Once Upon a Time, in a countryside field that expanded far and wide
there grew a massive population of Black-Eyed Susans
Due to the duration of their lineage in this country
All the other flowers admired them quite jealously

They were not lavender delightful like Venus’ pride
or magenta seductive like the frail petaled pink fairies

Black-Eyed Susans grew like Spartan warriors
and sprouted healing wisdom like Aclepius
Their bulbous heads attract butterflied so exactly
every caterpillar is born in love with the color yellow
born in lust for their persistant nature
born with their meager caterpillar lips
parted in marveled awe of how
wonderfully healing Black-eyed Susans are
asking for nothing but the sun’s rays to be warm
and the rain to quench their thirst

Do you hear a little child crying?

Keeper holds up a cheap, placemat
With a pattern of Blackeyed Susans
And says *See that pattern?
You made it.

Came your birthday
Black coffee, a packet of Sweet & Low
I choked when the grounds touched my lips.
You're feeding her and telling her
Your Mommy is the smartest,
most beautiful woman in the world.
I painted white and yellow
petals around the droplets of coffee.
And mailed it off,
My gift, se lah!

It was returned two weeks later.
Marked twenty years!

That was the day we became friends.

No time for having

withdrawals_
All friendship
click
Lets 
 Click-bank it

Gratitude
so thanks

Just mail it
My mind
chocolate
clustered
Wounded
like a
bullet_
Postcard
Like
E- Allen Poe
related

Polluted by
Naked Gun
My heart was
fully loaded

"My Psyche"

Glossinidae so
****** "Red"

Women Wartime
she knits

Wildflowers
in her bed
He was more
worried
about the
postcard

Split Banana
personality
Plain Monkey
***
Crazy on Sunday

Sundae's
on Fridays
Yes we have no
bananas
Postcards laid
T-L-C cared for
cabana

But Gina
Loco?
Crazy bridge
Lollobrigida
Postcards
Just
Like Lazy
Susans
Georgiana
Or Brianna
Bella Bella

Leaving notes
with few
good men
Nicholsons
Nicole with
her Kidman

Construction
hard paper
Snip here
Pulled into his
psyche
All cliche's
The fondue
French talk
face to face
Jack snapped
beanstalk

In front, words
fingered
Her words
of roue'
Catch up with
Ketchup
Pretty but Petty
petticoats
"Billy Goats"
Titanic ships
Beguiled
by
him

Cottage home
bacon bits
of
Salad postcards
from
Egypt
The holy land of
Mohammid
Dancing like an
Egyptian

Rumi
of all
Gods
in vain
Your so
vain I betcha
you think
the
postcards
about ya

"Psyche Monday"
Coming to grips
(Girl Friday)
versus
(Man Friday)
with his lips,

The Postcard
postpartum
depression
((What Moves))
on my hips
Strawberry
jam and
my biscuit
"His Girl Scout"
recruit
Being pursued
shortcake
So ironed
longed for

Postcards
floating
through
"Spa dream"

Highlighted*
Crazy in love
hallucinating
being flirtatious

Oneself
But she doubted
therefore
My psyche
wanted more
(Danger=Hunger)
after you
Darling
Civil war
Loves don't finally
meet someone
They are in each other
all the time-----

Double crossed-Star

Trying to pass the bar

Fair lady or the
distinguished
Gentleman

"Aircraft"
Postcards came with
ownership
Bombs stay funds

So Psyche
The future
Be smart
"Smartphone"
Like a rope and
silvered computer
links
The chain- chain gang

The train blue-skying
Crazy skywriting
A strange device
(UFO) now BOO
requiem in a dream
Royal lips
A plus postcard
Deeply within
The hundred's
of lovers tongue
Going once but twice,
The Postman stamps
psychic
"Auction house
My postcard
Peanuts and
Charmed by Charlie
Brown
The Tarot elephant
pants
Double talk Parrot
Superbowl
the postcard
intellectual

"Hallucination Beware"
Strong accusation to
compare

An app "Activation"
Star Wars  may the force
be with you one and
only card
British fine tea guards

The love red tip
matches
The new
postcard
the
new black
Mary Mack
Stamped and
smacked
Smashbox eyes
like crazy lunatic

(Dora Explorer)
New Orleans
Nasty stickers
Richness of bourbon
Sweet Caroline
Graphic art turban
8 sides
of the moon
Such
consequences?

My hair
ponytailed
You mailed
words short
Styled pixieish

Dots.....crazy points

Oh! Gosh
The
Hoarder
of
postcards
Crazy Gorilla
Mozilla
"Queen of Sheba"
I rather walk my
Shiba Inu doggy

Miss baby jane shoes
French connection my
La Femme
Oh La La
Haha
Funnybone
I refuse to be
loved like
a postcard
Self-assurance
love is frozen
and stamina
Postcards back
in the future

((Wonder all drama))
Psyche ward she got
hammered
Stacks of postcard
Her wrist got cut
Cold cuts
Irish Spring soap
VIP Postcards RIP
Replacing her hip
Her crazy lips kissed
the postcard
her bodyguard
Those maneaters
and deadly hitters
Mega babes babysitters
To be so loved and read

Postcards speak to us
listen
Glisten
Crazy Bitch__ is in
The innie or outy
Paper towels Minny
Mouse
She cleans up
her postcards
When the postman rings
twice

Pass it on

Has it troubled you
papercut you
Was this postcard
meeting
your  card
expectation

All you?

AMONG the bumble-bees in red-top hay, a freckled field of brown-eyed Susans dripping yellow leaves in July,
        I read your heart in a book.

And your mouth of blue *****-I know somewhere I have seen it rain-shattered.

And I have seen a woman with her head flung between her naked knees, and her head held there listening to the sea, the great naked sea shouldering a load of salt.

And the blue ***** mouth sang to the sea:
        Mother of God, I'm so little a thing,
        Let me sing longer,
        Only a little longer.

And the sea shouldered its salt in long gray combers hauling new shapes on the beach sand.

In a land where you exchange Mao
In his different values,
And get meals on Lazy Susans,
The aroma of tea
Filling malls and subways,
And people—
Ask for a fork and a knife.
Whirl your hands about
And attempt to communicate
In Chinese dashes of silhouettes
In air, while speaking
In another language you
Know will be lost to unknowing,
To this fine dining.
See the toothpicks, plain
And humble, and smile.
It could have been the same
As those in the Philippines.
Stress your hearing a little,
You might catch them say,
“Mao welcomes his brothers
From the working class.”
Back home, the only welcome
The working class can provide
Are smiles and turo-turos,
Free karinderia water
And a toothpick for the day’s
Only meal, the aroma of hunger
Filling people.

uneven, steps,
Smack against the unpaved road way,
Leaving the screaming house,
On that empty hill behind,
I sit down beside the dead deer,
We have so much incommon,
No family or friends,
We were left for dead,
We'll never open our eyes again and see the world,
As beautiful,
My finger tips carress the roughly fine fur against his jaw,
My lips meet his forehead,
A gentle goodnight kiss,
Dandelions & Black-eyed Susans,
I wrap and tangle evenly,
Madly, through his antlers,
My cheeks still flush with the escape,
My eye still bruised,
Wasn't a quick enough get away,
My emotions vast and empty,
Like this graveyard of a fields,
My hands grab the last flower,
Plucking it from the earth,
From its home,
No one was there to speak up for it,
Just like me,
I fell in love with nature,
I realized how cruel it really can be,
Just like them,
Just like me,
Just like you,

Not much later, a patch of ivy crept up the side of my house, right above the garden bed nestled against the outer wall. I didn't worry about it at first, I treated it as an after thought until I noticed that it had eventually covered the whole side of my house. The thick ivy had cast a shadow over my little side garden and my black eyed susans were dying. I tended to them until my knees were bruised and my hands were matted with dirt, but I could not save them. They died. Eventually I grew used to the ivy; I grew to appreciate its unique beauty and held it in fondness, but I would never forget my beloved black eyed susans.

Greet death
with your hands in your pockets,
slouched back, cool,
collected, and confident.
Wear a hint of a grin
and a dash of cologne.
Say What took you so long?
Say You're behind the times, man.
Say Dead is the new black.
Coffin is the new condo.
Pallor is the new tan.
La vida muerta.

Greet death
with a fistful of black-eyed susans,
butterflies in your stomach,
and two tickets to tomorrow's sunrise.
Wear your father's cufflinks
and your mother's wedding ring.
Say I brought these for you, babe.
Say Kiss me, kiss me.
Say But wait until the sun comes up.
Just until daybreak.
I want to show you something.
Hasta la muerte, te amo.

Greet death
with a knife at your own neck,
chin up, throat bared,
cardiac in overdrive.
Wear nothing.
Wear nothing.
Say Bring it on *******!
Say Only on my terms.
Say nothing
and open your throat.
and bleed to completion.
El final, el final, el final.

This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published Oct 29, 2009

If I could escape,
I would go to a place -
A place that’s not far,
but a place that is rare.
The place filled with black-eyed susans
and wild orange lillies.
There’s buckets of rain water
and spider plants inside.
Daisies and hostas line the porch
where that green swing hung.

My feet were always too short,
so Dad had to help
keep that swing swaying
while I watched the beautiful blonde.
She had brown eyes and a kind smile.
That woman was my mom.

We kept all the flowers pretty.
All together, my little family,
     We were so happy.

The marigolds had inspired me to add black eyed susans to my garden. Their yellow petals were enticing and their black centers lured me in. There was just something about them that kept me coming back to tend to them, to waste my time in order for them to flourish. The marigolds I had previously planted had died due to my neglect, but I found I didn't miss them much when my attention was focused on the black eyed susans.

I had a happy childhood,
it exists in my mind as the salty seaweed smell of the ocean and my mother's sun kissed garden.
My mom planted tomatoes and black eyed susans in her garden,
and her infinite love for my sister and I was reflected in everything she touched.
Everything she does is a labour of love (will I ever be like that?);
Her love is a labour so strong it turned me into a prism, giving me the ability to love the world,
shining through me and the things I touch and now,
I have a garden where I grow tomatoes.

I was somber that Tuesday
Thinking about my lack of success,
I pondered giving up
And letting my current body
be all that there is…
A life over, a life ended.
I was watering the black-eye Susans,
they being just bright green smidgens,
Sad in September, missing my mother…
And a Dragonfly flew up to my face and landed on my neck,
Normally I would have shoed it off,
When younger I might have killed it.
It took the time to inspect my neck,
…turning about and tickling me too-
…near-hysteria waiting; waiting for it to leave,
And then it flew to an oak tree in front of me
And stopped to look back-
…at me?
Then it left.

I thought of a movie about coming to terms with death and a Dragonfly…

                                                     ­          Why did it stop and look back?
Thanks Mom for cheering me up,
…even though I am crying.

Call me paranoid,
or clairvoyant,
or a desperate seeker in need
of a kindly wink
who gets blank
stares from the battered
courtyard
plot of Black-eyed Susans.

I’ve seen sweet
grimaces and gruesome
grins locked in the fuzzy
outlines of a hinge
with its unused spins
perpetually
putting the bedroom
door ajar.

Cheerless chuckles
and twinkling frowns
bubble up
from the brown-edged
peels of paint
on a water-damaged ceiling
constantly keeping my looking-
back glass fogged.

They come visit, sometimes
smiling, often beguiling,
these faces who lurk
in this saddest of places
where I hold
their ghostly echoes
safe from the outside
voices cautioning me:

“Too many conjured guests,
even the prettiest
ones you’ve grown
fond of, eventually become
so much unfiltered noise.
Find and kneel down among
the moss
and lichen-covered pews.

“Put your whisper-burned ear
to the quiet-cool earth there
and hear her tell you,
‘Look up.
Look up. Share,
oh do share dear,
in the wonders of this infinite
and unpeopled blue.’”

Grandpa would fling seeds upon the  earth to make food come forth to feed our hunger's needs, walk with hands behind his back and head bowed in deep thought or maybe he was  looking for the time he lost. Grandpa Penny would go fishing by the local  muddy creek and sit there quietly  for hours in the stillness, no doubt, fishing  for memories  out of his life's rapidly flowing stream . And he would laugh  a laugh as clear and pure as  polished glass and slap  a knee with delight  as times  and days rolled past.  Memories softly flooded his mind, with veins on Bible-holding hands he would preach on Sunday mornings about the troubles of the world, its joys, the many souls yet unsaved, and about America being one vast link of connecting cities reaching  from NEW YORK to HOLLYWOOD and beyond. CD's playing electric winking  blues moaning and crying. American fusing slowly all of its dark sin, good times, the hell with tomorrow, into one giant mass of group loneliness. It made no difference if he walked down polluted city streets or through spring country fields of black eyed susans or beneath skies blue bright.

It takes approximately 30 years to get the message
that time is actually turning,
that this whirled world is headed somewhere,
that the mirror shows us a new face every time,
only it's nice enough to reveal us gradually
so we're not driven suicidal all at once.

We are creeping towards night
but only because it's day.
The dark clouds loom.
They move into the room.
The sun looms over them.
Do the flowers suffer in rain?
The Black-eyed Susans nod
with tears, Yes, yes, yes.

Yellow is plentiful in our meadow today.
The sun blowing its light all over the grass.
I am not comfortable unless surrounded
by green: grass, leaves, stems.
They place me. They hold me there.
The forest is a spa.

Today, Summer, growth is winning
but the birds are not singing
about transcendence. In fact,
they are quite unhappy.
The sun barrels through the sky
burning away clouds.
The living flute of the beak is forcing
agonized notes into the indifferent face
of a sky so blue as to be totally mundane.

The earth retraces its steps,
an insatiable nomad
or obsessive looking for
something it lost
however many years back.

What it finds is the same handful of skies,
a pearl necklace of stars
strung across it's murky night.
I've been dragged on almost 30 trips already.
It's the same **** every time.

The night time brings upon
A nectar to the earth
Sweet like the honey tears
Of the black-eyed Susans,
And cool to the touch
Like the springs in August.
I know,
For I have walked it myself.
Barefoot and naked,
Into the woods
In search of a song
Gone silent from my youth.

the trees swaying towards the direction
locals say "yankees" descend from.
Like yankees, I too hail from the North.
Where trees can do a similar dance
to its sisters in the South.

They are not black-eyed Susans,
but these wildflowers are just fine.
And here, I have an abundance of time to observe the wildflowers and find them greater than such
as a day down here is three up there.
Yet even with a generous sun,
a myopic perception seems to allow me to do otherwise.

How come I find myself displeased to hear that the tune of the oriole has been replaced by a red bird?
Or that I am fatigued from running over endless hilltops instead of straight into the horizon?
This overwhelming amount of green is immaterial to the prodigious beds of sunflower yellow I once explored in.
Perhaps I need to do something about this myopia.

Higher elevations do make it harder to breathe
for I am a creature accustomed to salt air filling its lungs.
But just before my lungs give out
and my breathe gone with the breeze of the trees,
I am reassured by my kind company of the mountains
that I am right where I need to be.

12/28/2014
for ES

the dictionary definition of prospect is
"outlooks for the future"
and so this i ponder on a train platform.

once walking between the larrikin
of halls Class of 1903 and Jones,
i'd come across the gardens,

prospective ones or so said the
namesake.
i stepped over the leaves that were

on the ground but not quite
off the branches
read the bronze penny

stained black tablet
the roses and blackeyed susans,
cultiviated by class of 1850

gentlemen farmers
and named as the
view of the sight

filled one with such
good prospects.

now i don't quite know
why the trolly dodger park's
called that

and i've never quite been
so, thinking about it
i'll have to rely on

going with you
but of course
you say the same about the Gardens

so take my hand and follow me

an early teen, flaxen-haired and bird blue eyes
left me unworldly, adrift in her luscious thighs
she calmed my heart with her quiet beauty
i was untested, unknown, a teen too, her name was... Judy

how that first flight transformed a journey to a commission
laying seed to what became a life's mission
now with a long view back to then
i recount it all with a discerning ken

came Carol, Irma, Susans many, Shelley, Jane, Jean, more Judy,
Carmen, Bonnie, Maddy, Tanya, Melanie, Beth, Elizabeth, Lizzy,
Linda, Anita, Lisa, Virginia, Nancy, and on and on and on

if this troubles your mind please read no more
and judge me not with feminist angst or "what a bore"
i say just how things were in the past
times were hot... love and lust traveled fast

for those who know, from whence I speak
this is not fiction, but a wiki leak
simple recollections that tickles the mind
of robust ramblings... forgotten, but not left behind

Like a spider
Captures it’s prey
Viewers and bees
Succumb to the magnetism
Of pastel petal clusters
And long, whisker-like stamens
Petals flashing pink
Remenicent of the lips of
The girl who was
A first teenage crush
Delicate yet hardy
Center stage is cleome’s
Captured from black-eyed susans
Blooming hostas and mexican petunias
Perhaps it’s sinful to bask
In your radiance
Know that this
Is not a one season stand
Cleome will return next year
And the next
Loyalty is endless

There aren't many things that don't remind me of my mom,
She's the soft smell in my laundry,
The binding of my books
I miss her black eyed susans,
her blue eyed smiles
There's not a better blue than the one she & my brother bring to the world
She is patterned like tartan, counted stripes, and ducks in a row
She's sketched in sunlight and colored with rainbow
She's the first to rise and the first thing I want to see in the morning
Her laughter lies in my treasure box,
Her humming sends the heart home
When I'm the autumn coffee, bitter and complex,
She's the milky foam,
She's the caffeine without the side effects,
She's the calcium in my bones, the substance to my smile
She's the red in my blood, the blush in my cheeks
The flush in my ears, and the sundays of all my weeks
She's the comics in the newspaper,
She's the endless love behind every labor
Tea wouldn't taste the same without her
And she's a perfectionist,
So I can't help but think I'm perfectly made
Because of her

There is little notice
of the eddies of leaves,
trapped and circling
in the corners
of
chain-link.

Stepped on slices
of white bread;
blackened
banana peels
litter the walkways.

Someone has fed
the prison mascot,
a vagrant cat,
a volunteer mouser
for the state
of
Missouri.

A sergeant kicks
the little mound
of dry food,
sending it skittering
into the dewy grass,
wasted.

There is a pale pink
to the sky.

Leftover sunrise.

Hopefully, other eyes see it too.

“Single file lines into the chow-hall, gentlemen!”

There is little gentleness here.

It’s contraband.

Chewed to pulp,
spat where needed.
A poultice.
An ointment.

Made from the last of the marigolds,
The Susans who’s black-eyes
have healed to a bruised yellow.

Pockets full of pink sky,
cool air,
sober hopefulness.

Stepping gently
into the
caged morning.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2020

blood-twig dogwoods
howl at the blue moon
while hollow-eyed susans
dance on chinook winds

pale purple monkshood
death-rite prayer chants
are swallowed whole by
yellow-throat daylily laughter

the good-news sunflower
tries to misremember the
night-shaded moonflowers that
bind her gospel to the earth

morning glory intentions
are not what they seem
hearalded by down-turned
white-truth angel trumpets