"yucca" poems
White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.
Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.
Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.
On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.
Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
A is the Alphabet, A at its head;
A is an Antelope, agile to run.
B is the Baker Boy bringing the bread,
Or black Bear and brown Bear, both begging for bun.
C is a Cornflower come with the corn;
C is a Cat with a comical look.
D is a Dinner which Dahlias adorn;
D is a Duchess who dines with a Duke.
E is an elegant eloquent Earl;
E is an Egg whence an Eaglet emerges.
F is a Falcon, with feathers to furl;
F is a Fountain of full foaming surges.
G is the Gander, the Gosling, the Goose;
G is a Garnet in girdle of gold.
H is a Heartsease, harmonious of hues;
H is a huge Hammer, heavy to hold.
I is an Idler who idles on ice;
I am I--who will say I am not I?
J is a Jacinth, a jewel of price;
J is a Jay, full of joy in July.
K is a King, or a Kaiser still higher;
K is a Kitten, or quaint Kangaroo.
L is a Lute or a lovely-toned Lyre;
L is a Lily all laden with dew.
M is a Meadow where Meadowsweet blows;
M is a Mountain made dim by a mist.
N is a Nut--in a nutshell it grows--
Or a Nest full of Nightingales singing--oh list!
O is an Opal, with only one spark;
O is an Olive, with oil on its skin.
P is a Pony, a pet in a park;
P is the Point of a Pen or a Pin.
Q is a Quail, quick-chirping at morn;
Q is a Quince quite ripe and near dropping.
R is a Rose, rosy red on a thorn;
R is a red-breasted Robin come hopping.
S is a Snow-storm that sweeps o'er the Sea;
S is the Song that the swift Swallows sing.
T is the Tea-table set out for tea;
T is a Tiger with terrible spring.
U, the Umbrella, went up in a shower;
Or Unit is useful with ten to unite.
V is a Violet veined in the flower;
V is a Viper of venomous bite.
W stands for the water-bred Whale;
Stands for the wonderful Wax-work so gay.
X, or ** or *** is ale,
Or Policeman X, exercised day after day.
Y is a yellow Yacht, yellow its boat;
Y is the Yucca, the Yam, or the Yew.
Z is a Zebra, zigzagged his coat,
Or Zebu, or Zoophyte, seen at the Zoo.
7.1k
They set off from white rocks,
red geraniums, blue tile,
and let the green sea
lift and drop their ships far above the white foam waves.
The stony islands that were home
were swallowed in minutes by the hungry Atlantic
but they hunted the big fish,
the giant whales with human eyes
who rolled and sang and swam
in oceans a continent away.
They came from Sao Jorge, Sao Miguel
Faial, Pico, Terceira, Horta -
Nine island emeralds set in a black volcanic chain,
neither of the old country nor the new:
Halfway there and halfway gone -
secret jewels of the Portuguese sailors.
They sailed into unknown waters,
south around tropical shores
where dragons smoked and writhed on the rocks
and birds with brilliant red and yellow plumage
rose in clouds around their heads.
Then north, and north, north again
to colder waters
where sea lions barked and lunged
at the strange massive wooden beast
that coursed the waters,
strung with brown bodies swaying
on the lines and cursing the sails.
North still they swept
casting contemptuous eyes on
the cheap turquoise waters and monstrous slow turtles
of the Sea of Cortez.
Coming up from the desert, past the palms and the yucca,
the Joshua tree and Spanish daggers,
they chased their smooth grey prey,
riding the vast Pacific on their wooden island,
herding the leviathans onto their spears,
adventurers with an audience of only
gulls and sky and seal.
Until they sailed too close one day
to a rock-strewn shoreline
and saw the golden hills.
Gnarled oaks like grandmothers from home
with orange poppy jewels at their feet,
missions strung like beads in a ruby marked rosary.
The boats slowed, ****** in by a Scylla of soil
rich and brown and loamy
waiting to be seeded with grapes and apricots
peaches, avocados, lettuce, alfalfa,
fertile and heavy with sweet promise.
And the whales sang and the lions barked and the gulls cried
but the sailors were entranced, encharmed, ensorcelled.
The treacherous sea, the mysterious deep, the stony jewels of home,
called and wept
and waited in vain for the sailors
- beached and grounded -
cutting not waves but earth,
tracking seasons not whales,
seduced by dirt.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
The stars once more have lost their race
Through night-sky versus mercurial moon.
In this defeat no dishonor will debase
Futile efforts to intersect upon the lune.
Desert scents of juniper and Mormon Tea
Waft fragrant above the comfort fire smoke.
Banana yucca roasting at my knee,
Fleshy fruit consumption for us hungry folk.
Nevada nights nip raw this time of year;
Our lot is cast by glowing embers,
Whose reflector stones essential to survival,
Stave off cold that we need not fear
Frostbite to peripheral members,
Till sunlight returns with warmth's revival.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Fading Sun...
I was looking at the graying sky.
Trying to chase a fading sun
I peeped above the pointed leaves of the Yucca tree
My eyes were met by little bursts of orange stars
And oblique sunbeams... emitting fading brightness
Through the bushy leaves of the Sampaguita plant.
I was waiting for the moths to appear
Near my lighted candle,
But a gusty wind blew, and made the shell chimes
Sway back and forth...left and right
Round their base and through,
Until all five chimes made pleasant music
With the cool, whirring wind.
I was waiting for the late afternoon sky
To turn to elephant gray
To highlight the yellow glow from the street lamp
So I could test some newly hung Christmas lights
And the capiz lantern outside the french windows
But the rainshowers came all at once
And i found myself wet, from the pouring rain.
I was waiting...and saw a changing sky
The rain, just tip-tapping on the roof
A much cooler air blowing...
Bringing sprays of mist on my face...
Suddenly emerging...the shape of a bat or two,
Flying, crashing, through the dripping red palm tree.
On the horizon, sun was now a dipping balloon
If there's any, i would wait for any kind of moon.
On the garden chair, i sat
And just above me, came a regular stray cat
I heard its paws lightly scratching
The wet surface of the fiberglass roofing.
I still wait...and contemplate on hopes and prayers
I wait...for a lot of dreams to come true
i wait, for this long day to be over
While the night creatures,
In their own tones and tunes
Have started to croon...
Sally
Copyright October 16, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
The yucca plant from my mother’s garden sits
unattended and on the verge of death next to her
eldest rose bush, now wildly overgrown and lightly
blushing in the cosset of the midmourning sun. Its
withered rosettes droop down to its bed of maroon-stained stones
in crisp, harum-scarum patterns as if the plant is spending its life
like currency trying to touch its toes. I oftentimes
find myself wondering if the reason behind this
slow rotting of mother dearest’s garden is hidden within her
five-year absence. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say
her nursery missed the d
i
g
g
i
n
g
of her weathered hands.
She was the biosphere of my world; I suppose that
it only makes sense for the earth to match my thirst. We
sit side by side, that yucca plant and I, as we struggle to
nod our heads towards daylight while we rise on
the side of the house that is more or less
cloaked in shadow; the side that she would sunbathe
on during scorching late afternoons. Perhaps without her
body giving shelter, all her garden is doomed to
atrophy like muscle in the sunlight.
I find irony in the way that my mother’s favored plant
was the “ghost in the graveyard;” a perverted parallel
to the game that she never wanted us to play. I think it to be
sort of sardonic that her pride swallowed the possibility of
a cure being found within that ****** plant’s roots. She,
a third generation American girl,
had blood as muddled as the mud
that buried that yucca’s heart.
The boundary line between Mother and
nature coalesces into one:
Gaea
six feet under
melting into soil
I hope she becomes seawater.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
romantic callings
spanish bayonet
dagger plant
adams needles
jealously guarding
with expansive labor
a plant nurturing
most startling to find
new life
from adjoining steps in
unbroken broken ladder
rocks then plants
animals finally us
dedicated partnership
from evolution's mist
simple pollen deliveries
flower unto flower
cells and eggs
carefully enjoined
in pistil cradle womb
symbiosis of light
awaiting birth of spring
plant and animal
mutually interrelating
humble
and most hidden
might we extract
insight for our time
nurturing our awareness
expanding sacred ladder
one spiritual step
recognizing now clearly
ladder becoming whole
guarding still nurturing
welcoming spring light
emulating and repeating
a yucca mother's pattern
stupendous birthing
young yuccamoths
her amazing
our enlightening
brood
(with appreciation for genesis 2:15,
and for advice from a real life
yucca momma)
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
*Crepuscular rays
science name for beauty
filtered Light...
Two weak sprinklers
coaxing green from dry blades
desert futility...?
Steady wind blows
roars in tree branches
motor noise amplifies...
Blue paint droppings
pavement lines and splotches
patterns imagined...
Breathless biker
yield passage on steep path
shared success...?
Uprooted tree
branches to sky reach out
same questions...?
Bright setting light
yucca spears dead and alive
both reflect...
Dead logs
piled and waiting
tree dust...*
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
Yucca wind cuts through my coat,
the markers blur and fade.
I rode a while on golden dice
and now I walk in gray.
The sun still hangs, a blistered coin,
A whisper left of heat.
I shake dust
from a hollow skull
and drift on tired feet.
Cantinas hum their broken hymns,
the meek slip into pews,
they trade their vows for bottle rims
and saviors they can use.
The stew’s been warmed and left to cool,
her smile is soft and deep.
I pull a blanket to her chin,
watchover while she sleeps.
Their toys lie mute in cedar drawers,
their shoes set by the door,
and she still scrubs the cracking tile
as if we could make more.
I left my heart in a canyon’s jaw,
too hard to dig it free,
and let the desert keep it warm,
the way her hands keep me.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 8:07 PM UTC
Brown grassy mountainsides;
full of yucca and sharp burs and
stripped-naked trees.
(Your buffalo have all been murdered, America.)
atop this vertical precipice, the edge
of everything that’s never been,
before a white and faceless
Void: the sore thumb of a
boulder. A gray and
ancient troll.
There sits a changed and stoic
stranger wrapped in a wool blanket
against piercing winter wind and frost.
Sharing my thoughts. My organs. My perch.
Walking along this trail…
there can only be death.
I check my silent moving
watch. Time to turn back.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
I remember the day you Murdered the Yucca plant.
How you glowered over the sharp shredded remains of leaves and center stalk, which had once succeeded such tremendously large blossoms of which I was so fond of as a child.
Such determination in your hazel brown eyes.
I remember the Fable of the Avocado Sprout and the Squirrel.
The Parable of the Blonde Boy and the Crabapple Tree.
The Romance of the Mosquito and the Fly.
And best of all.
The Demise of the Kodiak and the Lioness.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
The altitude clicks through my head
We join the stagnant air, neon stained
And creep through the hills
Like ghosts of an age almost dead
*I’d walk with my people
if I could find them*
In the fading light at least
I feel less like a sore thumb
The potential sparks against our ankles
like sirens in the rear-view,
Wading through the space
Only the unknown can inflict.
Fear fails to show
the way we knew it would
And the temp can’t master conversation
So we fall asleep, second row,
standing room only
Fog consumes the sound.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:04 PM UTC
you have many personalities inside your head
face full of lead but I'm still not dead
I need love I need you I
I am no more than a blade of grass
no more than a shell
cast out of the sea
no more
than a bird
in migrant flight
nor am I less
than a star whose light
penetrates infinity
yet last night
When a half spent moon
Lay on the ***** of heaven
And day's heat pressed down
The sides of mountain peaks
To squeeze the desert floor,
And all the world was weariness
Which the stars wept to see,
Boldly
A desert songster
Insolently free, joyously
Lifted melody
To the moon, and teasing a breeze
Into cooling the night
And drifting the yucca's perfume
Bringing heart's ease to me
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
The night calmly, quietly departed,
Letting the sun nudge in the dawn.
A new day often brings joy;
But not today, for Carrie has gone.
A torch has suddenly been extinguished;
A candle's flickering flame has gone out.
As hard as we try to hope against hope,
Some things we can do nothing about.
Full of life, exuberance, and charm,
Carrie touched many hearts with her spirit.
Try as one might to match her vitality,
Few people could ever come near it.
Her matchless energy filled us with wonder.
Her gregarious character was bubbly and hearty.
As soon as Carrie entered a room,
She became the life of the party.
A struggle-free path she didn't have;
A few demons madly pursued her.
Despite occasional challenges,
Death was the only one that subdued her.
Subdue her? No, that isn't right.
Her inimitable energy exists
In the turbulent, blowing desert winds;
In the cool, soothing mountain mists;
In the majestic, glorious New Mexican mesas;
In the gently rising hot air balloon;
In the crest of the regal desert roadrunner;
In the calm, peaceful face of the moon;
In the gracefully blooming yucca flower;
In the crisp, caressing autumn breeze;
In desert blooms; in the pinyon pine;
In the autumn colors bursting from trees.
I will not say good-bye to Carrie.
I'll just take in a breath of air,
Hear her voice, her songs, her laughter,
And feel her presence everywhere.
- by Bob B
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
Hordes of tiny insects swarm
about the fresh new buds
on a spiky desert Yucca
in their complicated dance of being.
With lifetimes lived
in nanoseconds
they have no time
for etiquette and manners.
The need for moisture is supreme
and the flowered stalk
is somehow lacking.
Bonanza ! A new source is
discovered and the wiser gnats
race in to drink
but only meet resistance.
There’s moisture
in my eyes and nose
but I refuse to share it.
They stage their ancient battle moves
but find a moving target
as I create a windstorm with my hands
and hurry on my morning way.
Leaving all the the little gnats
to find another source of liquid.
ljm
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 4:14 PM UTC