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Blair Griffith May 2012
Throwing themselves beneath the mechanized yard-work goliath,
Salvia flowers bow their heads, heralding my passing
Stooping to remove their violet hats,
Thrown to the ground, trampled underfoot by passing metal,
A muddled **** of
half-death, half-birth
Floral genitalia broken into fragments, shards of color
Yet always they bow
Stooping, self-subjugating, submissive, servile, stretched
to their absolute maximum, fibrous tendrils ripping from the bed of grass

Until they flutter gently
Half-mocking their half-living counterparts
Still rooted firmly in the mulchy beds.
The Shed

Waiting for afternoon
when I visit, tea in one hand
crossword in the other.

Rows of last year’s seeds parade on the shelf
by the window, cobwebs high and tight.
Mulchy  tobacco odours mingle in mooted sunbeams.
Garden tools hung neatly on nails, the workbench clear
save for the jars of nuts and screws and old mug rings.

Exiled carpet, stiff with fatigue,
plant pots are the only pattern left,
the wooden stool  moulded with old-age-grooves
and joints that grumble,
stands next to bottled rhubarb and elderberry
dusty and vibrant,  drinking in summers past.
saige Sep 2018
yesterday you promised
to always find me
in the
next room, next town
next year
next life

do you remember?
when we met?
too young to love
too young to know

but

what if
that moment
those monkey bars and
mulchy knees and
matching eyes

what if
that was us
finding
reuniting
in this
lifetime?
Kate Nov 2015
It's October 8th today, in the Southern Hemisphere. 22°C.
I sit at my desk, overlooking Rua da Consolação
My coffee, half diluted with milk is just how I most like it - "forte"

I'm well fed, well stretched, well read for class
What more do I need, I'm living a Bossa Nova dream

Yet, I wake every morning after a night of strange and dead nightmares

To find myself expecting to open the window and be greeted by a breeze that begs me to worm into a sweater
A breeze that brings with it the dying sound of  leaves and mulchy sweetness that will soon be replaced by a dry cold

And if I am to feel this breeze, it will mean that I am in fact back in New York State, and I have the option to descend two flights of stairs and find two sleepy arms waiting to pull me into a delicious spoonful

It sometimes bothers me that I don't know which I'd rather wake up to
Commuter Poet Jan 2019
From my window
I see swirls of green
Mottled branches reaching up
A black crow swerving
To take its perch

The down and up of
Chlorophyll hills
Horses in coats
Standing like guards, steadily

Parallel pathways of jeeps rubber tyres
A duck and a drake floating in silence

Solar panels look up to the stars
And sheep huddle, waiting
For something to pass

Tall firm pillars
Driven in mulchy brown filth
Support travellers
Across the mixed Cornish, Devonish waters

The train trundles on
Towards the East
And I wander towards
The place I call
Home
1st Jan 2019 13:54
Great Western Railway
Arriving at Plymouth

— The End —