Wallowing with worries of yesteryear
Is mowing lawns no longer there
Memory moves us where we yearn -
A universe to which we cannot return –
To exhume corpses of our youth
And reverse adamantine truth
want write poems that not
bout politics life's weighty
absurdities death's grip all
simple poems contentment
son's enthusiasm energy
wife's cooking heroic endurance
kitten's bouncing curiosity
old cat's slowing solitude
dog praying hard reform
colors fall newness spring
mowing leaves grass gazing
on in forest looking beyond
tree tops lake mirage day
venus mars night
bach lifting toward
mozart floating down
heaven singing love conquering
fulfilled voluntary unions bodies
cooperation nations peace
strength through peace soul society
treading softly near edge
old habit making safe path
some sweet day will
The sun is high in the summer sky
And no clouds to be seen
The grass is high neath the summer sky
And growing tall and green
The mower starts with growling roar
And cuts through swaths of fescue
This mowing proves a sweaty chore
And soon I beg for rescue
My lawn’s expanse appears to grow
The longer that I labor
Seems to expand as I cut each row
The mower becomes my sabre
And I a true knight dueling a foe
Who laughs at my every advance
He stands unyielding before each blow
And about the green our martial dance
With never a sign of surrender
The fight goes on between us two
Which shall prove to be the pretender
Victory comes with the aim that’s true
And at last my foe lies low
Beneath the heel of the victor
Yet even now it grows
Who shall win next Saturday?
Sadly there is no predictor
The limericks piled in his yard
Made mowing and maintenance hard.
The blade would get stuck
When nonsense it struck,
The handle from hyperbole jarred.
shed will smell like grass
lawn mower will get a break
i'll miss exercise
mowing next door
distinct smell of grass
hay fever laughs
I’ve written about it before
Because it’s just so interesting
The way the mind works doing mindless chores
As I zigzag in and out of trees mowing the arboretum.
Sometimes there’s a pattern I follow.
But usually, it’s a sporadic dance
Of split second decisions
Weaving around as the moment dictates.
Then sometimes something rare happens,
Or rather doesn’t happen,
And I find myself completely out of mind
Mindlessly mowing, turning and twisting in random motion.
And it’s in these rare moments
That I find freedom,
Or at least get a taste,
Of what it’s really like to be free.
I catch myself then of course,
And return to some semblance of mindful mowing,
I am after all merely human
Human all too human.
(7/6/24)
The thick numerous shoots of grass have come out,
no more snow shovels til late autumn comes about.
I hear the robins chirp as they tend their nests,
wait....the sound of a cranky lawn mower chugging
to life from its winter's rest!
Quickly, dear, go out and mow before everyone else
does!
our yard needs to look perfect, 'cuz-
the neighborhood spring lawn mowing wars have
just begun,
it's quite serious, not so much fun.
Yard envy is so common in our subdivision,
The HOA "Yard Of The Month" prize brings derision.
If the young couple who just moved in across the
street think their landscaping is the best,
my roses and begonias will put them to the test.
Hubby can't start the riding mower,
he's cursing its parentage midst dandelions
and clover.
The other men in the cul-de-sac are already
halfway done,
as their wives bring out iced tea for them
under the strong sun.
Well, well, tomorrow is the neighborhood
block party,
I've already made an array of warm weather
dishes so hearty,
My potato salad and baked beans will surely
be the envy of the other cooks,
it is in the good 'ol American spirit-
to compete and be a smug schnook! ~
Blade alludes to strength
Yet,vulnerable, you bend
Lush carpet of life
Crispy dampened leaves
tucked under old chain link fence
hide from mowers blade
It's fifty miles to the city
And fifty home again,
Around that pothole on Depot Road
Into the arms of the lane.
Old George has left his hay down.
A day or two since mowing.
Pink shadow of the Grange Hall,
Blind in sun's last glowing.
The cows are gathered to the barn,
Tail switching at the gate,
Udders glossy ripe with milk.
Supper'll have to wait.
Take down the bucket and strainer,
Rite of the ending day.
Bury the sound of city streets,
In the sweet whisper of hay.
Bow your head to the great brown side,
A choir in the gentle refrain:
Fifty...miles... to the...city,
Fifty miles to the lane.
dogs chasing push mower
throw each other in cut grass
grass hides dog poop mounds
outside cutting lawn
neighbor's noisy mower hums
smell of fresh-mown grass
dandelions bloom
fresh violets kiss the breeze
tulips standing tall
robins building nests
wispy rainclouds from the west
dogwood blossoms fall
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written April 16, 2021
For "Spring Haiku Chain" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by M. L. Kiser
working up a sweat~ cold beer waiting
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Mowing down children with assault rifles
The NRA is all for it. as long as they get a profit.
Selling guns to everyone.
Lah Dah Dee Lah Dee Dah
For protection they yell. We have rights they scream.
Give us our AK’s. Give us our AK’s.
We might need to kill all of the neighbors
If the food gets scarce. Lah Dah Dee Lah Dee Dah
Shooting deer, they lie. Shooting quail they fib.
Shooting always shooting. Give us our AK’s.
You never know when we will need them.
Lah Dah Dee Lah Dee Dah
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