"landscaper" poems
I remember when I use to have sunflowers instead of hair and butterflies were always landing on my head as if I was their own mobile home.
I never went to the barber but our landscaper would take his shears out whenever he came over and prune me, and I would sell the sunflowers at the end of our driveway out of a cardboard box stand. One buck a bunch.
Instead of shampoo I used fertilizer mixed in with the water I would sprinkle on my head each night from the tin watering can I kept under the sink.
In the summer I would lay in the sun to photosynthesize,
And I would leave home with a crown jungle of green stem and yellow peddle,
My personalized jungle.
In the winter I went bald,
Except maybe some brown droopy stems with wilting flowers that would shed their peddles whenever I got flustered, or laughed too hard, or cried.
When I was 14 I got tired of boys pulling out my hair to ask a girl to prom.
So one night I plucked out each blossom, one by one,
Until my arms were full and my head was bare.
I sat down and picked out each peddle, one by one,
“He loves me” “He loves me not.”
The sunflowers never grew back after that,
Whatever part of me made them grow was gone,
I no longer have the seeds.
And now I sometimes sit in gardens,
And wonder if the bees recognize me.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
Your love is hard
like rocks
in my belly
in the morning;
like starting the countdown
to a three-day drunk
a week later,
at every turning point,
every shadow
of an angle,
I am taking roads
I have never
crossed,
I am watching
water run
in crystalline rivers
toward alleys
I've never known.
When they ask me
for money
or Marlboros,
I say yes,
please,
I would like those too.
I would like to eat
bagels
in the sun
with crinkly paper in my teeth
and sour cream cheese
sweetening in the liquor.
My landscaper's shoulders
and granite deltoids
are now green with lime
and lichens.
Girls like to run
their
hands over them;
but they are hungry
for your hands
and the lavishing footsteps
of your fingernails.
When I wake up
I put enough water in the
coffee-maker
for about
twenty cups,
and enough
***** in those
twenty cups
for a three-day drunk.
Your love is hard like ice-cold *****
and boiling coffee
that
mutilates tastebuds
and
makes my belly feel real good.
But not talking to you for awhile;
it's easier to warm up in the morning
so I can cool down at night,
and by the pink dawn
of darkness
I could get back to working my belly
with ***** rocks, and
Marlboros.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
I, the poet wears many hats to adorn self at any given time.
Musician, orchestrating with instrument of pen, expressive words upon page.
Artist, painting with beautiful colorful jargon, to open eyes and hearts inside grace.
Gardener, planting seeds of thoughts for them to bloom inside readers mind.
Chief, dishing out many a line, filled with delicious words to tantalize reader.
Landscaper, constructing scenery as beautiful as a mountain, or deep as an ocean.
Sculptor, molding craft of words sometimes soft and light, other times sharp as steel.
Teacher, enlightening one with information to open their consciousness if they choose.
Sailor, guiding ship-like eyes across a sea of words to move into calm waters for peace.
Laborer, picking just the right phase, to get a fresh new perspective inside a poem.
Singer, using one's rhythmic voice to echo inside vibrations of a sonnet that goes viral.
Doctor, becoming a wordologist aiding the reader to receive insight to help them heal.
Secretary, to self who writes and transcribes many an ode so reader and poet has peace.
I, poet has a wardrobe quite extensive to pull from, on a creative journey of sharing.
StarBG © 2017
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
Unlocked, loaded, let your words flame papercandle-flame
set arson to thought-control, combust news.
Pyro-dissident: touch fire to their views
Reveal new topographies, mind-shaper.
Spark a candle – a single thin taper.
Subvert what worldlings dare not refuse.
The herd will always revile or accuse;
but contours alter for you, landscaper –
so chastise darkness. Proclaim what is right.
(When their stable burns down due to your light
or smoldering, implodes, it’s not your fault.)
If the status quo will not acquiesce
then muster another frontal assault.
There’s no shame in a flame; just incandesce…
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
Where he laid down his books
taller grass overlooks
yonder green, which the landscaper mows
and he smiled to himself,
"Here they'll stay, with my wealth
and if found on this ground,
well who knows?"
Like the soft lullabies calm the child who cries
though he can't know the words, what they mean
yet the music comes thorough
and the words call to you
from the soil where the tall grass is green!
Where the tall grass stays green
and though none has 'er seen
any books to these days
guess they've all blown a ways
but the wealth of this man
can you all understand
is the land where the grass never greys!
yes, it's true
and indeed
this old man knew his seed
and indeed
grew green grass that was tall
that's not all...
it was in
his own hand
that he wrote
"Golf is Grand"
and his song
to this day
sung by all.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:43 PM UTC
Unlocked, loaded, let your words flame paper
set arson to thought-control, combust news.
Pyro-dissident: touch fire to their views
Reveal new topographies, mind-shaper.
Spark a candle—a single thin taper.
Subvert what the worldlings dare not refuse.
The herd will always revile or accuse;
but contours alter for you, landscaper—
so chastise darkness. Proclaim what is right.
(When their stable burns down due to your light
or smoldering, implodes, it's not your fault.)
If the status quo will not acquiesce
then muster another frontal assault.
There's no shame in a flame; just incandesce...
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
Kyrie Eleison
Father, my Father, Glory unto Thee, creator and sustainer of our Earth, hear my prayer. I found a single strand of hair in my car, long and reddish brown, and I wept.
I wept not for myself, or for something that I had lost, but for an idea which that represented, a yearning for something greater than myself, for a finale end to this loneliness I have run from for uncounted years.
Yet I understood that we, your children, are more than abstractions, more than symbols, more than mere variations on a theme.
We are the landscaper who left a single bunch of flowers unmowed in an open field, we are the children attending a theater in Palestine dedicated to self expression and non-violence, we are the penitent kneeling at the pillar of St. Simon in Syria, we are the bus driver giving free rides in Queens, we are the random person who pulled a needle out of my friend's arm one night, we are humanity, and our journey is a long one.
Many of us feel abandoned by You, many don't believe in You at all, and many, such as myself, are merely lost and wondering, searching for signs You have left along the way, managing as best we can to get back to that place where You live.
I thank You though, thank You for the beauty that is all around us, but more than that, I thank You for helping me to see it, to see the World, not as I am, but as You are. I am trying, and perhaps one day I shall succeed.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
"careful son", plucking stems from leaves
no hands threw him onto a stump, broke his arm
so a doctor went to work, a landscaper rolled his sleeves
years later, the yard changed and looked less
like the farm
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 8:30 AM UTC
Safe inside, I see the landscaper
Planting life, while yours is fading
Lavender, my mother’s gift,
Near the tree he wanted
To dig up and unearth
Innocent sapling
Snug in the soil
Let it take
Root and
Live
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC
a privilege to share
the deciduous bond
bare-crowned: my self and the trees
leaves, hairs,
epidermal desires,
the great landscaper reclaims all of these
Apr 13, 2025
Apr 13, 2025 at 2:35 PM UTC