"potting" poems
Infinitely and often nightly but very quietly
I creep into the garden shed
and make a bed among the flower pots
where those dainty blooms with purple spots
spot me
and open up their eyes to see who sits among the rakes and spades
and somewhere in those dappled glades
my eyes will rest upon a cur-ved apparition and entirely of an auto responsive
suggestion
I will greet her with a midnight smile taped on my lips
and when my heart has done its forty skips and my body settles down
I invite her to come a little close and sit beside me by the oak tree
she
smiles in a light to brighten any night and any day I know would be proud to say
go with the moment it is yours to own
but on my own trapped in a shady place
I face the fact that
this place in the garden shed is only pictures in my head
and I retreat
beat it back indoors where the thunderous snores of all my many days
come back to haze me in some juvenilish way
it's the way of it
it is the way and I have bitten off more than a piece or two
and flown too close to sit upon the heat
of the sun
burned my bridges
burned my ***
and never learnt to hold my tongue
but it is the way
and one day the way will become oh so clear
the potting shed that's in my head will disappear
and in its place
the face I look to meet
will greet me
deferentially I shall shape my tongue to fit around the words I want to say
It is and always has been
this way.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
1
We're not in darkest Africa
and jungles don't adorn,
this little bit of overgrown
that wraps around our lawn,
2
Plants of pretty colors
sit comfortable in there bed,
and about two dozen footsteps
find us at the potting shed.
3
Our potting shed has seen better days,
some parts have been rebuilt
and it's suffering from subsidence
for it's slightly on a tilt.
4
The walls desperately need painting
because the wood has got some rot
but a boring place to come and sit
it definitely is not.
5
Odds and ends adorn the shelves
and the places spiders tread
where the dust has piled on the weight
and the woodworm may have spread.
6
Smells that we first come across
carry the scent of damp,
foul stinks from half empty sacks,
paint tins that have gone rank.
7
An old oil lamp expel the rust
like dandruff from my head
reigning down golden crumbs
that looks like toasted bread.
8
We think that we have found some proof
of what might linger around
footprints so large and evident
that a Tigers walked upon this ground.
9
So while we have been sleeping
and resting through the night
there's been a Tiger in our shed
but he keeps out of sight.
10
We've sorted through many boxes
we've moved some things aside,
looked into shadows with a torch
but we can't find where he hides.
11
Perhaps he's gone out hunting
for an evening meal,
eyeing up the neighbors dog
with energetic zeal.
12
Perhaps he's out sunbathing,
sitting somewhere in a tree
camouflaged with all those stripes,
that's the reason we can't see.
13
I don't know if he's Sumatran,
Siberian or Bengal
and he doesn't ever show himself
or come to me when I call.
14
I believe he stays outside all day
and only hides in here at night
but I won't come down here when its dark
only in the light.
15
He is a wild animal so
one must take the some care
for he could be stalking us as prey
he could spring from anywhere.
16
But we leave the door unlocked for him
and we've made a comfy bed,
and a sign that just reads "WELCOME"
to the Tiger in our shed
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
needing refreshment in oswestry,
later rather than sooner,
crept up the chalk painted
staircase, seems to work
well, in this case.
i note the dstressed nature
of the furniture.
this place.
having regular coffee,
a fruit scone will
certainly do,
i listen to the server, who
clasping the china teapot,
tells us revelations
of those who live, who divorce
and warm the ***
i have to say that
the scone was lovely.
later i bought a potting bench.
sbm.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 2:30 AM UTC
I found a seed, and I planted it.
Watered it daily
Checked the soil in which it sat
Nothing happened so
I changed the potting,
Giving it sun,
Made sure it saw the light
Checked it everyday
Did everything right,
Waiting for it to sprout something
Anything even.
But it didn't grow,
because the seed died
Mar 8, 2023
Mar 8, 2023 at 8:40 AM UTC
See, see the tiny sky
Marvel at its big puce depths.
Tell me, Tony do you
Wonder why the armadillo ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel churned.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your giffengididdle ****** growth
That looks like
A mold.
What's more, it knows
Your pantsy potting shed
Smells of ******
Everything under the big tiny sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm garlics.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
shakin like a bacon eater
takin down a bird feeder
cedar creatures rollin up a doobie
they be suing me for truancy
I shoo a flea from chewin me
a wrap of lettuce fed us
said us fellas sellin head amounts of coke
we oughtta **** a bowl of hope
my soap and rope fill up my closet
I deposit positively. Stop to mop it
cropping photos,potting soil,oil spotting
wrapping lettuce wraps and leftovers in foil
I'm American and spoiled
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
a political party that supports
the legalization of Mary Jane
is bound to be the first one
to sprint down the winner's lane
the constituents shall be busy
potting many a dope seed
so they've got a sufficient supply
of ye olde happy ****
to-day bongs and reefers
will be lit in much jubilation
as the smokers get high
on Mary Jane's elevation
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.
Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.
At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.
The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.
Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.
We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.
Paul Butters
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Life is a game, yes.
But it is not played by us.
The universe can be found
In a rundown bar on
The outskirts of Olympus.
It is a battered old pool table
Covered with ash and stale beer.
Where once the gods would linger
Laughing long into the evening
Full of mirth and cheer,
While all the time competing
For who would take control.
Cronus versus Zeus
Potting planets into black holes.
Like all good games, die.
The table was forgotten.
The bar decays
The enthusiasm fades
The universe went out of fashion.
But all the while it was rotten
Something grew on the planets
Misbegotten.
A mold unwanton and alone.
The mold was life and the table was rife
With that which the gods shall never know.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
Do you know what time it is?
Is it springtime? It tastes like springtime in every word I wish I could say to you, but I choke on petals and potting soil in the meantime.
Is it Sunday morning? It tastes like Sunday morning every time I speak your ancient name that led me out of Egypt.
Is it naptime? It feels like naptime in every toss and turn I take, even though when we lay down, we don’t usually rest.
Do you know what time it is?
You don’t wear a watch. But if you did, it would probably be a Casio watch. Because you’re subdued and kind of smokey and there’s nothing shiny about you
Until you laugh from the pit of your stomach and I feel like I’m home.
You don’t wear a watch. And I’m glad because it shows off your arms more. You don’t need to cover them up and you actually don’t need to cover anything up, ever.
Wait. Is it naked time?
Do you know what time it is?
Is it dinner time? Like the time when you smeared barbecue sauce on my face and got away with it?
Is it wintertime? You make me feel kind of warm inside.
Is it bedtime? Because even though your eyes are the color of ice and your spine is made of steel and your biceps feel like bricks, you are the softest and gentlest person there is.
I’m afraid that the clock will strike twelve and you’ll see that I’m just a maid in rags who has mice for friends. And that I am actually not a princess.
I’m just a girl with a funny name who has completely lost track of the time.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 7:59 PM UTC
the only thing that i care for
i ran it off
like a tabby in a window begging for a plate of fish
like a beautiful bloom i adored
and never watered
like an open door
steaming in rays from a cresting dawn
thats slammed shut
i keep the plate out now
waiting for a menacing meow
i pour water into the ***
hoping a sprig would spring again
all the doors are open now
even the cabinets
all in vain
god.
now im living begging to be annoyed
wasting potting soil
blinded by golden pain
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
one quiet, hot summer noon,
all were gathered in the dining area,
having lunch and a pleasant conversation,
while i got my small *****
and started mixing soil for re-potting.
it was clearly a stalking adventure.
a gray stray cat,
furry, but no longer spry,
its rounded back hunched,
slowly crawling, inching,
towards one hidden corner
of the bushy backyard.
she glanced at me,
saw where she was headed,
i already spotted her prey.
the cat was wary of tripping,
careful not to waste any effort,
for her targeted prey
was just a stretch of a paw away...
almost there... she must be careful,
her intended victim must not know
of her presence,
for she needed that catch:
a small monitor lizard,
greenish, brownish,
sleek, slippery and slim...
unknowing still,
unaware of its impending doom,
for it, too, was busy,
staring... too focused...
it was ready to swallow its own prey,
a small but fleshy, squirming earthworm.
in a flash,
the cat saw me, our eyes met.
she lip-synched a "meow,"
telling me to hush,
not to intervene.
and so i carefully turned to my side
as if i didn't hear or see
as if i didn't care.
i bowed my head and
resumed re-potting my begonias.
just a short while passed,
when a soft purring was heard.
i turned to see the cat, still busy
licking, cleaning her paws.
she glanced, and again
lip-synched her meow,
maybe her way of thanking me.
and then my furry friend was gone,
...lost among the bushes...
i, too, got up...weary, and thirsty.
i've had enough of these stalking adventures,
enough begonias have been re-potted,
an existing food chain, i had just witnessed..
i need my lunch now,
with a tall glass of iced lemonade.
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A, Bayan
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
See, see the judgmental sky
Marvel at its big green depths.
Tell me, do you wonder
why mother nature ignores you?
Why its feebly stare
makes you feel lazy.
I can tell you, it is
worried by your distorted ***** growth
That looks like
A mold.
What's more, it knows
Your sh*tty potting shed
Smells of peas.
Everything under the big judgmental sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm sh*ts like yourself...
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 6:44 PM UTC
so what's going on here?
anyone determined a possible
motive or suspects yet
the guy across the street is looking like a potential candidate
the guy waters his flowers and trims his hedges for a living
he throws some sort of odd fertilizer on the ground and then he walks inside
his shirt is discolored at the bottom from sweat and potting soil, some would attest to the fact that he wears the same outfit everyday, kind of scary if you give it some thought
or maybe the transvestite that moved in a few doors down
i suppose you never know what they're up too, huh?
it's all very confusing and i need a lot of help
let's go get coffee
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 9:09 PM UTC
My grandfather was not a boxer
but he loved to fight, throwing
punches at the faces of hard men,
left and right hooks, uppercuts
in barroom brawls and alleyways,
with hands the size of iron trivets,
forearms cut with ropes of muscle.
Eventually, after decades of stitches
and bruised knuckles, after his hair
turned white and his eyes clouded,
he would shadowbox in the garden
behind the dilapidated potting shed,
swinging slower, less light on his feet,
but safe in that manicured square
ringed by boxwoods and evergreens,
the bees in spring buzzing applause.
My grandmother would watch
him from the kitchen window,
in a sweater she always wore
regardless of the weather,
and wonder what he was fighting
against, or, perhaps, fighting for.
And that’s how my grandfather died:
throwing a final right cross in the air
before dropping to his knees at last,
knocked out on a mat of green grass,
washed by an unexpected downpour,
water collecting in opened red tulips,
loving cups in full bloom, the first
ten drops of rain counting him out.
Standing in that garden decades later,
I know I am no fighter.
Approaching old age, hands in pockets,
I watch for signs of unexpected weather,
worry about things beyond my control:
car crashes, cancer, electromagnetic pulses,
the minutiae of a thousand apocalypses.
Is the future drawing back
a left hook I will never see
coming? Will a haymaker
hit me like a hammer,
unmaking my family
before the final bell?
And suddenly I realize:
maybe I should have
learned to throw
a ******* punch.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
decorative flora thrown to the sacrificial pit
pity shivers on the fringes of my identity like springy roots
out from the warmth and wet
of potting soil
not brave, just lucky
not impressive, still growing
just let me broaden my garden
in league with lofty new age decision rooms
to air strikes and precarious ties, not hiding in the sky!
shivering to rotten hospitaled justice
up all the way through that cold toll of some bell of betrayal.
planted like a whisper
seen at stops at the park and weddings
the cute moments of acceptance we have
and things i could not and would never want to take from you
the very fact of you seems to poke a question into the sky
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
The oils she rubs into me makes me smooth and so slippery,we indulge in some frippery and we laugh quite hysterically.
The bath is our swimming pool,she swims and I play the fool,maybe it's not too cool but what do we care.
The bedroom's a boom or bust,we're old and we have to trust that what happens there are things we must
accept.
The kitchen is her domain,that, I need not explain.
The garden is my empire from the potting shed to the compost fire and I desire no more than this, a cup of tea and a bedtime kiss and all points in between.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 6:02 AM UTC
Watch with Mother,
but Andy is waving goodbye
to Bill and Ben,
who are in the potting shed
at the **** again.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 5:56 PM UTC
it's never too early to pack up your whole life
of memories and hopeless grudges.
Pounds of paint
scraps of metal
half read medical books
screws and nails
I'm moving out tomorrow
and boy am I excited
to pack myself up
to stop sleeping in this coffin
With a future that's unforeseeable
and a past that's unchangeable.
Now to ***** the backyard
with my steady hands
with potting soil
and dream seeds
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 7:03 PM UTC
*In between the delphiniums
and the hollyhocks.
Beside the potting shed
with creeper walls.
Rested the old wheelbarrow
dented rusted and aged.
Thoughts of my childhood
when I was just a girl return to me.
Daddy would sit me in the wheel barrow
and give me a ride.
All around the garden
as I squealed in delight.
suddenly I am overwhelmed
I have a need to see
his kind eyes once more.
Hear his soft gentle voice
so mellow and kind
so sweet to me.
I want feel like
his little girl once more
safe and secure.
The need to find him
is beyond anything.
I look all over the gardens for him.
Then I see him stood by the maple tree.
He is wearing his old knitted sweater
that Mom knitted for him.
With his corduroy gardening pants.
In his mouth his sweet aromatic pipe
that was always an extension of him.
the smell fills my soul.
He said softly
"Hello Kitten"
my eyes misted
no one but my Daddy
ever called me that.
I said Hello Daddy he took his pipe
from his mouth
His smile lit up the place
For a single moment
I felt secure and safe.
I was six once more but he faded.
into the ether of infinity.
My childhood was long passed
replaced by my womanhood.
All that was left was the
indelible memories
of long ago times past.
Tears fell from my eyes as I
wept to go back,
even for just one moment.
Then a noise as I looked around
at the arrival of the new owners.
A young handsome man and his wife
with thier little son.
Who shouted in delight.
"Daddy there’s a wheelbarrow,
can I have a ride?"*
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Red is the mist that too often descends,
Beige alas the colour of my teeth,
Tan, sadly I only ever burn,
Orange my fake perma-tan
Black my mood on a Monday morning,
White are the lies when I ring in sick!
Blue are the films I secretly watch,
Cerise, not a clue but sounds lovely!
Purple my boozers nose,
Scarlet somebody, from Gone with the Wind I think,
Violet missing an ‘n’,
Cream strictly rationed because of my diabetes!
Green my perpetual envy,
Tangerine, something else to hate at Christmas,
Burgundy, sorry ******* at geography,
Lilac, far too trendy for me!
Azure are the skies I miss from childhood,
Sapphire so very precious!
Cerulean, now I am being a ********
Yellow the starting gun for me to run away
Indigo, when my snooker potting is on fire!
Pink, the ball I always miss,
Navy, something the Swiss don’t have,
Chocolate, something the Swiss do have
Brown the awful jumpers Mum used to knit,
Russet, used to be a tiny English County?
Emerald, a lovely girl I once dated,
Aquamarine such a delicate sea-sick tint
Puce, or do I mean puke, something I do after a skinful
Maroon rhymes with macaroon!
Crimson, I guilty blush when I pass wind!
Grey (never gray!), my hated school uniform
Ruby, any glass of port in a storm!
Auburn, I really love her films!
Lime, lovely with gin & tonic, especially in Vienna Harry! ** **
Turquoise bruises, no stranger to these after a few too many
© Robert Porteus
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
Planting, potting, and puttering
Weeding, hoeing, and muttering
Excavating for fruiting treasure
Dancing for favorable weather
My garden bears riches in tastes and views
A thriving bed of multicolored hues
My efforts support much life in the tending
My plants, sprouting and my soul, mending
My garden retreat, my nook, my hideaway
Under canopy of trellises and pairs of blue jays
Comforts my heart with its lush serenity
A space for growth among blooming greenery
Wafting aromas of rich, earthy soil
Fill my nostrils as I toil
Grimy fingers and sweat creased brow
Invigorates my body as I work the trowel
My labors are love transferred fingertip to root
My reward is new life, new sprouts, new shoots
My efforts take patience, tenderness, and care
Proof that in Eden a human dwells there
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:51 PM UTC
"Oh, tranquility
Penetrating the very rock,
A cicada's voice."
Matsuo Basho
I was broken, how much do I have to say?
my first taste of the air, a tornado
I wear my mind full of cracks, of strange attractors,
the chaos of the blue lives there,
some collage of potting soil and beauty
my tears are round like an explosion
my hips an extension of tenderness
I was broken beyond despair beyond repair
white birds in my smile going to far away places
in search for their shape
when nobody sees me my hands are full of laughter, of dance, of forgetting, no need to take myself too seriously
I am broken and I like to feel
my fragments caressed by
the morning air, by his sleepy hands,
or the passersby's careless looks
Apr 11, 2023
Apr 11, 2023 at 4:44 PM UTC