Making the bed...

 

What makes a garden – the gardener or the vine,

the squirrels that dig it up, the birds that peck fruit,

the weeds which spontaneously undermine

the efforts of the cultivated to take firm root?

 

Is this still a garden? – if those weeds flower

and they’re smaller, less showy than the marigold,

if the wild grass were to wholly overpower

the careful beds and furrows marked by the household.

 

And if the bees come calling but so do the bears

what’s fertilised and grows is not quite by design,

and pests and pollinators take an unfair share

of the nectar and honey and fruits and sunshine,

 

if the yield’s not consumed by designated humans

is that just a pity? a waste? or a garden?

Directly inspired by Yolanda Renee here. Hope all goes and grows well in your garden. Happy V-day to those celebrating. 

Signed and sealed and sitting....

Signed and sealed and sitting not quite pretty, but I am sure I will manage to write up something, there’s inspiration enough in the monsoons in India where the whole country and countryside come alive in fifty million shades of green! Find out more about the Write...Edit…Publish challenge on their page by clicking on the link or add your name to the linky right at the bottom of this page.

Loads of poetry going on in my life right now, it's kind of insane here trying to read/write for an online poetry course, and balancing the holiday R&R! But have managed to keep my head above water so far.  Blogpost poetry taking a backseat though. So leaving you today with a pic not equal to a thousand words but definitely some poetry material hidden in there somewhere if one cares to look close enough.  Have a wonderful week!

Weeds ( Leaves, not just of grass III)

Is it a weed if it blooms? some oversmart-aleck

doodles on some bricks, and many years pass
the mortar shrinks, the bricks smile up a crack
the purple flowered vine slowly chokes the grass

the trees grow rings, leaves carpet the deck

layer on layer, one for each year, amass
the tales of seasons written on their backs
and there’s the graffiti, barefaced and flash

that doesn’t fade, and there’s no-one to check

how fast flowers go, and how long graffiti has
how large the effrontery of humans, how black
their writing, the exact depth of a minute’s sass

fourteen bricks fallen in a heap, and maybe

rudiments of insolence, or philosophy.

Leaves, not just of grass

No-one’s lived here for more than a year

the garden’s gone wild and overgrown
so I tell the gardener to trim it clear
I want the shrubs tidied, the grasses mown.

 

He brings his step ladder and pruning shears

and gets to work on the plants and the lawn;
the trim takes him a couple hours or near
and then it’s done - the wilderness’s gone.

 

He calls me at the last and I’m aghast,

“My god! my brother, what have you done?”
“But this madame is what you yourself asked!
How else can I tidy up a garden?”

 

“This is not what I want, in two hours past

you’ve trimmed off the plumes, the flowers, not one
remains on the plants, it’s just leaves and grass
just bare branches, only green and barren.”

 

The birds too are hushed, he stands there non-plussed

till my ire’s spent, says in an even tone,
“don’t worry, they grow back, but you must
decide how green you want your garden grown.”

 

He stands there and smiles, “leave it a bit wild

and there’ll be flowers in all colours and tones;
but if you want it neat, then get reconciled
to the idea of shades of green alone.

 

“Pruned neat and square, it will always be bare

you see, madame, the buds are often borne
at the tip of shoots and they must bloom there,
and the grass loses its plumes if it’s mown.”

 

I look at his wise face, and the spruced up place

and though I have been slow, it at last dawns -
the lesson he has taught with such careless grace
with a pair of pruning shears, and a wordless lawn.

Cucumber shrine

The hook of the cucumber vine

grew up over your feet, over the rough frames
made from limbs of unknown trees
and buds of amber flames
bloomed to make it a shrine.

 

A dawn of rather stale

morning-breath has come
with rattles of grass plumes
frothing in the scum
filling in the wrong details

 

I think of you so close

slashed cucumber fresh your hands
on my back, and my knees
still gritty with the sands
on which the vine grows.

 

The patio isn’t far

to sit and watch the winds
to feel the sands creep close
to see the lean moon cringe
away from a star.

 

Did you want this for yourself

should it make me smile
this stale and that cringe
and one tall pyramid pile
of pickles on the shelf?


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