We all have beginnings somewhere,
a place where the soul first took root
and drew its history, fixed a compass
point, a pin in a map to mark its home.
For me it was here
where the horizon began
in a haze of mangrove trees
and broad tidal flats
and boats bellied in mud
when the sea sucked back the river
leaving its gums grinning
under a warm sun. It was here
where my ancestors landed
more than a century and a half ago.
Now manicured to prime real estate,
the tides keep to an orderly flow
within grassy banks overseen
by multi million dollar views.
The mangrove forests have gone,
the swamps sanitised to lawn.
I look across the glistening reaches
of a man made lake to where
the slow drift of sailboats scrape
the bottom of an evening sky.
All seems out of place, not home
and yet I mull as to whether
there is any other beyond this one,
beyond the little sailing boats
and the barking dog nearby.
Massaging me with body oil,
I am now your woman to spoil.
My hair’s become ringlets.
With an arch in the jacuzzi,
I lay back let you taste me.
String pearls and cigarettes.
There is an absence of my voice,
save an inarticulate noise.
The sound of a branding.
Your adept hands apply pressure,
hit that line of pain and pleasure.
My heart’s understanding.
Where do you end and I begin?
My safe word is ‘Separation’.
Manicured nails cut glass.
Mirrors left completely shattered,
lips left soiled and tattered.
Pure lux in sassafras.
Soft and smooth, freshly manicured with
No trace left behind of struggle or woe;
Hard to gauge the multitude of daily trials
Or the enormous good and success bestowed.
He’s not afraid to let harsh enemies see his strength.
Strong and firm, his grasp telegraphs immaculate powers,
His steeled convictions and unyielding determination,
And the hell that might rain down in furious showers.
From all directions his enemies test his mettle
Then find themselves wilted on bloody ground.
Respect replaces immature, misguided disdain and fear
When he wields the power of Light and sound.
Gentle, with kindness and bountiful praise
He guides his family and subordinates through remarkable lives.
To others, “You will do it because if you don't...” his favorite phrase,
As he looks intently into their cowardly eyes.
There’s no wavering, no fear. His hopeful message is crystal clear.
Each declaration of his executive powers is deliberately penned
To fight prior injustices, selfish evil, and despicable greed.
The American people know in his powerful hands is all the strength we need.
Twenty years ago this month I was in Enid A. Haupt Garden, a manicured
garden surrounded by two rows of saucer magnolia trees. The magnolious
large, cup shaped flowers showcasing breathtaking display of white or
pinkish-purple petals with outer petals of darker shade of pink or purple.
The petals, thick, soft and velvety scattered on the ground and benches.
I was swept away by the pleasant fragrance and captivated by the scent, a
combination of sweet, floral and slightly citrusy. A fragrance so noticeable
for the scent wafted through the garden, creating a pleasing aroma, like a
sweet lemony candy. Unforgettable! When will I see and smell them again?
Fickle sunbeams tickle fluttering daydreams...…
Lyrical lapping lullaby encores...
Gingerly stroke sandy shell shattered shores..
Starlings spy…sky high murmurations...
Skimming stones....slicing silky sheens..
Voluptuously verdant riddles…islands within idylls...
Scattered daffy darlings..dilly dally...
Sunshine splattered chlorophyll candles...
Animosity as an ersatz monstrosity shines…
Saluting highfalutin pomposity..devouring skylines..
Notes of cut grass gloats floats from..
Middle class mowed manicured marvels..
Criss cross collaborations… surf the tailored turf....
Billiards baize ablaze with petrichor whiffs
Festooned with afternoon nana nap snores..
The radio's heavenly hum of cricket scores...
A duvet of familiar riffs...murmurs of what if's..
An inkling..whispers of summer's sprinkling serendipity twinkling..
Just another female
, complain and wail
Fake from bottom to head
Talk only and never hears what is said
For her ears are for rings
And mind full of dead things
Can't use brain nor ponder
To see someone think is a wonder
A woman of no category
An average symbol of female derogatory
Clean, shine and glamour
With terminal tumor
Just a dressed corpse and manicured
Can't be healed nor cured
Sunday 28/9/2003
Glimpse
his approach;
Burly manicured hands
holding such hot espresso;
Capable.
Neighbor's kids, groomed and manicured
like a well-kept lawn
Greet their parents joyfully
smiles, hugs, a beaming ‘Good morn’
Not that we’re jealous, not in the least
as we struggle to get ours out of bed
By the time they’ve rejected breakfast
My wife and I are half-dead…
Yet patience, patience, patience
wins the day
For they will surely grow out of it ~
please God, before we’re old and gray
Lumbering bulldozers grind
and rip trees and shrubs
from the empty lots, competing
with gas fumes, the noise
of trucks, and honking horns
on the busy thoroughfare.
Two gracious houses,
once precious home to families,
but long abandoned
and fallen into disrepair,
smashed to kindling,
hauled away for scrap
Just up the grassy hill
behind our senior residence,
we’ll watch another
commercial business go up.
Recent car wash on the corner,
now another bank? Fast food?
Alongside our apartments,
in the past, a Christmas tree farm,
sweet smelling pines replaced
with roads and new homes,
manicured lawns and two-,
sometimes three-car garages.
Countryside eaten away
by ever-increasing population
with insatiable desire for the
shiny, new, bigger and better,
for the quick and easy,
immediate convenience.
Afternoon teas exchanged for
socially beneficial cocktail parties.
Casual-, even sports-wear, in
the finest restaurants, rudeness
and boorish comments the norm,
“Gracious” suffering a slow death.
Geese are roaming through my neighborhood
Littering every single inch of sidewalk with feathers and poop
Contrast to the perfectly manicured lawns
Of perfectly manicured suburban families
Too perfect
I feel like I found true happiness on my walk
Whistling while my strides come paced and measured
Humans are like bugs the more I look at them under my microscope of criticism
Killing and eating our own
Wrapping our offspring in the silk of our wombs
Protecting them from dangers to come
But humans like every other living creature
Succumb to the elements and the righteous hand of God
Children are like geese
They squawk and whine
Complaining about every thing that inconveniences them
The noises continue until they appreciate the value of silence
The silence before a storm
Or the way everything stops before a flood
God granted silence for me on my walk
Quieting the voices of the woman talking on a phone
Or the screams of children on the playground
God granted silence for me
And the trees who were spared from swaying at the whim of a breeze
And silence for the birds getting ready to devour their dinner of worms
In their sharp, hooked beaks
The aging street mourns its faded splendor.
It remembers having red tulips and roses
in manicured, fertilized, emerald lawns
in community yards lining its borders.
But neighborhoods gradually decayed,
and nobody’s planted flowers in years.
The asphalt’s once-black fresh-tar patina
is now gray and chockfull of countless cracks.
In those rifts grow rows of feral weeds
that no person planted or wanted.
Rooted in forgotten fissures of the world,
weeds lift their hearts and heads toward the sky.
Survivors of severe environments,
baked by blazing sun, infrequently watered,
deprived of easy access to nourishing soil,
and squashed by droves of mutilating tires.
Yet, still the stalwart weeds survive,
paragons of beautiful resilience.
Glamorous, fragile flowers are transient.
Plain, ordinary weeds are forever.
For humans who feel our messy lives
are more like run-over weeds than roses,
weeds’ wild fortitude foreshadows
an unexpected, untamed eternity.
So dainty how she held the tea cup,
sipping showing off manicured nails;
I walk in and fall with a thump;
Hot spots splotch a face that pales,
yet never do they hear me scream;
I secure the win as ‘Graceful’ fails;
So unrefined is how it may seem
meeting the floor with my face;
Channeling poise I quickly redeem;
Transformed by soft metamorphosis,
a still lady below the surface.
young buck deer
nonchalant among bushes
of the manicured lawn
[Not strictly limericks as syllable count is out,
But hey… be a rebel… ignore the rules!]
_______________________________________
I met the young lady from flat forty-five
I told her, “Your beauty makes me feel alive.”
She said, “My name’s Lexi.”
Her voice was SO sexy
My heart beat as though it was in overdrive
She took no persuading to give me a kiss
And then she said, “I bet you want more than this.”
My ardour was stirred
A lot more occurred
And my whole life became an ocean of bliss
The feelings we nurtured in flat forty-five
Instilled in me romance that surely would thrive
She patted my sleeve
And said, “You should leave,
My next client is about due to arrive.”
Downhearted, I made my way down to the street
I felt worse than Bonaparte when he was beat
Until she called down,
“Don’t go off with a frown,
Podiatrists, like me, just do people’s feet”
Well that tipped the scales and put wind in my sails
I rushed up those stairs like a steam train on rails
And soon, side by side
I got me a bride
I also got soft feet with manicured nails
Near the local library in my sweet little town lies
Greenlawn Cemetary where peace abounds..
An open field bursts in tawny golds like a Monet.
Flitting yellow butterflies land briefly and then fly away..
The Allegheny Mountains provide a panoramic view for
those demised and their visitors too.
Each engraved headstone, a tribute to one whose gone is
meticulously spaced a part on it's well manicured lawn.
Miniature flags were planted so one never forgets the
wars of our past and all are brave vets..
A few sturdy benches coated in gloss offer up a place to sit
and mourn the one you've lost..
It's quite serene, dignified, I remain seated in my car,
sharing in their solitude from a far..
From flesh and blood to earth's rich mud, so many stories,
so many lives.
All are born and all must die, death doesn't know compromise.
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