"lawnmowers" poems
Cellphones and swimming pools.
ne'er the twain should meet.
The result can only be bad,
same for lawnmowers and feet.
Sep 6, 2010
Sep 6, 2010 at 2:02 PM UTC
Two of my Zen friends
who, at the time,
I thought were some kind
of Zen enemies,
seemed to condemn me
to a soap opera
of eternal cookies
and the sound of lawnmowers,
and it took me
forty-some years
to understand this koan,
and the suburban heaven
that I was condemned to,
where instead of a life
in the forest
with snakes and mosquitos,
or a life in the city
with rats and roaches,
I was given
a life in this quiet, rich suburb
with an air-conditioned summer
and a toasty warm winter,
so that surrealistic understanding
of cookie and lawnmower hell,
turned into everyday Nirvana.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
My darling, I have begun to dream
Of tractors, crossing
The river Jordan
From my mind spun a chronicle of death, foretold
I began to think that in 100 years, solitude
Will be afforded, there will be
No more tractors, Or
Lawnmowers, Or
V8 engines, Just
Silence, Love, So
I shall not wake you in choleric times, I shall return
To the memories of another; of melancholic insomnia
That ***** that unwritten
Love letter to the colonel,
and think, You know,
Earplugs may not be so bad.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
I come from the green winters,
the beady drops of sweat
running like lawnmowers
down the side of a face.
The bugs, bugs, bugs
and freakish hailstorms
of the way-down-south.
I come from the trash-can lid
that I made a sled and took flight on
soaring over the inch-thick ice.
I am from howdy-land and yeehaw-city,
but the thing is,
they really weren't.
I come from a fascination with rocks,
the round ones with the white stripes
and the white ones with the round stripes.
I am from bee-stings and wasp-nests,
and the kind ointments that were
whispered into my battle wounds.
Down the side of a cliff,
running like lawmowers,
the beady drops of sweat
come from green winters.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
It was just one of those days
when the haze of summer had just started to lull the suburbs
into a sticky heat
of grills and lawn mowers
of air conditioning
(everyone pretended not to use it; windows! barked the mothers, windows!)
and the sweat stuck to the brows
of the life guards
napping in the sun
above an empty pool
the Dawson pool.
No one ever swam there
and the lifeguards knew it
those teenagers, sunning themselves lazily on hot days like this
(and the mothers! They complained about the tans. Cancer! the said.
In a way they were right,
but really.)
The waters were clear but the fences were rusted
the diving boards were falling
throwing themselves off the deep end
Katydids
lawnmowers
those lazy days
and the mothers! the constant nagging of soccer moms
lulled around the pool
on the day
Cassandra
took her
last
swim
Her face was like shoe leather
tanned by no fewer than 98 summers spent on porch swings
plodded slowly,
like her feet were considering
every
last
step
this woman presented her 5 dollars to the girl at the gate
(some surprised lifeguard, because, you see, no one ever swam in Dawson pool)
and pushed inside.
Cassandra never left her porch.
and the mothers! how they scolded their children for teasing her
(even though they had done the same thing at that age.
That's how old Cassandra was).
Decades of the suburbs
and push mowers
and world wars
stayed like photograph around her face.
The lifeguards stared.
Cassandra kicked off her flip flops and shrugged off her mumu.
In a pink bathing suit she sank into the water.
The age melted off of her as she danced through the water
graceful
strong
the strokes were slow and deliberate
and the lifeguards watched as she pulled herself from one end of the pool to another and back.
She made 16 rings
remembering her childhood
23 more
for her marriage
and then 60
60 rings!
before she stopped.
60 years old, the year her husband died.
The year she had stopped talking
aside from the hushed prayers in church
but she was talking to him; that didn't count.
60 rings.
And Cassandra just disappeared.
No one found the body
no one found anything
aside from flip flops and a mumu.
The lifeguards were nearly scandalized
for letting Cassandra drown
but soon she went from a news story to a ghost
and the mothers! sniped at their children
for whispering
"Did you here about old Ms. Cassandra?
They say she found God."
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
And thus we bid you
welcome to our home,
Finzi-Continis
of the new Century.
Oh, we play jeu de paume all day
behind our walled gardens
Deuce! Love! Set!
you can hear the birds,
the lawnmowers humming diligently
in the yards
the automobiles
Sense a world out there
so vulnerable
Those we think
we care not about
or would prefer
not to know about
ever, really.
Best leave us alone,
spending our sated evenings
arguing politics in candlelight
intense debates,
places unseen
"Not much else there
could have been done,
was there?"
Come back, carefree!
Happy-go-lucky
Deuce! Love!
For every once in a while,
I wake up, for a moment
back in the Garden,
not alone
"A soap bubble!"
"There! ~ another!"
Amid childish laughter
we watch them float away,
their colors winking back.
And we play
merrily,
a blanket of sunshine ~
'...and there's another!'
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 3:19 PM UTC
Start now knowing joy,
that’s an order,
overcome a deepening solitude.
Like a bee at a bugle
or me at the deli
on Third Avenue.
I said to Joe when do you think this weather will break?
He jokes, April.
That’s no joke. Weak creatures die and the strong barely survive.
Half a year goes by
another cancer checkup.
Cheer up. Any weather’s
better than no weather at all.
There’s always governance
even when there is no government.
My candidate drops out
after Iowa. Why do I always lose
at politics and poker?
Peace at last!
No lawnmowers, no leafblowers.
Big comfy couch.
Meditate on this: Do what has to be done.
Find your lover gazing at the moon
and take your garbage to the dump.
Your web site evaporates
and your possessions are thrown in the dumpster
except your trumpet which finds its way to a future trumpeter.
Jun 8, 2021
Jun 8, 2021 at 6:38 AM UTC
Heart ****** to death
“Do you need the paramedics?”
Life and Death is three quick breaths
And 15 pumps
Or was it 11, or 22?
Where are they?
One deep rale
Where are they?
"Anung nung yari qui daddy?"
Eyes rolled up to GodDid you see a light?
Fatal heart won’t live through night,
Weekend, two weeks, re-evaluate
“Dey dun’t know daddy. He’s a fighter.”
Alone in CCU committed act of faith
with laid hands on experience.
Comatose body wholly heaving with Holy contact
Then silence, stillness
Transfers, therapy, rehabilitation
Sent home by HMO
Came home first night to check on you:
Blotted brow and utterance
“Just try to go to sleep”
Came home one day to check on us
Then entered Jacob’s sleep
Headstone scarred by lawnmowers
Grass envelopes me
Gives me hug…you never did
Yet tears are all I see
Heart knows utterance by heart
“Fin, take care of mama.”
Heart de-virged through pain and loss
Salamat po Pops
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 2:19 PM UTC
Wander, wander, wander
The terrain is rough here
The roads are steep
The people mean
well
The air sings, exhaling carbon dioxide
The streets are high
Whistleblowers, lawnmowers, money sowers
It's nice when it rains though
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 3:44 PM UTC
Late September creeps and greets like an old friend
Now we know we've reached Summers End
Lawnmowers rest as a rakes job is about to begin-
A crisp breeze (like a lover) caresses my chin
And now we know we've reached Summers End
The leaves I see are turning from green to a sickly yellow-
Autumn around the bend
Now we know we've reached Summers End
Flipflops for boots- tank tops for sweaters
Soon our mailboxes will be filled with holiday letters
Fireflies play a Mason Jar Melody,
Scarecrows orchestrate a beautiful harmony,
Forcing summertide to yield in jealousy
A foretaste of past recollection,
An embrace of the years reflection
To hard to comprehend
We've reached Summers End.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
I remember when I flew.
The freshly cut grass glued its self to my bare feet, the blades wanted to fly too.
I took off.
A powerful start, rocketed off the damp visage of Mother Earth.
She had great power, gravity, is what they called it.
They said more than kryptonite was needed to stop it.
Gravity, only defeated by breaking the laws of Newton.
I didn't want to break any laws (jail would not be fitting for this hero who needed to be back in time for lunch).
But I kept going, if birds can fly ( and knowing they have much smaller brains ) then I could figure out how too.
I kept going, until my toes kissed the leaves of the oak tree.
Each time I touched the tree time would freeze.
In that moment I watched the wisps of hair flow back and the shadows cross my face.
Soon I was over the trees, doing backflips and summersaults in the air.
I was floating on my back.
The sun warming my face.
The harmonic hum of far off lawnmowers singing in the distance.
I arched my back further and further ready for another backflip.
On my back looking up.
What happened?
I blinked.
A permanent scar on the hero's back.
Sit up.
WHAM
It hit me, the loss of flight, the loss of that reality
and the reintroduction of the other.
It was all gone Mother Nature won again.
A life long battle.
But I'll try to never forget,
I flew
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were telling me how you visited the zoo;
spent an afternoon watching the zebra graze
and the lions lazily roar at civilians with digital cameras.
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
You were visiting the zoo, crying on the phone—
*How can they keep them in cages
Locked away as if they don't feel like we do*
You forget
there are people in cages without keyholes
there are blistered eyeballs scanning a lightless horizon for a lock pick or a clothespin
that may allow them to puzzle their way into the gears
There are people who die searching
I talked with you on the phone the other day.
We chit-chatted about sunbeams and lawnmowers.
We were happy, careless.
There are no cages here.
Only keys.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The sun exits, ever so slowly,
down behind the heights of bursting-into-leaf beeches
as gym-shoe-running children
are called in to supper and to bed.
Voices sound from balconies and neighbours' gardens
while blackbirds bid, contentedly, the day farewell.
Lawnmowers cease their whirring sounds
and clippers, rakes and hoes clank in wooden or plastic sheds.
Fragrances roam the evening air,
invading every square metre with terrestial joy,
and cigarettes are passed around
as the face next door has ceased
being a removed nod and smile.
Eventually, the curtains are drawn on a happy ending
while tentative talk succeeds in silencing
any riotous upheavals that might occur
in the night's discourses and dreams.
Aug 14, 2010
Aug 14, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
Old women with their
electric lawnmowers,
waiting to die, thinking
they're going to
meet their husbands again
somewhere up in the sky.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 8:55 AM UTC
Lawnmowers mowing
The familiar smell of grass
Leaves my nose sniffing
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
If I could pen a poem from
all my regrets, I would fill up
ten dozen notebooks.
And
if I could take back all the
things I wished I hadn’t said,
I could start my own
branch of the U.S. public
library.
And if I could wrap it all
up with one big gift-bow
and present it to you,
I would speak of the fragmented
memories of all the times I
spent with
you.
Because…
Five years ago, in January,
Hours turned into
Minutes and
Minutes slowed into
Seconds. And then suddenly,
all the time elapsed between us without
warning. And your ticking
time-piece turned out to be
a homemade explosive you
marked as ‘flammable’.
And if I could have just one
more minute to
tell you that I love you,
Just one more moment,
to say that I’m sorry.
Just…just one last second
to say goodbye
and to make sure you knew for
sure what I always knew that you knew;
Before the hours turn into minutes
and trickle down into seconds
Before all the time elapses in-
between us…
I would use those moments to tell
you that I love you more than Mercury
loves the sun, and that I long to see you
once again just as Pluto longs to
make one full rotation.
And I would tell you I will always
“see you later, alligator” and that in my
dreams, you will always be my
"crocodile-lover."
And how I’ll always go back to Summers of
how your fuzzy mustache tickled my
innocence during our special eskimo
kisses.
And that I’ll forever remember how you
pushed me on the swings singing
‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame,"
And how you whispered to me sweet nothings
of how I always was your favorite.
And I’ll always remember that you loved
candied orange slices, gummy bears, sugar smacks
and your “top secret” chocolate stash
almost as much as you loved
your precious cigarettes,
almost as much as you
loved me.
And I’d tell you that I’m still
scared of lawnmowers,
Grandpa,
And that I’m scared that there’s
no man who will
love me like you did,
And that I’m scared that growing
up will make me forget.
Because it’s six years
and six million
tears later.
And I wish I could tell you
how many things have changed.
But the most important things
will always remain the same.
Because,
Everyday the hours turn into
Sixty Minutes and the
Sixty Minutes turn into
Sixty Seconds
and the time still
elapses between all of us as you
sing me softly to sleep
Even from below
Six feet.
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 2
Would You Like a Downgrade?
I.
“Everything I own I’m carrying on my back,”
A shipmate said wonderingly that last day
In the recruit barracks. And it was so:
Two sets of dungarees, one pair of shoes,
Two sets of Undress Blue and then one set
Of Dress Blue B, one pair of sneaks, one pair
Of this, more sets of that, a ditty bag
Of Personal Hygiene Articles,
Officially and carefully approved,
All in a new seabag.
It was enough.
How much does a man need in order to die?
II.
And now we carry mortgages, jobs, books,
Televisions, cars, hunting rifles, clocks,
Lawnmowers, bills, Sunday suits, Monday shoes,
Plastic boxes that light up and make noise,
Fences that need repair, cats to the vet,
Air conditioners, chainsaws, queen-sized beds,
Closets that need sorting out, chests of drawers
Of things we never needed anyway,
Cameras, clawhammers, pens, reading lamps,
Scissors, and writing paper.
It is too much.
How much does a man need in order to live?
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 3:28 PM UTC
Oh ye men of Greece and Rome,
Too long have ye laboured,
Feel you not what is to come,
the grass by the wall of the ruin?
Leave ye down your tools, ancient peoples,
know you not what is to come?
See you not the pass of many years,
the grass through pavements old?
Great enterprise never sprung from a fertile land,
Go ye into the desert, and there build your temples,
Amongst the sands and beneath the sun,
where grass can never grow.
Here the lines and here the verse,
Here the vaults and chimneys,
Hark the turning of the days,
eek the tall and terrible days.
Lo, the falling of a chimney,
Lo, the crack of stones to splinter,
Lo, the old oak tree stands yawning.
better to build from bushes and thorn.
Have at your lawnmowers, ye council men,
And see what good it does you,
Think ye can halt the rise and fall,
of strong towers left to ruin?
Have at your anoraks, and have at your coats,
Clouds gather above and rankle the parapet,
Here stood a roof, here a joist, here a beam,
blackened in the soot and flames – here falls the rain.
Have at your sickles, and have at your hammers,
Go back to steppe and sod from whence ye came,
And never more disturb the sepulchral vaults,
where lie long dead men of Greece and Rome.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
hibernating knives
lawnmowers battle ivy
climbing slowly
wild
bare
changing
broken
fixed and sheltered
our life is
another
shape
the wings of remembered
penciled on paper
rubber bands around
a cigar box
secure keep sakes
to remind us
to pretend it matters
Jan 24, 2025
Jan 24, 2025 at 5:06 PM UTC
it treats the paintball injuries of contagious dogs. dry-humps to the sobbing of saint visitation. its sister delivers her own snowball in the binoculars of a man with a limp and a finite supply of plastic lawnmowers. I learn about its town from a poster meant to attract what’s never left. this is where I go to look like I’m here.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 11:43 AM UTC
The droning of lawnmowers
is almost a constant this time of year
Strange creature... Man
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
If I had to write a letter
To tell you why I’m gone
If I knew it would make things better
When I’m finally moving on
If I could find the words to say
I’m sorry and I want to change
But I don’t want to change for you
I really want to want it too
I know it starts with saying that
I want the relationship we once had
I miss you so much I can’t feel it now
I say this though I hear the sound
Of lawnmowers humming
On one of the hottest days
That started out dewy, and cloudy, and gray
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
When the sun rises on the still sleeping town,
The crimson light of dawn creeping over the hills,
Like a fire waking up the shadows,
Wispy innocent clouds meandering in the pale blue sky,
The shouts of kids playing in the streets,
The songs of birds and the buzzing of lawnmowers,
Creating a gentle orchestra of noises,
people going about their day,
Spending the sun with friends or loved ones,
And me,
In my room furiously ************ whilst crying,
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC