the white
sky to
settle its clouds

ghosts of the
faint breeze
tremble the leaves.

it is still cold,

april peels its
skin like a snake.

forsythia lounges
with beech and
rhododendron
(shiny with waxy
leaves)
painting its
impressions on
the fainting world.

the trees stutter
weird and heavy
glowing in the
light.

My Forsythia has one lone yellow
flower.  A sapling.  The petals hover
close to the ground as if afraid of the
sunlight that shines a neon sign.
Maybe Spring is coming to this
chilly Wisconsin May?

The temperature dropped 10 points
just now.
There is snow on my mind.  After
all one yellow flower does not mean
others will follow.

I will take a look at it and see if I can
go on.  I too am lonely in my singular
stem of hope.  Summer will follow
at a distance.  Autumn will come
tromping behind the scenes of
sunlight on my garden.

Lord, what are gardens for?


Caroline Shank

Thin as a lath; eyes of the prairie,
Forsythia the colour of your crowning glory.

Mouth tastes like chalk; touches resemble to an art.
When will I realize, this creature's spell only comes out before dark?

Heed I will, halt I won't.
Your grace deserves an enticing adventure:
a dip into the pool of the lament ocean, a climb to the mountain of forgotten sorrows.

O', my sorcerer-- or are you not?
The final hour has come again.
Until then, a kiss for my chagrin will justify my yearning.
And not one second, I won't miss that tulip smile of yours.

But my sorcerer-- or are you not?
Don't let the night succumbs you to the oblivion,
don't let the cold bites your warmth to bits, don't let the wasp seizes the sweet taste of your honey dew.
For this is neither a goodbye, nor a calling.

This I promise.

I'm not sure why
But everyone keeps talking about their mothers, lately.
Maybe it's because springtime reminds us of birth
Or perhaps it's because Mother's Day is next month.

I don't know.

But it's got me thinking of you, Mom.
It reminds me of when I barely reached your belly button
When you'd take me in the garden
And show me your green thumb miracles.
I think back on nights when the stars would sing for us
And you would point out which constellations were ours.
So many secrets and stories to be told.

I wonder which state you're burning through
Which highway you're on
And what flowers have captured your attention today.
It's springtime, after all.

Do the redbud trees remind you of me?
Of the long drives to town
When I would drone on like a honeybee
About those delicately beautiful petals.
Me, I smile despite myself when I see the forsythia unpack their trumpets,
And when the irises grow their beards.
You always had a way with flowers.


Even when your words would slur,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you would pass out and burn dinner,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you stopped coming home at night,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you packed your things and left,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when you didn't get better,
You always had a way with flowers.
Even when I stopped answering your calls,
You always had a way with flowers.

You always did.
I guess you always will.

if the daisies told you to make your own decisions,
would you?
if the rosebuds asked politely for you to be yourself,
would you?
if the hydrangea bush pled for you to think your own thoughts,
would you?

i am lost in a myriad
of tangled, tangled
forsythia;
for shame,
you told me not to write strong sentiment,
that my drafts were best left in the drawer.
scared am I of that thorny vise,
but they're not drafts anymore.

Forget our inglorious isolation,
Hiding away from terrors unseen.
I see a golden Forsythia
Outside my window.
Sunny daffodils and little blue flowers
Of  unknown name.
Bushes are budding
And turning green.

Bluebottles and bees have been buzzing
As birds flock about
Flipper flapping everywhere.

A barren, frozen desert
Is being transformed
Little by little.
We still have biting winds
Just now
But in the fullness of time
Warmer climes will re-assert themselves.

For summer is coming
As it always does.
No worldly woes will stop it,
Nor they ever will.
Nature has endless patience
And determination.
Sudden Spring is but the start
Of better days.
Believe it.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\3\2020.