"horticultural" poems
Bromley pale marmalade
on rye bread
in tupperware containers,
flasks of milky tea too.
Pens and paper at the ready to review places:
Anglesley Abbey and Borde Hill
visited on alternating months.
Gardens so awe inspiring
their visual consolation
so uplifting,
manna for the mind
and deadlines for the
horticultural society review.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 5:02 AM UTC
The haggard lawn is tired of the long hot summer now September has arrived.
Its seedy moustache is no longer luxuriant, but wiry;
A snake-like thing that has ambitiously unfurled without the full quotient of chlorophyll.
It is time to offer the sward the privilege of a cut.
Man moves towards machine, assuming simplicity.
But mower is asleep and will not fire.
At first he tries the simple fixes; fuel is present, spark plugs in place.
But the horticultural haircut remains undone,
As the tease of utility leads him to try louder, less sensitive approaches.
Meanwhile, the rotary monster relishes its narcoleptic interlude,
And the grass grows on.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
*A Poeme from ye Penne of
ye right learned Professor Peter Buttocke
collected by hysse Pupille Edna*
There is an ancient Shittah in my Garden, eldritch and right dun in alle Aspect
Wherein dwelleth a loude and noisome Ouzel, ye like of which I have ne'er yet seen
Under thysse our goode Goddes fayre Welkin up in ye Skye above us alle.
This foule and unwholesome Beeste, with trespassynge shote-like ****** Effusiones
Hath performed ye veritable Antithesis of kindly horticultural Edulcoration
For whiche Sinne I shall emasculate ye Brute, so God may grant me Pow'r.
Sudating at ye Nostrilles I advance, my trustie Stang at ye ever-ready,
And I prepare to eject it from yon Pollard, having previous shattered
Alle its horryd Frangibles with one brave bolde frampold Blowe.
Thwacke! A last Piffero-reminiscent Warble escapeth loude from its fowle coronoid Appendage;
Right severe Damage and harsh fatal Ruine of Nature irreversible have I caused
To ye shaggie shamelesse little avian Runte, whereon Goddes smile hath ne'er dawned.
Thus descendeth it to the Faeces-bedecked Herdwick, and I titubate triumph'lly o'er its conticent Corpse.
And were there yet a duodenary Set of ye Frass-Depositors, I would not give a Demi-Testrel for their Survyvall
Should they e'er again infringe the sacred Privacie whych ye ancient Shittah enjoyeth in my Garden.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
The big kid stood
by the garden shed
with others kids and you
the horticultural teacher
was down by the beds
with some other kids
whom he was showing
how to dig
and the big kid said
I had her
back there
up in those woods
at the end
of the playing field
the other kids
moved in closer
to get a better grip
on the tale told
you stood on
the perimeter
of the crowd
one eye
on the big kid
the other on the teacher
bent over a kid
showing him how
to hold a *****
and you know what?
the big kid said
she was some goer
the other kids
looked at him
then at each other
some plump kid
with spots laughed
you looked over
towards the woods
by the playing field
a quaint woodland
over by the fence
and near the road
and you know
what it’s like? Huh?
the big kid said
the kids nodded
you noticed
their eyes large
and their tongues
at the corner
of mouths
it was like slipping
into a warm bed
the big kid said
on a cold night
the teacher made
his way towards
you and the kids
by the shed
the big kid
made gestures
with his hand
and the boys sniggered
half catching on
to the gesture’s tale
the big kid’s hands
went into pockets
out of sight
the other kids
moved towards
the teacher’s
calling voice
you followed
unwillingly
having little choice.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 3:12 PM UTC
then the full corn, in the ear.
¿Has the seed faith evidence,
made the dedicated monk
useless, due to evolving knowledge,
horticultural returnings to old knowns,
bringing hope to survivalists,
intent on living on Earth, warless
for the ever after this?
No, fighting
for a faith that must be kept,
pristine, clean, cleared of science logic,
such has left all reason bleeding,
use the rags remaining from the old
folded and put away worlds
in storys held
stuck in the stars,
so we may remember, lest we forget.
Those who knew nothing as we ought
to have been knowing by Christmas,
all are forgiven, or nothing is true,
self-evidently…
washed, cleansed from perceived stains,
white as new-fallen snow…
Deep Mind white room cinema effect,
preceding the ever after this…
you be come this far, alone.
You be edging up on after all's
been said and done, what you did's
been said to have done nothing,
nothing, thus
nothing done wrong,
nothing done to no effect.
Feb 28, 2024
Feb 28, 2024 at 1:25 PM UTC
It always looks better on paper
Drug mules
You'll be carrying a huge amount of drugs from point A to point B and then you'll get paid handsomely after they're done renting out space in your *******
You need not be worried
You need not see this
You need not be here
Get back to your horticultural ventures
Cavities in your bicuspids
They are oblong and plentiful
In terms of shapes and numbers
Moreover, the riddles are almost always to some degree atomic
But more often than not the outgoing ones refuse to falter
When asked to recite the table of elements
Or give a heartwarming speech about social ecology
Yet the quiet ones are known to surprise us
Some can give you the recipe for the best hossenfeffer you'll ever have
Some can make a record that is demanded to be put on constant replay
Or have a deep conversation with a lifelong grouch and have roaring fit of laughter as an outcome
Then there are the horses who are lead to water but die of thirst
Who are baffled with the question, "what is the difference between Taylor ham, pork roll and Canadian bacon?
And can never figure out the complex algorithms
For they are cursed with weak constitutions
"This is just another poem"
My sentiments exactly
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
I've watered this garden for ages
Yet nothing ever grows
I've consulted botanical mages
They haven't the time for my trivial woes
I've pruned with bloodied fingertips-
Soil so stubborn, refusing to shift
I've given every pamphlet a flip
Still no signs of a horticultural gift
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC
As a botanist she had no peer
In cajoling a plant to appear.
She would talk to them…sing
About any old thing.
And she’d fertilize often with cheer!
She lived out her life in an attic;
Horticultural chances were static.
But her care was so giving,
She earned plants a living
With a glow based on colors chromatic!
She developed a system to graft her
Young shoots twixt a wall and a rafter.
There was not quite the room
To make daffodils bloom,
So she sprinkled them often with laughter!
As the plants grew they got a concoction
That would let them move on, as an option.
And thus one new morn
Plant Parenthood was born.
They would offer themselves for adoption!
Though ado/apted, they remembered her dearly,
And the reunion they held semi-yearly
Was named after her
Though her prodigy were
Often forced into blossoming early
Not a problem.
They were used to miracles!
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Roses are red, they’re also pink
Which led me to think are violets blue?
Never the first choice at valentines,
shrinking away under their many hues
If I were a violet I’d leave the flower bed
Get a horticultural shrink to diagnose my head
No one wants violet they just want rose
Whatever Happened to Flower Violet?
Pretty in spring
Forgotten in summer
Discarded by autumn
Dead in winter
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 11:05 PM UTC
The cattle commove by
Threading branch
Landing rockets in the blue colleseum
Where black and blue crimes make
For horticultural violent acts of
Skin and rage and anger. Names of other
Gods blasphemed in the night.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
A storm that arises left
Of the forest rains on all
Those beautiful daisies
And one that comes right
Of that forest
Shudders climaxes
Makes petunias
Also.
Its so the same.
A storm.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 12:40 AM UTC