lawn mower drone cuts the silence in half
I can pretend not to hear it
or pretend I like it
I pretend it is a wishing machine
granting wishes all along the road
and I am the next house
lawn mower is all he has
we hear it roaring twelve hours a day
he is a seventy-year-old epileptic man
it is all he can drive
I am grateful he has this
in the summer of 1997
Twelve year old Ryan Tripp made a 3, 366 mile journey
across the USA raising ten thousand and four hundred dollars
for a sick baby living in his home town.
He took this trip on a twenty-five horse power mower
from Salt Lake City, Utah to Washington, D.C.
He was followed by his adoring parents and grandparents
in pick-up trucks, insuring his safety.
Amy Ingram, who lives next door,
like nobody, you've met before,
always talks with a whirring sound,
and walks an inch above the ground,
all mechanical that's for sure.
She reopened the hardware store,
mending microwaves and mowers,
AI hope for our run down town,
Amy Ingram.
Red capped residents, soon got sore,
said "this ain't our town any more",
but some of us stuck to our ground,
we wouldn't let them shut her down,
I'm just glad I've got to know her,
Amy Ingram.
A small bee
flew up to me --
buzzing, all a-fuss
in my face:
myself, about to clip a
flowering weed~ using
fancy, dynamic, power mover --
apparently, the bee
hadn’t yet finished his
morning shopping hour….
The mower wants to slice --
the point of the bee,
better think twice…
blades and weeds
and dominant man
from the little prick
I wisely ran….
a growler is running
clouds are being mown down
then replanted inside wind-scapes
Popping seeds
crunch together
spill their fill into the air
a word on the lip of imagination
is chopped out of existence
ears ring
with dead bird songs
a silent space of myself
flaps away
i would rather be
a bat orbiting the moon
than here and now
the grass under my feet is cut
a grave undercroft of being
turns over and over
a restless mind has long searched
for my house
but the house is cut down
and landscaped to pieces
i need an enemy to love
or a love to hate
nothing less will do
a growling lawn mower is running
a word on the lip of imagination
is chopped out of existence
ears ring with dead bird songs
this silent space of myself
flaps away
i would rather be
a bat orbiting the moon
than here and now
the grass under my feet is cut
a grave undercroft of being
turns over and over
a restless mind has long searched
for my house
but the house is mown down
and the sky landscaped to pieces
i need an enemy to love
or a love to hate
nothing less will do
The mower will weed the grass
To let the flower plants grow
To let the flowers blossom
To beautify the garden
To give us a better view
To please our eyes
To give us delights
The weeds have to be weeded
And so the bad habits of the children
Throwing rubbish
So that the garden is weed free and rubbish free
Maybe the mower and the early stage of education
Should go together
When the children are still small
The yard’s a mess and grass has grown.
It’s time for me to mow.
Not hard to figure on one’s own,
Don’t even have to show.
Some don’t agree about my plea.
I’m even given strife.
If you think, who that might be,
That person is my wife.
My tractor is my mistress,
I’m having an affair.
Who’s only living interest,
Is cutting earth’s green hair.
She gets so mad, I have to hide,
And mow when she’s not here.
Alone outside it’s that I ride,
Just me and my John Deere.
Peering out, she watches me,
And peaks between the blinds.
Oh the burning jealousy,
That seeps inside her mind.
I plead with her, said she could try,
And give the thing a spin.
I said I’d even keep an eye,
And damn try not to grin.
And then one day, I went outside,
My mind went oh so nervous.
For it was gone, and then she cried,
She’d hired a lawn service!
Lawn Mower Facts
Briggs and Stratton is number one,
Grandpa use to say…
They will last until the cows come home.
Then he dreamed a bit…
The Deere, Oh John, he plows forever,
If you can afford one, that is.
Fixing things that did not run,
with magic hands, old and withered with time.
Still able to join nothing into something,
Spark and start the blades,
whirling and the grass goes down.
Piles of old tires behind the shed.
Decks without engines, gas tanks empty.
This was the land of possibilities.
Grandpa was always moving, forward.
Frames of things, welders to melt steel,
so hot you could feel.
Then…
Mini bikes, with stolen power, leaving the grass too long.
Pushing all the right buttons, changing all the right gears.
Faster and faster.
Grandpa was right. (as always)
Briggs, are wonderful for cutting the green,
but way better
for Kicking
the
dust
up…
instead of laying the grass down!
Billy Bob's mower
not only ate the green grass
but ate his clothes too.
Copyright © Cynthia Jones
Oct.16/2005
Trying something different.
Every other week during summer, or fall ...
there's a loud noise rattling my huge window
facing the shady street
where no kids are seen.
.
Old fashioned grass cutters like the one I had made a minimal noise,
I don't have to visualize it, or see it to describe its actual color...
days ago I saw one with a dangling front the front bumper,
and the small, miserable guy was trying to snap back in its place.
I came outside and yelled, " Fix the darn machine and let me sleep! "
and giving him a second nasty look running my mouth as a truck driver,
" Sir, " he replied, " I am trying to fix it and finish the job and leave!"
" Do it quickly and let me get some more sleep! " that was my answer.
And just in case you wonder
what its color was .....you are
in for a shocking surprise, it was much dirtier
than an abandoned car
with a finish similar to a chocolate's eclair!