Enjoy a lively walk among stinging nettles in spring.
Skip along and listen to your heart sing.
Dash through fields of dandelions in summer,
Feel the vibrant energy of the finest gossamer.
Get comfy with Tulsi in the fall,
Boost your immune system before flu season calls.
Bunker down with burdock in winter,
Grow stronger as you weather 'Ole Man Jack's' splinter.
Partner with nature to cultivate radiant health.
Abandon artificial things that stunt the growth of your wealth.
Rise with the sun each day,
Walk with purpose, confidently finding your way.
When I was a child,
I had a tomcat that loved sleeping in my bed,
and a dog that lived outside
and barked at night when demons would come.
I wore sneakers, shorts,
and a green hat made from a burdock leaf.
I broke my neighbors' windows
with a slingshot just like
the kids from the Hidden Street.
I brought home flowers, wild strawberries,
pine buds, and shiny stones;
I caught butterflies and watched the sun
through colored glass fragments.
In the summer, I went to the sea with my parents,
built sandcastles, swallowed salty water,
gathered seashells for my collection,
and tanned like a corsair of distant southern seas.
My grandmother made me cherry and walnut jams
so I’d grow strong, while my grandfather
took me treasure-hunting in the forest,
telling stories of fairies, gnomes, and giants.
I snuck into the locker room to peek at girls,
wrote love notes, and went to secret meetings for first kisses.
In a few words, I was a boy like any other,
meant to grow into a man like any other — one of millions
of happy men. Now I only want to know
why things didn't turn out that way...
Blow-ball and Cankerwort,
words born from a common tongue.?
Lions tooth, ?
Priests Crown, ?
Moles Salad and piss-a-bed.?
?
English is most practical ?
when it is rustic and colloquial.
‘Swine Snout’ snorts loud upon the page.
The yarrow-yellow flowers last for hours
then overnight turn to fairy bones.
I recall us both sat upon the grass
blowing unfettered puffs into the wind,
our hair littered with stemmed parasols
the pirouetting flotsam of the airborne.?
?
The damply dunked sounds of sneeze-helicopter's,?
the muddy splatter of piggy snozzles.
Lions Teeth are its leaf, mix well with Burdock
for a low tea under a shady tree.
Beware of false dandelions such as ?
cats ears and coltsfoot.?
The Chinese, Pu Gong Ying is the real thing.
After we had covered each other
with dandelion kisses
we made hay the old fashioned way.
New life will come in Spring
Nature always wins
He can fake anything
She holds on to life in Winter
Let's go in Summer
Who would be interested
In such a meaningless thing.
Blowball and cankerwort,
words born from a common tongue.
English is most practical
when it is rustic and colloquial.
Lions tooth, priests crown,
moles salad and pee-a-bed.
‘Swine snout’ snorts loud upon the page.
The yarrow-yellow flowers last for hours
then overnight turn to fairy bones.
I recall us both sat upon the grass
blowing unfettered puffs into the wind,
our hair littered with stemmed parasols
the pirouetting flotsam of the airborne.
The French have alternate names,
herbal idioms difficult to spell,
but we savor together taraxacum
for it is a diuretic and wets the tongue,
as do the damply dunked sounds
of sneeze-helicopter's and
the muddy splatter of piggy snozzles.
Lions teeth are its leaf,
mix well with burdock
for a low tea under a shady tree.
Beware of false dandelions
such as cats ears and coltsfoot.
The Chinese, Pu Gong Ying
is the real thing.
After we had covered each other
with dandelion kisses
we made hay the old fashioned way.
Feel free to spell dandelion
the way you would write
a long sunny day.
Mabel Vera Cone
1893-1911
No one knew I existed.
No one knew I died.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I lived in the back,
Out back, way behind the small white house
On shady Canobie Street.
No one cared one iota.
No one wondered where I was
Or where I was going.
If loneliness were a flower,
I would be the faded one,
Growing and struggling reluctantly
Amidst the devouring weeds,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Amidst the consuming burdock
And the golden creeping jenny there.
When I died that day,
The last Saturday in moody June,
I was alone and afraid.
No one knew I existed.
No one, not even my family,
Knew I was dying.
Dying in the darkness,
Dying of inescapable isolation,
The disease of misery and melancholia,
Out back, way beyond and hidden there,
Behind the small white house,
On shady Canobie Street.
Oh, Burdock! Let me see spring's fuchsia
Against sapphire skies touched with clouds bistre
Let ivory raindrops flow from clouds lackluster
To nurture emerald hallelujahs
Let thy fuchsia slowly fade turn to a ball
An emerald ball filled with seeds, ideas
Ideas vermillion, spicy mixed strias
Ready to release come amber of fall
When lilac blooms the awesome althea
Let bistre seed spill upon the ripe earth
Love as warm as ginger will it soon birth
The fall of life our love's panacea
Our spring's fuchsia turned into emerald
Silver winter turned soft rose petal gentle
Sonnet attempted to be written in Romanticism style..
Sponsor: Silent One
Written: March 15, 2016
Colors Used:
Yellow: amber
Blue: sapphire
Red: vermillion
White: Ivory
Purple: Lilac
Green: Emerald
Black/brown: Bistre
Pink: Fuchsia
Orange: Ginger
Gray: Silver
I make this detection
upon introspection
of the woodblock inside me named soul
I'm sightless to beauty
on par with a cootie
or, moreover, an underground mole
I distinguish not burdock
from daisy nor hollyhock
a flower is a flower; just that
in all shades and shapes
their splendor escapes
their fragrance akin to rat
For music I've no ear
from hip-hop to austere
discordant cacophonies at best
hush is harmonic;
uncluttered by sonic
my woodblock is calm and at rest
Plaintive prose
gets right up my nose
and further if wordily verbose;
I don't mean to knock
but it's all poppycock
and frankly it's inclined to perturb us.
I have more to relate
let me share my pet hate
'tis birdsong, a misnomer of speech
birds scream and shriek
they squeal and they squeak
a maddening medley of screech
.
Shasta Daisy white
Yellow face to light teardrop
Burdock passed gone
Dockworkers on strike, the ocean gray
and choppy. Wind whips the rigging
of a sailing ship with its weathered hag –
figurehead once lovely in a gentler
age. What Time weaves of us. A line
from memory flits to places farther
inland, when you were younger, every-
thing graced with light: the rain,
the chickweed, and the burdock leaf.
Tomorrow, another ship comes in.
When I was a lass, we didn’t have much
Funny how we liked it though, just as such
We played in the street with a whip and top
In the school playground on a hopscotch we’d hop
Streets were quiet ‘cause there weren’t many cars
Falling off our bikes to leave a few more scars
Dandelion and burdock to drink with Sunday dinner
Yorkshire pudding first, that was always a winner
I remember when I did the hula hoop real good
I can’t do it anymore but really wish I could
Blackjacks, fruit salad, sweets and sherbet dips
Pear drops in our penny mix along with cherry lips
Love hearts, fruit gums and liquorice shoelaces
Sports days at school, the egg and spoon races
The three legged race and the sack race too
There were lots of sports we had to try and do
We had to behave ourselves when we were young
At school in the assemblies hymns were sung
Snowball fights and sledging we had in the snow
Where did all those lovely years really go
Then we grew up and things moved on
All those years as a child had now gone
I remember it so well but it was long ago
I wish I was a lass again, knowing what I know
Aylesbury duck in port
Currant jelly sauce
Bucks bread with beef dripping spread
Then cherry bumpers;
Dandelion and
Burdock brew
Whew!