"horticulture" poems
Sometimes I think myself clever,
a genius in horticulture,
harvesting perpetual fleeting moments.
A muted gardener.
Watering without promise or
sentiment.
When the air grows stale
I can disappear
(I always have),
like so many ghosts
or smoke
A nomadic farmer.
But today
I want to be
old and knotted roots.
stationary and permanent,
nourishing and timeless,
impervious to elements
so that she
might flourish.
I want to lean hard into the wind,
sway with it and
bend
while holding my
only purchase.
And when she opens up
it will be enough
and maybe for the first time
neither of us
will be
murderers of perennials.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 10:13 AM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
I'm chasing a chupacabra through Mississippi
through mud thick like chocolate milkshakes
and rain soaked boots stick to my socks to my skin
I run around trees and zag and zig to navigate
a maze of horticulture past ferns and bushes
and it stops.
We're eye to eye
like two old lovers
spotting each other
from across a beach bar
except those bloodsucker eyes
could paint the Grand Canyon red
and nosferatu fangs
still warm from goat *******
could sizzle the sun.
Cobra tail whiplash
spotty patches of hair
the ugly duckling.
I aim my pistol at the beast and pull the trigger
like a civil war hero king of champion hill
and the bullet takes off at the speed of life
it penetrates the animal and blood sprays
out of the torso like a garden hose set on mist
and I run up to the almost dead chupacabra
and it barks
softer than balsa
whimpers of a new born
puppy tears
staining red eyes
and as loud as a mouse
it says goodbye
in dog
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:03 PM UTC
The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
undeterred.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
heartbroken, housebroken
I lost your nuance, pray remind me
redness across my chest, heat and too many voices at once
heartwarmed, housewarmed
big sweaters, his sweaters on your shoulders, no makeup
the basement with gray fabric trees, and baby kisses, and baby steps.
the milk-foam and the let’s-meet-again espresso hiding untouched posited tomorrow
among banana peels and pearls and tissue
and after, cranberry stains on teacups piled in the kitchen
(a very narrow human interval between two tiger heartbeats)
and tight sweaters, grown-up make-up
that same basement, blank before morning
and the Philosophe, my favorite couched villain over us
too many voices discussing horticulture or eternity
I Do Not Recognize Eternity, is what I told you
tigers slow down for the night, sometimes
--the quickest change of heart, is what you thought
and I, again, chose the stars.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Come, Jenny, let us turn gardeners for life
And let us cultivate love in our garden,
Full & supple and steaming & pure.
Let us shatter the shackles of belief,
Hearts thump aloud if you will listen,
Come, Jenny, come let us unite as one...
Come, Jenny, hold this watering cannister,
Come help my hand already holding it,
It is very light that you would hold...
Filled with love for our kind of horticulture,
We hold it happily as our love will not end,
Yes, the one I just named Heart-i-Culture.
This will give us more happiness and love,
We shall be together through every trough,
Now our chaste love will blossom & bloom.
Jul 28, 2019
Jul 28, 2019 at 5:34 PM UTC
The coldness of my unleashed disinhibitions have gracefully succumbed to the wisdom of cosmological forces, despite my ravenous salivations for all that is vehemently forbidden.
As I bark inside the relief of this solitary pound of articulated and socialised liberty, like an expression of abstract artistry within an ethical mudslide; I continue to teeter upon geographical tightropes which span unforgiving terrains across the ancient divides of propriety, where the baron plains of deuterocanonical origin are populated by restless spirits with gnashing teeth.
So, if they could ever be personified, I could easily butcher a myriad of depravities which tangibly characterise my inner Astarte and Ishtar demons – although, such an event would have to occur after we have engaged in a myriad of abominations where raunchy and indulgent copulations shamefully expose our brazen wantonness to animalistic inclinations.
Never offer to tie me down.
Restriction diametrically opposes my socially skilled yet nomadic being, as it sojourns across a psychedelic array of vibrant gardens, and weaves through present pathways which are timeless in their being.
It just is.
That is the essence of ontology.
Can we ever effectively contemplate the philosophies of predetermination and predestination?
As I am not dichotomous in my thinking, there is a legitimate place for being an omnivore within the walls of our societal fabric.
Although I radically accept that of which I do not approve, the psychology of ambivalence has led me to raise questions around the validity of horticulture.
My clock has melted down the flamboyance of those multicolored mountainsides of being and nothingness.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
Lord, it is not in school where the exposed legs
of the daughters
are shown; something I & the wealth of the bridge share; This is a
prophetic dream of an AR15 even as it falls to the ground;
smelling the teen's genital area, Teacher wearing
Readers & Six Machines in **** lingerie; The Alchemist's
married life is this kind of a picture
of her drawers; The standards of shareholders looking on the mountain;
Temperamental eyes are on the new
Christ in Bethlehem when 1 a robot
sitting in bed or unknown; writing a tree, so literary to meet
you in ur soiled Garden trousers, Science,
Park Magic wins the toes of mom who loves
to talk language; Bread X.
Not in school, where
were unloaded two daughters at the feet of the
also shown; I think, This means that the bridge
also dreams of low AR-15 fire
the smell of the earth's DOLE,
Six reader machines wearing...
At least it's **** lingerie & married life is a kind of picture
of drawers in the standard cut so
shareholders can see the mountain's
Temperamental eyes on the new
When a robot Christ in Bethlehem 1
is sitting on the bed or unknown;
He writing a literary meeting tree in
Garden hats, Science
Park Magic wins mom loved toes
speaking in tongues, 10: Bread
It is not in school, where he unloaded &
the girls fell to the feet also shown;
1 think it is down 1 Dream Bridger Pass; The smell of the Earth's AR15; Sorry six readers & machines, &c. or at least a little bit
like wearing **** lingerie in conjugal life;
the image of a kind of banner
the shareholders can see over the drawers
mountain's temporal lights
a robot, where Christ sits on the love buried
In the hard snooch of a young woman
on the couch; He writes to himself
& comes out against a piece of wood;
Now that science is gardening in a straw hat
in the Park, Magic wins the toes, my mom's
love speaking in tongues, 10: Bread
It is not in the classroom, where he unloaded the rifle
& he will divide them, & actually at his feet, there is no [ ],
it has been shown; 1 think 1 is a dream bridge,
But what is the smell of AR-15 fire but that
of the Earth; Unfortunately for those six lonely
readers & the ice machines; at least
a little bit; And to those members wearing lingerie,
married & resuming standard drawers
in the image of the shareholders,
1 second on the Hill; the lights of a temperamental
where Christ sits on the robot love buried;
It is difficult for a young woman; In her snooch
in New Bedford he writes in his novel
It literally that came out of the tree's horticulture
Science Park Magic within a straw hat;
My mom fingers her snooch; That loves to
speak in tongues, 10: Bread
It is not the classroom which causes them to inherit
& as he unloaded the Aaron lifted up, & at the feet
of his own accord that it does not have to be shown;
11 bridges think it is a dream; But why, except
that the smell of an AR15 is of the Earth; unfortunately
Ice machines & only six readers; He said while indeed
members were wearing lingerie & standard drawers
standing in the circle marrying their images to those
of the shareholders; 1, according to the Hill, lights out,
temperamental of the Christ, in the love of the robot
sits by the buried computer; It is difficult for a young
woman; In her snooch, I know that Bedford writes
that he has come under the sway of Rome, Literally;
& that it came to pass, & that from the fruit of the tree
of gardening; The knowledge of the Magic Park,
w/in the straw hat; My mom plunges her fingers
into the woman's snooch of love, the Greek speech
Express: 10: Bread
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 11:52 PM UTC
Blood-rich, vibrant, swirling petals dance, swing
Around breezes, tremble petulantly,
Feeling power course: green heartfelt stems sing,
Wearing thorn-mail, blazon, nonchalantly.
Cruel thoughts drift timidly toward the wood,
Shady under-shadows conceal pollen,
Ash bees sing the Roses’ song- Ruby food
Feeding volcanic hearts, single chronons
Bounce between young cupid’s glass heart garden,
Dream half coloured mirage: Wood-Nirvana.
Water drips and sputters, flower haven
Calls from woodlands as Father to Maiden,
Calling gently to sail, meander home.
Rest safe in the halls of horticulture.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 10:33 AM UTC
You were my counter melody written in a completely different key, but I think it's possible to make music out of notes that don't go together. We rubbed each other in all the wrong ways, but you will always be the only thing that could pull on my heart strings.
**** me in the backseat of your car like everything else that slips your mind or has no place in your bedroom. I am a figment of your misshapen imagination, and I have no complaints about being the one thing you aren't gentle with.
Send prayers in the form of taxi cabs; I hope you have no clue where you want them to go.
Childlike honesty doesn't get more candid. A little girl once told me I looked like a broken mirror, I hoped she didn't know about the one on my bathroom floor contrasted against the brightness of the contents of my wrists.
I hope when they finally find all the Wonders of the world, you're all of them. The missing books of the Bible are the diary pages you wrote in seventh grade about a girl who isn't me.
I hope when they cut me open they find mislabeled poetry, and whatever else I have written onto my rib cage.
I miss you like a burn victim misses the feeling of their own skin.
I am to you as a bible is to verses, and I hope that makes less sense than I meant it to.
My lungs are an empty room that echoes things that I haven't said yet.
My body is a temple but I'm not sure which god we worship. I'd rather be forsaken by the veins in my own arms than by hands that have never been held. I can't tell you how many sermons I've dedicated to you but somehow the pews are always filled with the sound of your voice. I swear you are my hallelujah.
I am studying horticulture so I can compare the way tulips bloom to the way your chest rises and falls in the mornings. I want to be in every single chamber of your heart.
I'm convinced that they invented lighthouses so when you went searching for the place where the sunset meets the ocean, you can find your way back to me.
If anything I say is untrue, then just pretend I swallowed dreams that were made of everything you've ever said to me.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
The crow bitterly caws
The dead man scratches at his noose with a paw
Death and destruction
Humanity's obstruction
Bleed out
The little one's they pout
My life in shambles
Pieces
D
R
I
P
The cold it nips
My grave is tight
I can't see the light
Fire and brimstone
Hell is where I'll atone
My sins are numerous
My life was humorous
Cut my wrists
My life it twists
My hope leaves
My soul is cleaved
Eternal torment
Torture
To certain people my pain is a horticulture
To grow and nurture
To grow to sadness
To develop into madness
I've been destroyed
I've been toyed
I ache for death
To breathe my last breath
I long for the reaper
To take my soul and be it's keeper
Heaven or hell
Ring it's bell
Bury me beneath an oak
So no longer can I be prodded and poked
Belle I don't wanna upset you
I'm fine I mean it
But my pain was a pit
And you were like a rope
And you gave me hope
For once I had someone who knew
Someone I could call a friend
Who could prevent my end
This poem is for you
And everything you did too
Thanks Belle
You saved me from a life of hell
So for you
I give thanks
Because now I don't have to yank on a rope
Because now I have hope
Suicide and homicide
No longer options
Nor is cyanide
Just a life where you exist
Both of us a pair of pessimists
Thank you
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
I bloomed like a flower for you.
An annual.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 3:35 AM UTC
People across the globe
Are enjoying my poetry
Well that is really
Something else
Maybe just a few
But that is exciting to me
I see people
I hear sounds
But these people
Don't talk to me
Where are they going?
And what are they doing?
Who knows
Some have work
In the morning
While others will stay
Up late
For a hot and steamy
Night of college ***
Good to know
That that turkey wrap
Can be relied upon
Quality turkey
And spinach
Nigel the dog
Has his own twitter
He is owned by Monty Don
British television presenter
Writer and speaker
On horticulture
I jump from one thought
To the next
The ideas have
No connection
Just as a day
Is remembered
In small segments
Random
And usually disconnected
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 11:38 PM UTC
remind me of the good old days
when the grass was blue and tickled our
sallow faces, mashed into the ground with the
ferocity of dogs straining
against their masters’ wishes.
when i touched you and my hands came apart clean
as if they had run upstream along
your shoulder blades, peeling sweetly
as the sun renewed our forms
fresh, whole.
where the stars beamed down so bright
even the winterfairies came out
to dance with the night,
lovers tucked away in her
curve, reveling in orgiastic sincerity.
our organic bodies, lined with
organic dust, recollect in the shade
of rose-colored wisteria, blooming free
high and sweet, breathing in
breathing out.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:10 AM UTC
The roots won't grow, they just won't. The water is tepid and the gnats know this as they hover over it. They buzz around with grand expectations and buzz in anticipation of thriving in such fertile conditions (for water is as life-giving as is soil). Propagated from one flesh to another in hopes of growth. However, the roots just won't take. Slime already grows there. Some gnats may lay eggs, glass jelly sacs, tenderly floating amongst the roots. Soon it all starts to rot, to stink, just the same as before.
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 7:37 AM UTC
my healthy body, mind
and spirit triage progression,
initially sans just
an innocuous psychotic spur
severe psychoneurotic
manifestations didst rupture
whence me childhood's end
as a psychological postfracture
catastrophically highjacking
(via overpressure)
donned with gay incognito
vis a vis sans
tartan Scottish Harris
(Boss) tweed welcome mat
plain as day affliction
obvious nondisclosure
whip saw mental health
pubescent misadventure
with deleterious, hellacious,
and lecherous mailer daemons
indelibly etched within mine kempf
nightmare nonfictional
sigh hick locust plague
odious autobiographical literature
at that perilous juncture
when all of a sudden onslaught
germinated feelings deeply rooted
finding shattered, leveled, and fractured
flintstone bedrock
viz yours truly insecure
pestilential, kickstarted
littoral heretical, diabolical pernicious,
insidious, and avaricious
cerebral heady hot house
embedded, fixated,
grafted "horticulture"
sowed "Kudzu" tendrils
analogous to Oriental gravure
immune to organizing, strangling,
wrangling foreclosure,
essentially usurping,
torquing, stagnating,
rotting prepubescent
healthy development.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
First day of school
First day of school
Will the kids be cool on the first day of school
Will they learn how they contribute in being the future of the world and it all comes back to the first day of school
When the kids are at home all summer and when it is time to go to bed for school
It is a ******
Kids have fun as they enter the school to improve their minds
Yes it is cool on the first day of school
They play sport and they do English too and do mathematics
And learn science too it will be cool so cool indeed
It’ll be cool on the first day of school
They will learn horticulture and home economics and maybe there will be a few that like to do art, you see I like art and I was cool and as the first day of school came around I was cool
First day of school
First day of school
It’ll be cool on the first day of school
And as kids learn to help the community they say
It’s cool on the first day of school
Sometimes it is hard to get kids to except this
Oh well, we’ll try and try I suppose
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 7:30 AM UTC
Stop dropping off fledglings
like I can just ignore
something that is not yet grown
and expected to start functioning
alone!
Last year,
you cocky redbreasts thought
that three could bob happily
in the construction site
and thankfully I found no bodies
or feather puffs
This year,
that cheeky blackbird
who happily stalks the lawn
(though moss pile is more accurate)
has dropped bright and happy chicks
in the pell-mell mix of my
****** horticulture
And don’t get me started on the pigeons!
The cats round here,
like everywhere
are at best loveable rogues
with claws on fingers
and toes that like to ****
for spits and giggles
In these times
I turn to nature to save me
but you crank my anxiety
like the ***** grinder’s
forbidden monkey
Gimme a break, please?
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 12:04 PM UTC