"terrariums" poems
Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside our high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending all day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC
Beauty out in the open, light falls on linoleum tiles like heel-worn stones
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Clotted with conversation, upperclassmen stroll like the elderly
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Windows to a sunny world sit at the end of locker-lined tunnels, beckoning beyond fluorescent mazes
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Young blood doge or cling to the sides, scared of the critical runway that is us
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Eyes from all sides, thinking nothing yet are supplied by our own thoughts
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Finding refuge in educational terrariums, an ecosystem that saves me from the weight
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
Finding solace in stairwells, sealed off by doors and hold awkward opportunities
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Clanging like a child’s cry releases stress like floodgates, another trip into the shark tank
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Open doors that are actually closed; they are like aquariums – no tapping on the glass please.
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes - but I know it was I who brought the downpour
The longer I stay the more I wish to leave, away from substituted confrontations
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Prejudice like heavy rain beats at my skin and soaks my clothes – but I know it was I who brought the downpour
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Must comparisons be so obvious when I walk alone, unprotected? They are lucky to have such equals to act as parents; they hold each other’s hands to keep from drowning
Ignorance is bliss, they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
They pull like vultures at flesh; I am not allowed to wrap myself in hurricanes while out in the open
Look down, one foot – and then the other!
Ignorance is bliss they say, and truth that is here – the less you know the less hate you bear the weight of.
Anger and sadness, guilt and fear turn like Viewmaster slides lit up by the sun
Or am I on my own here? Each boy's path runs along each other like long-exposure stars, leaving streaks between the darkness.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
my mother was born a gardener
and my father became one
through patient snap peas and
angry red tomatoes
he seeded and watered and waited
while my mother grew hibiscus in the mountains
and plums in the shade
i was born a painter
but its tank me years to pick up a paintbrush
and my brother was born a poet
but i sincerely doubt that he’ll ever show it
i mix my paints on my palette of flowers
and my brother goes to meetings at banks
My other attended the only Agricultural High School available to her within a 40 mile radius of her South Philadelphia home. This was not a coincidence.
My father attended the best athletic conference in his affluent suburban community. This was.
She started out watering plants in fast food joints, arranging flowers for junior proms in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. When my father met her, she only ate lettuce and seeds because that was all she could manage to put in her body.
My father kneeled to the ground, saw the soil beneath her fingernails, and fell in love.
I can only love men who garden. I can only be a daughter of the earth because of them.
I don’t like terrariums because they frustrate me. Life trapped behind glass, that I cannot touch, or feel, or smell. I cannot water, I cannot fathom to even slightly disturb their existence, no matter how desperately I want to.
I’m getting my hands ***** touching old soil. I wipe it on my skirt before I touch the sweat on the back of my neck. I’m planting forget-me-nots and basil. I don’t even know if those go together. But I am putting them deep in the ground and it occurs to me that in a few weeks, I might not even remember them. They might die and become some stupid memory, a part of my dinner party story vernacular, Or maybe waiting for them will change me, will allow me to commit as a meditation on earthen peace.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Shining vistas quelled by encroaching -
onyx pall
Rain filled mementos of a confused May
Sky blue wild flowers decorating red loam -
banks , a lonely Heron stands watch o'er -
storm filled , uncertain dominion ranks
Brown leaves become sailboats on laden creeks
Matted pastures , thunders raucous laughter
Rainy songs 'neath umbrella hardwood trees ,
mud puddle looking glass , Box turtle paradise
Twinkling brush , continuous wildlife theater in kudzu terrariums Salamanders , snails and musical tree frogs preside over the misty afternoon stage
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
Shelves upon shelves
The walk to my dorm is
a supermarket aisle. It’s
all the same product. A
Cactus on a window sill.
But mine always feels
diseased compared to
their terrariums and
Boxed in comfort, measured
to cost. 4 home bought pin
Ups, Indie purple, indie gold,
Indie black and white, on a
35cm by 35cm photo board.
You aren’t allowed blue tac
on the walls.
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 11:29 AM UTC
Opens his cabinet of curiosity,
The scent of the planet wafts into the air.
He places each fragrance in immaculate order and condition.
Such earthen delights, encapsulated, distilled into a jar of souls.
No fingerprint left on the glass.
He takes his next stride over the sandy shores of his home,
The tide ebbs and flows,
Ray of light from above to down below,
Photon mapping the sun,
Diffising light into a lens flare.
Its trajectory directing to his hands,
Wardrobe slides open with the touch of a finger.
A library of monochrome, an archive of black and white, a collection of minimalism, an array of simplicity.
Rustic are the belongings of the terrestrial,
But lavish are the ornaments of the collector.
Embellished walls juxtaposed against endless skies,
Terrariums: isolationist preservation, and Forest: organically flourishing.
Miniscule minutiae, subtlety in nuance, a paranoid finesse.
The speed of the natural world,
to be constantly refined and delved within.
This is his work.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 12:42 PM UTC
i saw a breeze in my terrarium
a gentle sweeping of the peace,
i wonder if the trees can feel the breeze
flowing through their leaves?
Dec 1, 2020
Dec 1, 2020 at 1:11 AM UTC