Blown glass heart slowly expanding.
With every breath they choose to lend you.
Pouring their heaviest selves into you.
You're quickly contracting while they're resting.
Shaping you into a vessel of misuse.
Blown glass heart cooling and cracking.
Timeless masterpiece shattering.
The fillers spilling out, red-faced and laughing.
No blowers left to be found
no lenders of breaths
no fillers of vessels
no more compounding interest
no angel to sweep you from the abyss.
The heart is still there, though in mosaic.
Your beauty was never in how they seesawed you
but how you see, saw you.
Life's beating mosaic in cornflower blue.
Wouldn't it be great
if all this oil ran out
No brush cutters, lawn mowers
or blowers about
Today it's Easter Sunday
on the edge of a large town
There's stillness and calmness
the decibel level decidedly down
The birds they are a'chirping
leaves are rustling in the breeze
The flowing bubbly sound of our nearby creek
all designed to calm the soul if you please
The revival of community
all together lend a hand
Gather fresh organic home grown food
heads no longer buried in the sand
He’s heard before he enters:
you all know the drill.
He lurks in Shopping Centres,
as purposeful as krill.
Socially successful?
Like a waltz named ‘Emmet Till’.
His outcomes, too, are stressful
(see Wordsworth’s Harry Gill).
The death-knell at your dinner
with his punchline overkill,
a Jeanine Pirro ‘winner’:
each day a No True Bill.
His laugh’s as loud as mowers
or dad’s electric drill,
or over-taxed leaf blowers,
or an angry whippoorwill.
Denizen of the diner,
you know, for good or ill,
he’ll use his new one-liner:
audience feedback? Nil.
Why repeat the spasm?
Get up each morning, still?
He’s conscious of that chasm,
that hole he’s got to fill.
Hey, never mind the hundred thousand folks
you'd have to keep for decades in the dark -
the sub-contractors, cleaners, office clerks.
Hey, never mind the billions such a hoax
would cost (to really go there works out cheaper!)
Don't give a thought to scammers, media whores,
and all those earnest, honest whistle-blowers,
who gagged to play heroic brother's-keepers
and get on Charlie Rose. Don't tax your wits
by wondering how a monumental lie
could hope to last, or even wonder why
someone would want to try it. Think of this.
In early summer, nineteen sixty-nine,
the Soviet Union hated Uncle Sam.
If there had been a smidgeon of a scam,
the Russians would have formed a clamoring line
of hackers, trackers, eggheads and the rest
to tell the waiting world, "it isn't so!
Our satellites confirm, they didn't go!"
But they said nothing. There's your acid test.
In the suburbs, piles of leaves
Sit waiting on the street,
The blowers having gathered them
In mounds, all nice and neat.
A gust of wind may carry some,
Or possibly a child
Who couldn’t quite resist the urge
To tap his inner wild.
But once a week, a truck comes by
And with its giant hose,
It sucks that foliage from the road
To someplace no one knows.
When I was young, the leaves were raked
And then were set aflame,
That sweet aroma spelling “fall”
In memory’s acclaim.
They vanished in a dust of ash
As heavenward they’d rise
Along with childhood’s fading hold
We’d once romanticize.
Roar of leaf blowers.
Rippling of rafts.
Reticence of leaping
into a pile of molten gold -
a sea of Autumnal cache.
Childhood immunity;
don’t look at the grandmother;
giddy, a grand finale,
as she defiantly leaps.
Oh! Did I mention,
she’s fast asleep?
Old granny succumbs
with metaphoric salts,
as the toddler lands
on her loving lap,
awakening granny
to the warmest day.
Sleepless
Dogs are howling.
Cats are yowling.
Stomach's growling.
Just want a nap.
Mowers mow.
Blowers blow.
Planes are low.
Please, a bit of kip.
A fly astir .
An AC's whirr.
Roaring roadster.
Just forty winks.
Telly's off.
Party's over.
Almost aslee...
Have to pee.
-Grim
I go to where I last saw you,
where plum blossoms
painted the road white,
to see you again.
But the ground is swept clean
by leaf blowers,
and it is only me
on the grey concrete.
I go to where I once saw you,
where the crescent moon
hung like a metal hook,
to see you again.
But now the moon is full,
and for all these days and weeks,
I have not yet found you again.
You, a passerby
of gardens and night skies,
never to be caught
at the same place again.
Things That Should Grow on Trees
Things that should grow on trees include:
big sea birds with
extremely long wings, old-fashioned shoe
horns, tape recorders who
play sporadically cries of
grief, blank
photographs, stamps with
printed eyeballs, people with
colourless or
very nearly colourless hair and
skin and
pinkish eyes, the word
unfortunately, the word
regrettably, the word
even though, miniature
pianos, vampire
teeth, leaf
blowers, False
IDs, illuminated loyalty
cards, the watchful and
attentive, damp
clothes, pom
poms, glass
shards, pack of
cards, rope knot
balls, plastic
trinket boxes, ashtrays (glass only), lips (too
animal lips), spines (too
animal spines), toast, headache
tablets, running
shoes, and
whores.
I love life in Washington state
With a Democrat governor to keep it all straight.
Tear down the dams put windmills in place,
The cold in midwinter we'll surely embrace.
Next we must ban all gas-powered leaf blowers,
And then do the same with all the lawn mowers.
Ban every tire with too much friction,
This climate change is such an addiction!
I love life in Washington state,
But it's natural beauty just can't compensate.
We are outnumbered by Liberals way up north,
Their insane edicts will surely go forth!
Rubenesque pumpkin blossoms and blowers
Come in the night to entice the best growers
Playing music the future jack-o-lanterns here.
Calling each other endearments like Pookie and Dear.
The jacks sit on their vines, and grow the best they can.
They want to please Doris, Denise and Dibbly Dan.
Pumpkin blossoms and blowers are found to be super sealed.
The last one I saw was playing a flute in an Iowa field.
O, blowers of the sky!
carry my prayers with you and cling to them
who sacrificed for humanity
forgotten with time
never to be recalled in the past
my heart hurts for them
my heart begs
so they might partake in sacrament.
Written: January 13, 2023
Where once in fall, the air was filled
With such a special smell,
That burning leaves aroma
Which I loved, as you can tell…
Today, instead, we have the sound
Of blowers making noise,
Which I would bet that not
A single living thing enjoys.
The leaves, once raked and burned,
Now sit in piles to cart away
Or else get spread around, where they
Will, in the future, stay.
I miss the scents of autumns past
And crackles of the flames,
Preferred to the incessant drone
Each blower loudly claims.
dog ears I have
loud sounds are hell
heating duct blowers distract me
Ouch! Is that the sound of a bell?
music piped in puts me over the edge.
I am barely hanging onto insanity’s ledge.
It is a nice day today
the trees are blossoming
the flowers are nice
later on, there is ice.
The summer months
the changing weather
prepared, extra items of clothing
Birds are flying and gathering.
The cold days, the ice and snow
amazed, surprised
hoping for great weather again, some more
freezing hands, faces are cold
lots of snow
with snow blowers going
roads are covered with ice
piles of snow still blowing.
Some places colder unexpectedly
preparation in place
snow and icy roads covered in some states
weather changed
not the same.
From the warm weather to the cold
unknown what the future ahead will hold
in the journey what shall come abroad.
Weather changes in seasons
South, North, East, West
a guess, some reasoning.
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