Best Weedy Poems
The wind billows out from the seat of his britches
With determined blue eyes, skinned knuckles and knees
he climbs up the rails nailed from old cedar pieces
to the uppermost yoke of an old pecan tree
He is Captain on board, in pretend salty breezes
From his perch in the bird's nest, the world's in his view
A small town boy, who has never seen oceans
sails a fantasy vessel, where his wishes come true
The tall cornstalks stand duty, in the weedy-field waters
He breaks off a branch and a sword fight ensues..
He says "Tally Ho...Land Ahoy!!" to his crew
Dogs are barking below. He must shout out a warning
"There are sharks all around, so his shipmates must heed!"
He is Master Commander, the ruler of nations
He dreams of adventure from his loft in the tree
As he watches the clouds sail across a blue sea
Till his mother calls him in, for his suppertime leave
~
Well, little boys grow, and a childhood will fade
The leaf of the pecan, no longer holds shade
Now a stump of the tree, is all that is left
Yet the memory still thrives, so deep in his breast
When the weight of the world comes tumbling down
He visits this place with the stump in the ground
The rings wrap around him, to take him aboard
To a ship from his childhood, a place he adored
Tonight he will sleep in a bed of contentment
From his bunk he will dream he is sailing the seas
Tomorrow he'll climb up the steps to his vessel
Tomorrow he'll be where the eagles fly free....
...........................................................................................................
Holding onto a rail.
I lean over to see my reflection
mirrored in the water
and small fish swimming
in the camouflage of me.
I muse whether they are feeding
on my thoughts, nibbling
on the strands that loosely
float my day, making
their easy way towards
a dark clumped deep
in my shadow.
I can almost feel
their small fins brush the inside
of my skull, following
the course of a fear,
threading passage
through a weedy tangle
of doubt.
Then, swimming deeper,
their excitement seems
to grow in what they find,
feeding on something
that is hidden from me,
beyond the reflection
of my own mind.
Our dinner, boiled to death root vegetables, we swallow in silence as night closes-in on the school. The co-opted Buddhist monastery housing us empties its porcelain thrones into the walled garden’s weedy rear yard. Village women wash: the floors, the pots, the laundry from first light to deep dark. The water runs downhill. War does not stop the drudgery. Where the women sleep is unknown to us. The owners’ are small men; they rule the house with a heavy hand. They teach the techniques of shamanic healing and Thai Massage.
the Green Tara
hangs upon the room's wall:
geraniums on the ledge
The drowse of Friday evening evaporates in a burst of gunfire. Behind the high walls surrounding the school, the sounds of violence escalate. Through open, screen-less, windows sirens sound, the sky lights up and red, yellow, blue, and white prayer flags hang lifelessly from the eaves to the locked gate. Sleep hides, as I do, beneath the covers.
coiled
insecticide smolders:
temple bells sound
The monks, long gone, leave remnants of themselves on the incense coated plaster. Peace sought here was not found. Poverty necessitated the building’s sale. Here on a side street in walking distance from the American embassy, a school for westerner’s storm cellars. The desire to learn Eastern Healing techniques and a common language, English, binds us together: American, French, Spanish, and South African captures of the internet, pilgrims. We come, healers all, undaunted by the Civil War, to Kathmandu, Nepal.
Monday, the riots end on cue. Tourists, again, meander the dust clouded streets, skirting the alley’s begging children. Tea is served in the burgeoning shops. Butchers swat flies from hanging haunches of meat, rare bird vendors walk the street with baskets of exotic birds. And, brazen Westerners stride bare armed, sari-less exposed, and rude, at least until next Friday night—they own the world.
First Published by Mulberry Fork 2016
In southern Colorado,
that old Rocky Mountain state,
beneath God's azure heavens
is a place called Turquoise Lake.
I'd been driving all around,
it was time to take some lunch.
The lake looked right for fishing,
at least that was my hunch.
After chow I got my gear
and headed for the shore.
I tied on a jitterbug,
who could ask for anything more.
Weedy cover on the left
set off a loud alarm,
but I was casting to the right
just to limber up my arm.
From behind an old man came,
he'd been watching for a while,
"Surface lures won't work out here,"
he mumbled with a smile.
"You know this is a trout lake,
they won't hit on surface lures,
so get yourself a fly rod
and you'll catch some fish for sure."
Now just as luck would have it
you know where the next cast goes,
it's just off of the weed bed,
how that water did explode.
A Rainbow Trout grabbed my lure
and started on a run.
I was fishing ultra-light,
it was really lots of fun.
The oldster stood in wonder,
said he never would have thought
that on a rig like I had
a Rainbow could be caught.
Reluctantly the trout gave up,
he came in without delay.
I gave him slack and he was gone
to fight another day.
Quite by chance
I saw a single, small, white wildflower
amid a crush of grass and weeds
along the roadside, its presence crowded out
by seed heads and space hungry leaves
of species honed for survival.
This wildflower occupied an area
no larger than my little finger
and even then was bumped and bullied
by weedy neighbors. It fed
on the leftover light filtered down
through the tall grass.
I would like to think that in this sometimes
bleak universe there is a caring
and benevolent force that tries to preserve
such fragile beauty from the rampant
excesses of survival and greed, nudges
the odds to favor such a humble flower,
nurtures its seed.
I have a weedy patch of earth
Beside a creek’s rocky path
Where it could take a miracle
To bring to life a young plant
I dig the dirt until it’s soft
Rich and dark and accepting
Like the heart who hears
Gods word and discovers
The tender joy that comes
From listening and hearing
The way to know God’s Son
Finally, the plants grow strong
And I sit back to view my work
Thankful for the beautiful plants
That bask in the morning sun
And the sweet hearts who see
The joy of knowing God’s Son
Intimately, forever at peace
Are those who share in His victory
If my heart is a secret garden
it’s weedy and overgrown,
the few flowers that try to bloom
are pitiful spots of color
trying to find the sun.
Flowers once were technicolor,
long ago when love was young,
and sang in joyful notes
as we journeyed forward
on a path we made our own.
You were fickle; I was true
and so the path we walked diverged,
still the secret garden in my heart
waits for you to come back in
and sow the seed again.
The abuse
On the ground floor of the house
A piano tuner had moved in
The window was painted, and the door
to the road locked
I was about 8 years old, standing
outside alone, I didn't have many friends
As I had spent wartime years on a farm
I had been sent there since I was ill
and the youngest, mother, stuck in
poverty couldn't cope with me as
She had my brother and sister to take
care of also
Suddenly, the piano tuner opened up
asked me to come in, and the abuse
happened
When back on the road again, I was
confused and also ashamed of myself
feeling guilty
I was angry, but never told anyone
but carried the guilt inside me
I was going to beat him to a pulp
I was 19 years of age, sitting on the bus
going into town when the bus stopped
A passenger boarded, yes, it was him
a weedy little man who had difficulty
getting up the high step, by instinct
I got up, grabbed his arm, and got him
into the bus, my hatred had turned into
compassion
Not once did this pervert look at me
He knew who I was
For me, it was the freedom of not
feeling guilty of what had happened
Why should I beat up this pathetic
little man
My childhood was over; life beckoned
A father and his daughter
playing badminton
in a weedy backyard without a net.
How many times
can the battering back-and-
forth connect to send a plastic
shuttlecock flying? Stroke,
that’s 70, return again
on a high easy arc, 71, while
Mom fixes dinner (meatloaf
again, count the grocery
pennies, 79 a pound, and
a husband with nothing better
to do after work than hit plastic
birdies).
But they’re actual
flying birds, 81, these
soaring plastic wings
rallied by a father
and his daughter, 82, stroke
83, never
let it touch the ground
or you have to start
all over again
counting. Yesterday
they sailed to 99 before
dinner which is always
waiting.
COTTAGE IN THE WOODS
It’s hazy
A scrim tints all shades the same – like the
Washed-yellow flowers fronting a shallow pond –
Making ghostly the cozy, little cottage beyond,
Which rises from the rushes and wild cover,
Nearly hidden by jack pine
And so dense – one, the foremost, in sad decline.
I pause, delay, to pick some wayward blooms,
Grown curious what lay within the cottage rooms
Oh, it’s a summer thing this soulful bliss,
Thatched roof and potted-window muse,
Snow White and dwarfs, a true love’s kiss
A sudden, fishy plash, though, disturbs my reverie -
The weedy pond, all ripples reflection -
The whole become some cubist fantasy
My friends say this magnificent rose
Gives off the most wonderful aroma of spring
I am catching a scent somewhat obscure
As yet no recognizable thing
For I'm losing the sense
Of smell in my nose
Perhaps what I'm smelling
Though peculiar and unselling
Is this lovely flower
This most fragrant rose
Most likely it's the pasture
Expelling natural gas
Which is nostalgic and familiar
With its hint of ammonia and pungent aroma
But, I fear, even this shall pass
There's the most angelic sound in the meadow nearby
That is what my lovely neighbor conveys
She jots down the melody with each bar and clef
For I cannot hear it
I am practically deaf
But I do hear the shrill voice
Of my neighbor's young lass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though disconcerting and frightful
And never delightful
I fear, even this shall pass
The most beautiful creature stops at my house
It arrives every day to feed
This is just what I've heard
To me it's all blurred
For a new pair of glasses I need
But I do see the glare
From a bonfire of grass
Which is nostalgic and familiar
Though odious and weedy
And noxiously seedy
I fear, even this shall pass
My neighbor is bringing a dinner she will baste
Which others around highly praise
The sensation for me is hardly a meal
I have lost the better part of my taste
But I savor the peppers
She always brings me in mass
Which are nostalgic and familiar
Though indigestible and spicy
And especially dicey
I fear, even this shall pass
I fondly remember my wife's gentle touch
But this sense too I now lack
If it weren't for the fall
I'd have no sensation at all
But, for these sharp piercing pains
Down my back - Alas! Alas!
While nostalgic and familiar
And though crippling and painful
It is nothing disdainful
And I fear, even this shall pass
Now when I'm gone all will be quite sublime
I will have transcended to the sixth sense
I will be free as a bird
Free from the limits of time
Reunited with the Lord of Providence
Nature poses in Her spring frock,
dressed in all Her regal splendor.
And tends Her gladiolas, in
the guise of a flower vendor.
Her hair perfumed with jasmine,
Nature poses in Her spring frock.
And the epitome of poise,
She sits gracefully on a rock.
She wears a hat spun by the sun,
adorned with a sweet yellow rose.
Nature poses in Her spring frock,
looking graceful in Her new clothes.
Gentle waves caress weedy shores,
where azure and green interlock.
And on such a beautiful day,
Nature poses in Her spring frock.
(Quatern)
Jan.17, 2016.
Through our wish
through our goals
through our done mean
through a compliment decided by the garden
minute having wards coming —
minute always passing, creating
A matter turns alive.
Be not confused realness came from mentally
on goals for, hours marry in cute leading
thou, wish through a canasta disdain
Of our mean ...
The gardens up swell memories
over weedy by coming
the lullaby thou invades off, and sereness
flying on handle tools
any aurora —any of windy
From reality, from mentally tour.
Revelling in the rain
That goes tapping on my back.
I twirl, 'am in no haste;
With a weedy leafy dirndle
Wrapped around my waist.
I swing and I sway,
Drifting about in gay;
Pirouetting with the posies,
Floating in the pristine air.
I dance with no refrain,
Foot taps whispering with the rain.
The entire world stood,
As in a clearing in the wood;
With festoons of flowers and foliage,
Them all ornating my stage.
Till I dance into the dawn,
And a grey and cloudy morn;
Rain capering with me,
Accompanying me for a song.
``
For Charlotte Puddifoot's Contest : "First Poem On Soup"
Not at once, but gradually at my feet
random leaves, brown and brittle
carpenters diligently march in
leaving my bark somewhat non-committal
Furtively, up grow the undesirables
the weedy weeds and the pesty pests
erstwhile friends in the summer sun
the heavenly snag inviting inquests
Wounded tree under forest affliction
how to water; too little, too much
scarred by the bear claw and lightning strike
yielding to the woodpecker, chickadee and bluebird clutch
Where only warmth now lingers, the flame once fired
stands the smiling woodsman cleaning his plate
glistening against my trunk in the wink of a rising sun
a sharpened ax waits and waits