Father insisted flower pots be mended,
Because he regarded them as old friends.
I assisted him each spring with the pot
Pilgrimage from his musty dirt cellar,
Though these last few years, we’d go later
In that most fecund season.
How he loved those old clay pots,
Scratchy to the touch, a soothing color
He said reminded him of better days.
When one mysteriously broke
During their hibernation, he saved
The pieces for the bottom of others.
The last spring of his life, he couldn’t
Raise himself to work on his garden.
He didn’t want me to help him.
Perhaps he knew his spring season,
Quickly ebbing, would not become summer.
feathers & colors
a mourning dove landed on a branch above me
attempting to capture my attention
they say that means an angel is watching
spring is easter
& think about
planting & thinking
/hope & peace/
& spring greens you
haven’t seen & it
seems like there has
only been soft brown
thought they would
freeze when removing
wore, she swore, she woke up
there are mas flores
y ella brags
her color even
when no one looks
/wild convoluting rojas y rosas/
& she said
they made him pull his
garden up & I thought
(First published in mineral lit mag: feathers & colors by Connie Bacchus – mineral lit mag
Pleeeeeeeease, Mow the Lawn Dad
MAY 19, 2016
Pleeeeeeeease, mow the lawn Dad
It’s like a jungle out there
Full of lemurs, llamas, pythons, piranhas
Raccoons, baboons and grizzly bears
There’s a pretty pink porpoise
In love with a tortoise
A huge hippopotamus too
A bobtailed cat
A hog that’s too fat
Who escaped from the local zoo
I spy a chinchilla
A herd of wild horses stampeding
A sunbathing slug
All kinds of weird bugs
Plus a clever rhinoceros reading
A mountain goat’s
Entertaining a stoat
By doing a dance with a fox
While a hoverfly sighs
As she passes by
And sits herself down on an ox
Pleeeeeeeease, mow the lawn Dad
Or at least make a start on the weeding
Salamanders and pandas
Swing from high verandas
And I can hear hyenas screeching
There’s a large land snail
Checking his email
A leopard, a leech and a lark
While moles, voles and rats
And four flapping bats
Are venturing out when it’s dark
On top of a sheep
(Out cold, fast asleep)
Is a dingo devouring his lunch
A wombat and wolf
Hide under the gorse
While holding their noses near skunks
So pleeeeeeeease, mow the lawn Dad
Or this problem we have will not pass
The police will be round
And new animals found
If you don’t get rid of that grass!
In Grandma’s Garden
Old, gnarled trees give hugs.
Roses smell of antiseptic.
Especially when you’ve grazed
your knees. Dew is a sloppy kiss
And leaves a red mark.
Her arguments with Grandad
Are unmown grass, unweeded borders,
Magnolia bushes that need a prune,
Daisies between the cracks of flagstones.
My pocket money is her laughter.
Gradually even the raised beds
Need a hired gardener. She sits
In a white plastic chair at a white plastic
Table on the patio flagged by her son in law
And granddaughter and says
I’m going to have to move.
That sun is in my eyes.
How Not To Maintain Your Mother’s Garden
The green thumb hewn by chance and misfortune
still gardens every other day; the other days my mother
reads the almanacs – in those later days,
downloaded from the net, and I watch the lad
looking for a fascinating illustration,
reading some adult advertisements,
skipping stones along the brick path
between two bushes of blooms of some obscure pedigrees;
I watch him and imagine him growing old enough to be me,
tired, sighing, sniffing the flowers gone wild,
so wild that those bark at the full moon when my dreams darken.
Cooperation is the buzzword;
Opulent symphonies with
Nature the sentient conductor.
Poppy, ranunculus and kingcup
rising and falling in gentle cadence
with cornflower, salvia and forget-me-not;
a fragrant patchwork in the sweet grass,
like an eco rainbow, tipping the earth,
radiant with inner beauty.
A ballet of delicate blooms
dressed in powder-puff tutus,
dancing to the tune of sun, wind and rain.
Wildflower meadows echo the vibe
of cottage gardens in a bygone age….
Green spaces flourishing
with aphids, beetles, butterflies,
moths and caterpillars,
bumble bee numbers multiplied tenfold –
that gentle, hypnotic hum reassuring
as they delve in the throats of foxgloves.
The project enhances both water and soil,
a winning outcome for biota.
This wild beauty brings closer
the goal of a greener future.
Just stop and look!
Paradise stretches out
before your eyes,
a triumph of rewilding
SISSINGHURST AT MIDSUMMER
A veil lifts between earth and sky,
Revealing a lush green paradise,
its mullioned windows thrown open
to the gardens….
Mood music captivates:
Harp song through tall grass,
bees crooning in lupin throats,
swallows darting overhead.
The ambiance is relaxing,
sight, smell and sound seamlessly
fused together in a heady symphony.
Bouquet of rose, lavender and herbs
tease the sharpening senses.
Crooked chimneys peer down onto
exquisite garden-rooms blooming
with a riot of colour.
Oast houses nestle in the shade
of the castle tower.
Along paved walks bemused statues
observe the constant parade of visitors,
all curious to experience this romantic
idyll created by Vita and Harold*….
An enchanted corner of Kent, wrapping
visitors in a cloak of midsummer magic.
*Vita Sackville West and Harold Nicholson, creators of Sissinghurst gardens