"mowers" poems
STATE SHUT DOWN BY IDIOCY
"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."
pretend the wind
is
blowing you back
"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"
"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."
"Five star hotel what the ****
"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"
LEAVES ARE FALLING!
"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."
"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"
"Is that an Asian girl?"
"What an a..cute *** that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****
"I'll fire you cameraman!"
*Four large oak trees have fallen.
HAWAII HAS ENORMOUS SURF!.
Four large oak trees have fallen.**
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
There's a silence in the evening,
A silence most displeasing.
It's not the absence of mowers running,
Or bedsheets flapping, motors humming.
Trains still shunt, foghorns blast,
Where are the sounds
From our past?
It's not the sound of contrary laughing
Walking from a parent's lashing.
Something's missing, sounds are gone,
Familiar sounds from our lawns.
The sound of rope slapping cement,
Fantasy games kids invent.
An echoing slapshot before, "Car!"
These missing sounds are so bizarre.
Those yestergames we played in jest,
Like Hide and Seek at dusk was best.
But outside games gave way to screens,
I'd rather hear childish screams.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
By David John Mowers
Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,
Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.
Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,
Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,
Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,
Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.
Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,
Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,
In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,
Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,
Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?
What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?
One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,
Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.
Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,
Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,
All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,
Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,
Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.
Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,
He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.
Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!
. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.
the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob
contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.
a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning
realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.
trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.
the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell
keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.
of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life
but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.
the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.
some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.
but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
316
The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today—
Further than that—
Nor stop to play with the Hay—
Nor joggle a Hat—
He’s a transitive fellow—very—
Rely on that—
If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir—
But the Fir is Where—Declare—
Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers—
And that is His business—not Ours—
Then He has been with the Mowers—
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay—
His Way—of a June Day—
If He fling Sand, and Pebble—
Little Boys Hats—and Stubble—
With an occasional Steeple—
And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,”
Who’d be the fool to stay?
Would you—Say—
Would you be the fool to stay?
5.2k
When you think of love
you think of butterflies and flowers
Prince Charming and towers
happiness in abundance.
You think of kisses and hugs
Aladdin and rugs
a sort of sixth sense.
You think of daydreaming, hearts sinking
no, not sinking, skipping.
Red crayons and smiles
Long stares into each others eyes
Carnival rides
You think of it being written in the sky
and a sweet apple pie
We see it as sea side picnics
Holding hands
Watching cheesy chick flicks all night long.
Guys riding on lawn mowers
holding up a boombox, blaring phil collins.
We see walks on the beach
shoreline just reaching our feet.
When I think of love
I think of awkward moments.
I think of my father as he left my mother
See, I want someone more than just a lover.
When I think of love
I think of a stomachache
my last heartbreak
and band-aids to hide the pain.
I think of his hands in mine
our thoughts intertwined
I see the hurt in your eyes
as I told you goodbye
Our last kiss in the summer rain.
I think of love
as a societal excuse
A word said too much, too often
Just a word
Nothing more than caution.
When I think of love
I see a dog’s loyalty to his owner
and the owner showing him affection.
A sunset, a beautiful sky
The way the ocean shows its reflection
When I think of love
I think of the heart’s sight.
Love is light.
Love is Agape-
God’s grace and mercy poured on top of me
the day Jesus died on the cross.
I think of no hope lost.
When I think of love
I think of Him
I think of how.
Love is here
Love is now.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
Our houses, spitting-distance close
Feet propped on railing
cold beer with fresh lime
watching robins flung in flocks
to the failing of August
Too close-- Really?
John, on his cell
is fu_king the world again
from his garage
Why not-- squeeze in pool or a dog
Lawn mowers and **** whips tune in to whine
late Friday afternoon 'bout dinner time
Clinking silver, scrapes of plates
Running water for suds
through open windows to the thunk of pots
Doors bang behind on pathway to garbage
or joint in the woods
wafting over all
wordless squeals of delight from autistic child
Meanwhile, the odor of nail polish removes
all doubts of--
--Gawd!
lodging low and toxic
as the sun dissolves orange
in its acetone setting
Kids playing Man Hunt as darkness falls
Leaping hedges, slamming gates
No yards can contain these kinetics
restless legs, furtive minds
Muttering wind chimes
from four different porches
above the drone of highway
a half mile yawns
Pieces of talk
flipping the crickets
over--
Why or who or at what time?
Other-worldly glow from The Mall
dims stars
outlines mountains
brightens the horizon behind
Mosquitoes coming in for a landing
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn
And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out
If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through
Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds
They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get
And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky
And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long
The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up
Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on
Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay
And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest
In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round
A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay
3.3k
The cats sleep on the rooftops,
an ambient beat from the shower radio
comes tone-deaf through the open window,
replacing the hum of lawn mowers
that had been harmonising
all Sunday afternoon.
We buried one in the garden,
an overlooked shrine within the deep grass,
child-like magic markers with a simple turn of phrase;
yet all I can think about
as I look over her grave
are how the beetles are nesting in her brain.
I lost the knack for sympathy,
ever since they medicated my drink
and told me I was their patient.
I lost the will for empathy,
ever since I tried to hang myself
and still they told me to be patient.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,
And top with silver petals traced
Like a strict box its gems encased,
Has spilt from out that cunning lid,
All in an innocent green round,
Those melting rubies which it hid;
With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,
So birds get half, and minds lapse merry
To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,
And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.
The wren that thieved it in the eaves
A trailer of the rose could catch
To her poor droopy sloven thatch,
And side by side with the wren’s brood—
O lovely time of beggar’s luck—
Opens the quaint and hairy bud;
And full and golden is the yield
Of cows that never have to house,
But all night nibble under boughs,
Or cool their sides in the moist field.
Into the rooms flow meadow airs,
The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.
Inside and out, and sky and ground
Are much the same; the wishing star,
Hesperus, kind and early born,
Is risen only finger-far;
All stars stand close in summer air,
And tremble, and look mild as amber;
When wicks are lighted in the chamber,
They are like stars which settled there.
Now straightening from the flowery hay,
Down the still light the mowers look,
Or turn, because their dreaming shook,
And they waked half to other days,
When left alone in the yellow stubble
The rusty-coated mare would graze.
Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,
Another thought can come to mind,
But like the shivering of the wind,
Morning and evening in the corn.
3.1k
by David Patrick Mowers
Been together a long, long time,
your heart and hand held close to mine,
but after fourteen years,
and you know some thousand tears...
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.
Had some problems in our life...
times I weren't your Man, times you weren't my Wife,
..but after Fourteen Years,
and you know some thousand tears..
I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.
Oh no more..
No, no, no-o....no more-or
Still have to think about,
all the things we couldn't talk out....
..but I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore...
Oh I know I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.
Now the end is finally come,
new things have now begun,
funny, I still think of you,
...and all the things that we've been through,
But I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.
No, no I don't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore.
I can't wear my heart on my sleeve anymore,
no more...
...I don't wear it no more,
I don't wear it!
I don't wear it no more....
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 12:39 AM 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
Small town sounds
Unlocked doors
Not that many cars.
Main Street grocery store
Nickel candy bars.
Church Street,
“Sunday shoes”,
Parents stood outside and smoked,
Kids caught with cigarettes
Would have allowances revoked.
Corn Growers
Push mowers
Friday football games.
Everybody, Everywhere,
Knew everybody’s name.
Summer shouts
Paper routes
Cub Scouts once a week
Boys and girls in sixth grade
Dancing cheek to cheek.
No shirts
Blue jeans
Walking through the beans
Witches, ghosts and scary things
Every Halloween
Greased pigs
Little League
Swimming lessons in the lake
Talking back to teachers
Was a BIG mistake!
Teachers had hard paddles that
They were not afraid to use
Parents told them,
“Go ahead.”
And they did not refuse.
Bicycles everywhere
Pocket knives
Truth or Dare
Water balloons,
Kids Cartoons
Fishing in the creek
Not it
Gravel pit
Games of Hide and Seek
Bible School
Golden Rule
Jesus Loved Me This I Know
Several generations
Watching children grow.
Laying on a blanket
Watching shooting stars
Teachers went two towns away
When they went to bars.
Home grown tomatoes
Juicy burgers nice and thick
Eating home-made ice cream
Until all of us were sick.
Nine o’clock bedtimes
The nights were very still
I still hear the small town sounds
I guess I always will.
PwL 5/5/15
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
The smell of grass in the
air was undeniable. I could
hear the lawn mowers
simultaneously roaring
away, disrupting my dog-days
peace. A blue blanket was
overhead, the white fluff
barely disrupting a
blazing ball of
heat. Smiles and laughs
left spirits high
and ears ringing.
Everyone and their mother
was enjoying the day.
I went back inside;
I think I’m allergic
to Summer.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
I still can't go there.
To that little swatch of grass
bathed in sunlight
without even a dappling of shade
It seems like a green field of memories
with almost no one left to remember
Even the words subscribed on the tiny brass plaques
seem somehow belittling
With them set into the ground
for the convenience of mowers
to pass over
It makes her seem
so inconsequential
that she shouldn't trouble the groundskeeper
with her monument
It makes me think of the mundane consequences of death
that overshadow the greatness of life
Like the simple economics
of maintenance
I can't look at the life of such a beautiful women
summed up in such a small way
it seems so common
so trite
I know that she would have told you
that she was common
but she wasn't
She had a greatness in her soul and being
that transcended the normal
that transcends death
I am overwhelmed by that little plaque
and it's insignificance
Enough to paralyze me from going there
I know that if I see it it will push
the other memories from my mind
and supplant her
She will become a place in a cemetery
with a little map on the grounds keeping shed
gridded and numbered
number 6 in row B
a little part of the order in a small field
and I can't have that
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
I remember so much that I wish I could forget.
This is a poem about Psalm 23 choked out through tears.
This is a poem about astro vans and
tractor lawn mowers and
driveway car washes and
small garden spaces and
digger wasps and
three wolves and a moon.
This is about the Backstreet Boys and
Def Leppard and
Kenny Chesney.
“Dreams” by The Cranberries.
About waterparks and
swim lessons and
the smell of chlorine.
Fresh cut grass. Bonfire smoke permeating through the house.
Grey diamond tiles on white linoleum.
Hands clenched down on washcloths.
Muddled. It’s all so muddled. Stuck beneath
brain matter and cerebrospinal fluid and
down, down, down beneath the lake.
How can I dig it out while also digging it down deeper?
I want to forget it all. No memory, no pain, no ******* problem.
Goldfish life: a pipedream.
Oct 23, 2021
Oct 23, 2021 at 12:35 PM UTC
1
In this dark, cruel and callous world
it’s optimists ar’ always good to me -
they lend me a thousand dollars
and when I don’t return
they don’t get discouraged
they convince themselves I’ll pay up soon
“Tomorrow,” they nod sagaciously
Yeah, tomorrow
And even when they get mad and furious
all I have to do is to offer them half a glass
2
To ‘em optimists
I’m full of gratitude
cos when I ‘s a kid
and skinned their cats
and stole their lawn mowers
and silverware
and put them up for sale in the same
street
they stood agape and said:
“This kid, one day he’ll be a great entrepreneur”
3
I love optimists
cos even though my parents cursed
“We never really wanted you”;
and my wife confesses every other night:
*“I married you for all the stolen money
and will dump you
and claim half of every dollar and property”;*
and my kids keep pestering me:
*“When will you die?
Have you written your will?”* -
optimists tell me:
*“The universe loves you;
reach out, and the universe reaches out to you”*
Hey, you get more love from strangers
than from family
4
And of course
let me not forget Destiny’s plan
for optimists in my life
cos even after the fourth ******
for which I was found guilty
(never mind the six undiscovered)
the optimists in the legal system and
Friends of the Maladjusted
got me out in seven-a-weeks, with the hope:
*” This time, surely, he will change
for the better”*
Ah, what’ll I do without ‘em optimists? -
bless ‘em all, and keep ‘em alive
for I’m planning my next killing
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Glorious morning dew...
On each leaf of grass,
On each leaf of the trees,
Covering the window shields,
But...
If only I can **** the undying noise;
The mowers near and far,
The mechanical birds overhead,
The storming of vehicles on the highways.
Still...
What glorious morning dew!
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
How strong I can recall
Summer’s cut grass
Damp from the thick
Southern air
We danced with plastic castles
In our arms
Dodging sprinklers
In neighbors’ yards
A child’s bliss
Ignoring calls
Of supper and setting suns
We ran on
Wet concrete
Beneath my feet
Felt like sand
And salt marsh breeze
Wandered gentle
Through my hair
Not quite a beach
But nearly there
Then quietly
The whirr of mowers
Disappeared
Summer’s white noise
Cut from my ears
We ambled home
Tired in and out
Called back by good request
Of stomach’s pleading
And light’s arrest
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 11:36 AM UTC
Pushing wheelbarrows through tall grass
hoping it will mow the lawn
it only carries old dirt
over new problems
Occasionally spilling manure over the lip to make new weeds grow faster.
Never believed in lawn mowers.
Said that cutting the heads off all this grass would risk cutting the heads off the flowers too
Most people say **** the flowers
But not you
Your garden is extravagant.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
When I listen to music
And sing along in my head,
I hear poetry,
And I wish I could write something so beautiful.
Beautiful words seep out of the speakers
Twinkling in the air
Invisible notes
Prancing toward my ears.
The music makes me sway,
Sway with emotion, with passion, on the verge of tears.
In that moment, I am free.
I drown out the unharmonious world.
Lawn mowers, keyboard typing,
Talking, banging, flushing,
Boys screaming at their **** video games at 4am.
Don’t they have homework?
But who cares because I have the music
And the music has me.
We are not alone.
We are one unit.
The artists sing to me
But don’t know my name.
I dance around
Unaware of my pain.
An escape from the world
These people have given me.
I want to say thank you
For making the world a little beautiful.
For making me feel a little beautiful.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
Outside is calm,
The shrieks have ceased;
The sounds of laughter
Left our streets.
The chalk lines faded
Like summer tans,
The derelict castles
Lie in the sand.
The swings sit still,
The splash downs vacant,
The parents have gladly abdicated,
Relinquished reins and riding crops,
The mowers, rakes and garden tools;
For the kids are finally back at school.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 10:19 AM UTC
He had no idea if he would...
If he could actually do it...
When the time came,
When his sergeant gave the nod,
Let slip the dogs of war,
Unleash the copper bees,
Send missiles hurtling up or down
At targets moving now...
On men who may be wondering
If they could fire the same,
When the time came....
"Steady, men!"
"On my command."
He lay there,
On a roof,
In a ditch,
On an open field,
Crouched inside a turret,
Bellied down in a plexiglass ball,
Hurtled above a world mostly covered in cloud,
Standing far below the earth in silo'd steel,
Seeing still, through satellite eyes....
Peered into the mil dot scope,
Ignored the cross
To see through the center,
Found the circled aperture,
Punched coordinates into a seeing machine,
Saw green circles on the screen...
Aligned the circles....
Tried to breathe.
So that was how it was
For farm boys, Mowers of hay,
Grocers' sons, smashers of ants,
Carpenters, hammerers of nails,
And bakers' boys, cutters of bread,
Just in from shooting marbles and BB guns,
Transported into war,
Fed soldiers' ration:
meat and bread and beans,
Five cigarettes apiece in boxed MREs,
Sent off to **** and to be killed
With mothers' tears still fresh upon their cheeks,
With lovers' ache still glowing embered heat.
Training fresh,
Waiting command
To fire only when the order came...
To remain firing til the order came...
To hold the breath and squeeze...
To hold the sight just so...
To squeeze...
And to reload
Keeping head low,
Eyes on target...
To ignore all but the sergeant's yell,
To think of squeezing on new targets,
To wait awhile to process coming hell....
And when the time came,
He squeezed,
Felt the sudden life,
Heard little but the sound of
Clean ejection ...
Saw his bullet,
Saw his missile,
Saw his target meet,
And in the meeting,
Red,
And in the meeting ,
Fire and smoke,
And in the meeting
Knew that he could do
What soldiers do.
This boy
Now cutting hay,
Now stomping ants,
Hammering nails,
Cutting loaves of cooling bread...
Caught in the maelstrom of war
With no moment left but now,
No possible tomorrow...
Only targets,
Only targeted
In ferocious winds
Of battle.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
Snoozing quietly on a sunny day,
with eyes half closed, breathing relaxed,
listening to the sounds the sun brings out.
Children screaming with play, lawn mowers cutting,
bees buzzing and singing birds.
Languidly lost in time bemused at the thoughts
running free in my mind. I start to muse on
ridiculous things:
Why liquid soap?
Why a date of birth but no date of death? (That would be helpful like a use by date on food, fit in that bucket list or miss your deadline)
Why do ice lollies only come in packs of three like condoms?
Why are children so ultimately free?
Why does the sun make us feel so safe?
Why does road rage come out in the sun?
Why do we insist on eating burnt carcasses and underdone chicken?
At barbecues that take forever to organise with people you'd rather flail alive?
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
This is where the wet will be
when my wellies come out of hibernation
(though, technically, it’s aestivation,
every day’s a school day)
when someday soon, this loop,
this recuperative walk
will weigh heavy on my feet
with the mud of thought
and of the mud of actual mud
til then I’ll wend, mostly light footed
with the rattle of mowers
and threat-cackle of magpies
to score me
and though not Oscar worthy
the kite-screech soundtrack serves
Oct 10, 2021
Oct 10, 2021 at 8:29 AM UTC