"mows" poems
she’s the girl who sets a room on fire with laughs or real flame,
and she stands in that same flame; ranting about herself
with blissful intention:
aries.
she’s the girl who mows the lawn all day to throw a memorable party
on perfectly pitched grass; but then spends the entire party
with that one guy on that one roof, just the two of them:
taurus.
she’s the girl who ***** you fiercest only to then display sudden and
crippling bouts of madness; she’s one of a kind, or two of a kind,
and she means some kind of love:
gemini.
she’s the girl who you fall for so easily, and she falls for you so easily,
and everything is a dream; but a dream transforms, seasons transform,
and the peopled cities with them:
cancer.
she’s the girl who steals the show every time, and she leans on you
when she’s tired and lonely; she reads science fiction books
and tells you all the endings, strange planets fixtured in her dreams:
leo.
she’s the girl who thinks too much, drinks too much, and weighs you for all
your words; but words are her demise as she digs her arms deeper
into the dirt to catch that feeling:
virgo.
she’s the girl who piles a shrine of shiny occult objects and spools through
men like shiny other objects; she has a beautiful heart, holy or not,
but without a doubt, entirely stylish:
libra.
she’s the girl who doesn't believe a ******* thing you say but kisses you
harder when you say it; she takes you up the hill to her folks
and they sacrifice you for blood mana:
scorpio.
she’s the girl who knows you best and knows even better she’s far beyond
the depths of your league; she has deafening dreams, with or without
you in them; for ruins she will climb or create:
sagittarius.
she’s the girl who buys the popcorn and eats the popcorn and sulks on
the couch while tonguing kernels out of her teeth; she will never
truly love you, just the idea of you:
capricorn.
she’s the girl who saves your life with a tracheotomy when you nearly die
on that plum street seed; she will leave you for a another man, a man
with a good rifle and a warm little tent:
aquarius.
she’s the girl who sees synchronicity in all things, all life, all dreams
and emanations; she will love you until the smell of mexico drags her
away upon a neverending weekend:
pisces.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
Before she has her floor swept
Or her dishes done,
Any day you’ll find her
A-sunning in the sun!
It’s long after midnight
Her key’s in the lock,
And you never see her chimney smoke
Till past ten o’clock!
She digs in her garden
With a shovel and a spoon,
She weeds her lazy lettuce
By the light of the moon.
She walks up the walk
Like a woman in a dream,
She forgets she borrowed butter
And pays you back cream!
Her lawn looks like a meadow,
And if she mows the place
She leaves the clover standing
And the Queen Anne’s lace!
4.4k
women march
wrapped in foil. my daughter is afflicted with eyesight. while thunder remains god’s most solemn prank,
the moon is the bottom
of a prop
tree.
I exist to keep the image of my suffering alive.
my father is a cloak
that mows the lawn.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Peering beyond the understory:
a Victorian wet dream
of square topiaries
white pavement
marbled fringe,
the visionary leaps
into the crisp chlorine
freezing in an iceblock
if she remains til she is grey.
But she crawls out
of this boxed madness,
emotional baggage
forcefully drilled into Her womb.
She emerges from a pond
in a wooded world remote
yet available to all who seek it.
An unsure path
to the cottage
where the witch works her wondrous magic
bringing birds and butterflies
to aid in potion incantations
She mows no lawns.
She knows the name of every leaf and berry.
She sows them in her sleep
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 10:11 AM UTC
On a cafeteria table,
in the middle of February,
the kind where it gets dark at 5pm,
sat eight minature figurines made of shells—
brown, speckled, like a calico cat
with googly eyes on the middle of their heads,
one business man with a black derby,
one with a pretty pink bow,
or even one with blue suspenders,
and all their chubby bellies
rounding out over their pants. The woman
with her iridescent nails, bony fingers,
the skin pressed thin against her knuckles,
lines them up in a perfect row, tilting
their heads into one another as if
they are having a tiny conversation
admist the numbers being called—
B14! She stamps in red. B14!
A man pushes a cart around the tables,
like one mows grass around graves,
with fifty cent candy bars and potato chips
on flimsy paper plates. He asks the woman
if she wants ice in her Pepsi, but she just blows
a long sigh of smoke and flicks the sparks
behind her back. He doesn’t ask her to pay.
G56! She touches the head of the figurine
with the mustache. G56! I’ve lost count
of how many numbers I’ve missed,
but then there’s you, your hand on my thigh,
creeping, your fingers pushing
my cotton skirt up, up, and up—
O74!
We play with acrylic chips instead of stampers.
We’d like to win the lottery tickets,
maybe cash them in at the gas station
after we drink a couple iced teas and snack
on Mentos cause we ran out of money
two bottles ago.
The figurine with the fishing pole has one pupil
that lies at the bottom of the eye,
lop-sided, and staring at me while I pretend
that I have G47! or pretend that this isn’t
the first time you’ve brought me here, G47!
instead of a real date. Or pretend
that I can’t hear the woman cough, and cough,
and cough as she switches stampers between every ten calls
or touch this figurine or move that one, just slightly,
this way or that or
N44! She doesn’t have it. N44!
I don’t have it.
Don’t worry, child, you’ll have it all someday,
she whispers, sideways from her mouth,
with your thumb making circles around my hipbones,
and the man pushing the cart, the squeak of the wheels
B7! But I don’t have it. B7! I don’t have it.
I don’t have it.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Laying on my back I watch the ceiling,
the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars begin to fall one after another-
as I regard my world crumbling from the bottom up
and the sky feigns my view to take me back
to picturesque memories of childhood in the summertime.
A ball flying towards the power lines in
the action of a cul de sac neighborhood game
And countless bending limbs towards a mailbox driveway
To saftey.
The verdant grass on the ground encompasses a happy body;
A ball of innocent energy laughing in the perfection of a moment
That wasn't captured on camera.
Road trips to New York in the camper
Playing music that I didn't know I would be holding close to my heart,
Living in time that went by much slower than it does now-
Forever joking to daddy are we there yet?
The sand dune hills never seemed so big
As they did when I built sand castles in the gritty beige of my grandma's land.
The bristling field never felt as fresh
As the first times I ran out in them,
Laughing in the perfection of another moment
That was not captured on camera.
Back home, when grandma and grandpa still lived with us,
I run around in tiny clothes in my tiny body
Planting flowers in pots with my grandma in the warm summer air
And hitching lawn mower rides as my grandpa mows the lawn.
Held in his firm arms I am laughing in the perfection of a moment
That was not captured on camera.
I can feel the golden light of happiness still inside me-
Bubbling and giggling as innocence hides somewhere inside my maturity.
I watch the ceiling above me fall back into place
Gaze at the stars flowing back into their given position
As if they'd never moved at all,
I lay here as my mind reaches back to when it wasn't hard to be infinitely happy,
To moments of innocence that bring me back
To safety
While I laugh in the imperfection of a moment
That is me now.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Most days he mows
the immaculate lawn of his front yard,
sweeps the carport
and trims the hedges back to near buzz-cut.
Today he sank
to his knees, arthritic bones aching for
soft patch of earth
or lush grass on which to rest his grey head.
In the spring, buds
burst like silent fireworks near the road,
all his doing,
and the birds alight to watch him plant more.
I have watched for
a near lifetime his yard across the way
morph into Eden –
one handmade with weak limbs – and I know now
the cost of love
for things that cannot love you back. He is old,
with a question
mark for a spine. He sweats and bleeds for his home.
He has no job
but to nourish the Carolina clay,
into yielding
beauty that cannot love a single soul.
I was heading
out of town for a long time. I didn’t know
if he’d be there
once I got back. But, my intuition
whispered, yes. He
has no home but the earth. Even after
his silent death
he will still be watering the flowers
and the blossoms will not love him more,
but never less.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 9:52 PM UTC
I'm the murderer
Who mowed my grass
Killing thousands
With a single pass
Driving over
A giant ant mound
Now there's none
Of them to be found
Running down
A cricket or two
I hate to say it
But I think they're through
Earthworms sunning themselves
In the sun so nice
Cutting them in half
With a single slice
Devastation on the insects
It did rain
Not trying to cause
Them any pain
I'm a quiet guy
Humble and meek
But when I cut my grass
I'm a killer once a week
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
My mind mows through madness
It bitterly battled the baddest
Suddenly shifted through the sadness
Left longing for love lonely
My minds knows me
Better than friends that enlisted me to commit sins
Way back when
I popped bottles of gin
Stepping slipping as my mind spins
I was never really a drinker I like to pretend
Like imagine me chasing a rabbit
Patiently embracing the magic
After it like Alexis until it gets hit in traffic
Red blood white fur mixed its graphic
Guess its no wonderland for me
No running to a caterpillar that smoke trees
No running into a cruel queen
I say off with her head
My mind is a guillotine
Sad sight when you see the truth shattered
Feed your brain cause yes the mind matters
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
Atop the frail ego she mounts her merciless machine gun with which she mows down any speckle of personality that dares flicker amongst her immediate surroundings, until only her presence alone can remain untarnished and unfettered by sadistic, sardonically summarized ridicule, luminous and majestically radiating with solitary supremacy. Oh, the splendorous grandeur of self-indicted superiority, the rush of power and authority from diminishing another's essence with ruthless categorical association, the incomparable ecstasy of using their own positive attributes as their rudimentary flaws. Viscerally volatile, the cocking of the mocking gun's hammer is to be recognized as the phrase "You're just trying to be______". This is critical, for all too well she knows to a certainty that at the most essential level, one is only simply trying to be. And when you attack a person's will to try, their will to be, then you are taking aim at the one vital aspect of their existence which they hold any discernible dominion over: their character. The slaying is heinous and orgasmically fulfilling, for how can the perennial, separatist worship of Self be indulged in among so many of these "others"? But oh how exhausting it must be, the perpetually cyclic nature of the task. How can she ***** a light that doesn't exude from a distant source, but is a brother beam of the source they share? How does she extinguish the reflection of a flame off the water? Like fireflies on summer nights they disappear only to reappear again, somewhere else, reminding her of the irrevocable, irreducible power of being born and reborn again in the new moment. The self-aware ******** audacious enough to love themselves. How much of it do they really think they can withstand?
Reload.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Left is as little as right is as much when ability to see is as blind man to touch
For the daft run in circles as smart jump oblique and obsequious wander as clever must seek,
Why a truckers rage mows the worshippers down in a white synagogue in the quiet part of town
And Iranian guns in a mad Houti’s hand guarantees the Saudi’s bomb Yemen’s dry sand.
Why, oh why do whites fear the black? Must the caravan die as Trump turns it back?
Is insanity born or acquired on the way and is there an Ap that reverses the play?
Why in this life is the way of the world as manic, confused as contortion, unfurled?
Left is as little as right is as much when ability to see is as blind man to touch
For daft run in circles as smart jump oblique and obsequious snore as the rest of us weep.
M.
1 November 2018
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
It takes a while
before it will be over
with room for someone else
For now it is too empty
where you have always been
People soon forget that
when we have a chat
and laugh at something small
Your mother is great
She does what she can do
so without a man
You know the drill
the neighbour mows the lawn
He's really old
time and again he asks
where you have gone
But if I had known it beforehand
I would just as well have been in love
just as well be that woman
still in love with you
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 2:21 AM UTC
I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more -
unable to collide, despite this ardor.
Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.
Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.
Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
Vines creep up the old church downtown.
No one goes there, and no one cares.
The city mows the very edge of the property,
and posts a sign saying,
“KEEP OUT, DANGEROUS!”
but only because they have to.
The kids mock the crumbling building,
as the foundation cracks,
the ceiling sags,
and water trickles in through the broken windows.
Everyone ignored the tragically beautiful building
until the day it collapsed.
With a groan,
the building hurtled thousands of miles an hour
in the opposite direction of the other buildings around town.
It’s neighbors cried,
as they mourned the building they did so little to help.
The town buzzed with the news for a few days,
and crews hauled away the wreckage.
And not too long after,
everyone forgot about the beautiful church downtown.
Now think of this, listener.
This building wasn’t a building at all,
but a young girl.
Who took her life,
because no one cared until it was
too late.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
It was a cloudy sky
Drizzle had just stopped softly
On this enchanting evening, I was lined lucky
As there was an ugly beggar who deserved care, swiftly
I stopped my car before that hotel
where sometime I used to visit for coffee
during my return from office, to home to dwell
Being pose area, side of it were shops selling toffee
I gone straight to that beggar
Enquired what he may desire to eat
He was holding one bit of an used cigar
Face to face, he was not willing to meet
I used to treat deserving beggar with food of his choice
Someone will ask for a particular dish
But this man didn't even raised his voice
Repeatedly I failed when I tried to ascertain his wish
Finally the shopkeeper guided and coded
saying he wanted only a matchbox to light his cigar
When I tried hard to get, every shopkeeper just eluded
As the increased anti-tobacco canvassing had worked clear
The beggar rejected money as well any dish
His world gets filled with just a matchbox
He stood firm and let me only to pish
As I too never keep such item in my toolbox
He loitered and left the place, helpless
Upset with this, I too lost my interest to eat
I also left without eating, as I became useless
Even in bed, with this thought, I felt my heartbeat
I get delighted to treat deserving beggars, stomachful
Or else with alms, to their handful
But above failure led me sorrowful
As I could not be fairly useful
It is the beggar who gives me a chance to serve
Of course, I had heartfully attempted and offered
Altogether, I sincerely strained everyone of my nerve
But he neither cared my efforts nor allowed to be adored
This miserable failure mows me miserably for the past two years
More so, whenever I used to cross that place every day
True to say, my eyes were about to cloud with tears!
What woes remain more for my heart to say?
Copyrights reserved
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 3:16 AM 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
Long ago burst in flames
Tortured for alleged blames
****** in pain 'the devil’s witch'
A folk in laughter at her final twitch.
Malicious with lacerating mows
Devoting themselves to diabolic vows.
A loving sacrifice of precious coal
For leaving a wound - tremendous -
In her immortal soul.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 12:31 PM UTC
He mows the lawn and scatters
The clippings on the ground
And I don't think it matters
If they mess up all around.
For He is the Naked Groundsman
And He mows the lawns all bare
(But in the depths of winter
In His dead mum's underwear).
Amen.
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
Pump them full
of lead in protest...
that's sure to
knock em dead.
Use all your ammunition,
leave em ****** read.
Be the Gatling that
mows em down,
the bullet lodged
inside their head,
Be black powder
burning imagery on
their minds unkind extinguishing the misery
that makes them lost
and blind
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:14 AM UTC
Shake; don't stir, run through the pattern,
I was always Jupiter but they all prefer Saturn,
it's got a ring while I'm all explosions,
that's just the thing with these silly emotions.
In outer space the stars are your only friend,
and you're feeling out of place but these days that seems like a trend.
When the moon seems too far away,
the sun will come soon but it will never stay.
Xannie's my favourite girl,
she's got me spinning in this crazy world,
so I add some blue to the swirl,
with the red it makes purple pearl.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
So I jot some shots to my list.
I can only dream of that peaceful bliss,
and the ancient years of which I miss.
Shake; don't stir, follow the lead,
you see flowers occur but I only see a ****
toxic it grows until all it consumes,
everyday she mows but I think it needs fumes.
Down in the dirt where soil holds the leaves,
I buried the hurt but a heart still grieves,
and when the moon is covered with sheets of grey,
the sun will come soon but it will never stay.
Xannie's my favourite love,
she fits my heart tight like a glove,
and when it comes to push or shove,
she's all that I've been thinking of.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
"If this can even be considering living."
I'm waking up to a dark abyss,
it's taken all and now it's giving.
The thoughts in my head,
buried under the dirt,
those words left unsaid,
the ones that cause hurt.
But tomorrow might not come,
this whole thing could be done,
and I've bit my lip since I was young,
I'd hate to also bite my tongue.
Xannie's my favourite girl,
she's got me spinning in this hazy world,
warming my body until I curl,
now all routine is a deadly burl.
My thoughts say "I don't want to live like this."
"Maybe I don't even want to live at all."
Every single second I just reminisce
of the days before I hit that wall.
Who would've ever thought
that during those teenage years,
I believed each day I fought
against loneliness and my fears.
But youth was just a brawl
adulthood is a ****** war,
back then I really had it all
but resented that I didn't have more.
This realization has caused madness,
and irony has a thick glaze,
'cause the youth that I wasted in sadness
was really the "good ol' days."
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
He wakes up at the crack of dawn,
Smokes a pack a day,
He likes a shot of whiskey; at the end of every day,
The sink is never washed the way I like,
My refrigerator has never been the same;
He forgets his coat on the floor,
He doesn't make seven figures a year,
I would love to say I adore him in every way,
But I don't think that every year when he forgets our anniversary,
Most would have parted ways,
But no, not me;
He does a lot wrong,
I'll never forget the day,
He asked my brother at Christmas dinner,
If he went either way,
But I love that man, with everything inside of me, that I won't deny.
I could never repay him for the right he does,
Although there's more wrongs
The way he holds me in bed,
The way he's the first to make coffee,
The way he puts my earrings away;
He hands me a ***** tonic,
He mows the lawn,
He kicks my tires,
Changes my oils at inconvenient times,
I know he lost his watch, I bought for his birthday,
But I could never repay the way he treats our son,
The way he tries to braid our daughter's hair,
The way after all these years he still whispers "I love you" in my ear,
I don't care if he could ignore every Valentines day,
I'll still love him for his rights.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 9:53 PM UTC
He hacks, clips and mows
Ev'rything that grows, namely
Bad hair and habits
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
I'm over you now!
though the thought of you still lingers
was it the lips or the smile or the touch of your fingers?
Am I too slow or is the world so cold
First, they sympathize, now they scold
Was it the lips or the smile or the alluring lies?
That doomed me staring into the ivory skies.
The pens still sway to you, and the inks' still flows
it rips me apart and my heart it mows.
yet they swing back to your alluring glow.
Was it the laugh or the gaze of those honeydew eyes
That doomed me staring into the ivory skies.
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 10:34 PM UTC
i'd like you best wrapped up under the axles of my truck
but i'd rather not have to pay your brother to clean it up.
get the **** out of my home town
your driving the real estate value down.
in other words:
go back where you came from.
we don't
need that liberal faggy ****
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
i'm a man.
but i love the way my baby looks in that white summer dress caught around the warm summer air,
with flowers tangled up in her hair.
and the amber sun looks good in her eyes
i'm a man.
**** a ****** stab a ***
make my granddaddy proud.
love my baby, she's WASP like me
we're gunna start a family.
i **** her good, god gave me seed
you know i sow it as i please.
ultimately-
i'm good.
got a gun, bring it to school
always with me. i know i'm cool-
in case i need to get those sunni-shiite *****
shoot my teacher if i fail a test.
it's okay.i'm cowboy.
i'm good.
jesus loves me, he told me so.
******* Hey-Zeus, he mows my lawn.
-be ****** if i let them use the good bathroom
it's all right they'll be deported soon.
and it's good.
back in the city, jesus- girls' ******* drop.
filthy ***** and cherries to pop.
but blondie looks good.
follow her home. i'm a really nice guy.
don't understand what made her cry.
just keep
*******
her anyways.
feminazi ******* wanna blame me
there just mad that they're ugly
jealous of my success
there all just ***** anyway.
blow me.
and all those ***** livin' off the government's dime
handout ******* all of them should just die.
time to rise up
time to be
family man.
i.
oh, i'm a
good ol' boy,
i'm good.
(you know i'd **** you if i knew i could.)
but i love the way
my baby looks in that white summer dress caught up in the ******* air,
with flowers -like a promise- all in her hair.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday.
One of those effervescent Spring afternoons that buzzes with sunny activity,
a neighborhoodly kind of
picture perfect blue sky kind of
everything’s gonna be okay kind of day.
I stare at it from the corner of the couch,
through the window at the lawns across the street from the corner of the couch
and look down at myself.
***** covered in soil from head to toe.
So bright, too bright out there
through eyes that have been languishing overlong in the deep brown black of the underground,
behind masks and walls,
closed for fear of opening.
They dazzle now and squint,
watering at the light,
not watering,
crying, crying,
etching riverbeds upon my ***** face.
How long was I down there?
Dreaming awake and automatic,
watching her water the houseplants and
comfort the friends
and rock the child
while I shoveled earth over my living form
to protect this vulnerable animal,
to bury bury bury it.
The noise doesn’t reach me
there in my cocoon.
It threatens now to crack my fragile sanity; though madness I would greet as an old companion.
I reject the invitation beckoning me from somewhere deep inside,
push push push it down,
and wave to my neighbor through the window
as he mows his grass.
It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday,
and my senses pulse with indignation against it.
Back to the dreaming
where I will wrap my mind in cotton
and try again tomorrow.
May 10, 2025
May 10, 2025 at 7:56 PM UTC