The discarded dead find an unused beauty,
an afterlife that curls, re births,
tunnels and reshapes -
a mulching of a former season's thin bones.
Mortality buds from an emptiness
long before the seed encloses it,
a mottled mold unwinds death to life.
See the genetics of the unseen,
see the shedding and replenishing,
a branching polymorphic architecture
that constantly furrows and gardens
the grave.
A self-determined choreography
of stemless minds, the unseen labor
before the upsurge, before the foundation
and the root.
Ammonia-ed clumps of damp, dunged straw
forked onto her cold barrow, then rolled outside.
Across the field where her ninety pounds
thrust up the dray atop a mulching mound!
Nineteen times before the sour dregs
are swallowed by the day.
Bowed tendons stripe her calloused palms with pain.
She racks each open with a metal comb
to rake her horse’s mane.
Stall cleaned; horse fed, mane combed to shine as gold-
Showered, she brings her smile to our bed.
THE PLUCKED AND WATERED FLOWER
Wondering lonely as a floating firmament,
Seeing a petal held up by the branch
Like a host of golden daffodils,
In the green pastures of nature
whistling sounds of peace
Besides the still lakes of serenity,
I apply as the gardener in the vineyard
Mulching the gracious garden
As my weary toes grips mother earth.
To pluck the flower is to "like"
With the help of the heavenly wind
But love is to water the flower,
Daily, as such is the true life
Splintered with the taint of love.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 4th January, 2022.
We took a tour of the farm this morning,
Thinking it would be a bore in early fall.
Watched them mulching strawberry beds,
And collecting the last of summer’s haul.
The greenhouse was full of exotic plants
From all over the world, it seemed,
We sniffed and tasted colorful herbs
Learning some can be eaten steamed!
Geese, turkeys, and ducks were feeding
On corn from shocks bundled up for sale,
While stacks of bright orange pumpkins
Prompted the farmer to tell us a tale.
We saw the monarchs fluttering about
Newly born from chrysalis on fence wire,
Watching the honeybees go in and out
Made us happy we were able to retire.
written October 14, 2021
Leaves, green with sap of lush Spring trees
Flutter as branch bound butterflies,
Whistling tunes in Summer breeze
Backing cicada mating songs.
Well-seasoned leaves blistered with rust
Fly as pennants on Autumn limbs.
Much retired from recycling CO2
They rocked and rolled on Winter ground,
Rout-steppers marching in review,
Mulching forward with much to do.
Fungi, fungus, funguses thousand fold,
eukaryotic life kingdom of yeast and mold.
Ancient legends and myths from many times,
beginnings and ends through mulching slimes.
Egyptians sensed the connection in fungi to gods,
only Pharaohs allowed to have them as foods.
Consuming the fungi to become immortal static,
Mushroom stones in Mesoamerica enigmatic.
The Rig Veda describes the juice of Soma,
considered as precious liquid of stardust and earth aroma.
Indispensable in all worships and ritual,
similar to Greek deities of cognate ambrosia.
Consumed in Shamanic sessions to contact spirits of the dead,
fortifying long hunting trips an dreams thread.
Penicillin antibiotics against bacterial infection,
surviving the war with needed invention.
Psilocybin and psilocin magic shrooms,
DMT, acid blotters magic truffles booms.
Alice in wonderland and the philosopher’s stone,
introspective hallucination and psychosis throne.
Natures secret language by mildews organisms,
earths everlasting fungi dew compost prism.
it has been
a bit of a bad
Summer in some
respects
but as Autumn
is about to fall
our black walnut
tree has already
lost it's leaves
and dropped what
few nuts
it had
the squirrels don't
seem worried
lazily leaving them
on the ground
the mulching mower
rides over
them cracking
them open
perhaps
a sign
of an easy
Winter
Into the woods she walks wearing a red
hooded plain woolen cape; moving cautiously
as she talks to herself to ease the dreaded
fear she wants to escape.
She hears the crunching of dry leaves mulching
under her feet. A maiden friend she'll meet
on the other end of the woods;
a shortcut to her neighborhood.
She wished she'd brought her fearless dog
in case she got caught by a dangerous wild;
he would scare whatever was there.
The ascending sun brought streaks of blue sky
as it peaks casting shadows across the ground.
She follows the path through the woods. A sharp
breeze springs up slicing through the autumn morn.
She freezes drawing a short breath of dread.
The quiet is broken and drowned. Branches
creak and leaves rattle, with the flapping of wings
as frighten birds quickly take flight.
She quickens her steps and made her way to the end.
Left behind, where the wild things are.
1/8/2019
Poetry Contest: Free Verse Style Only
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
SPRING GARDEN PREPARATION (20150213)
After the winter season
But before the rains begin
Catalogues of heirloom seeds
Delivered just in time
Earmarked and prioritized
Farmer’s Almanac consulted
Given planting periods
Horoscopes included (but useless!)
Individual seed varieties ordered
Junk mail shredded and added to compost
K (potassium) added as potash
Lumber purchased for trellises
Mulching around transplanted seedlings
Non-Genetically Modified Organisms only
Organic fertilizers only, too
Planting by phases of the moon
Quick-fix pesticides are anathema
(Round-Up kills everything--US, not just weeds)
Seed boxes keeping seedlings warm
Testing the soil for minerals and organics
Unleashing ladybugs and pollinators
Vertical gardening to conserve space
Watering just enough, but not too much
Xenocide, killing unwanted weed species
Youngsters helping (or hindering)
Zoning plants to vary root depths
Seemingly, sudden,
Restful sleep all but over.
Wild tricolored Irises, vivid white, sun centered, Shasta Daisies,
And Cosmos of azures, fuchsias and buttery cups;
Babies breathing, eager to begin once again,
In order to forsake the bronze, soft textured crustiness
Of the newly milled mulching caps, as they race for
The viewer and the gazer's glorious prize.
Even with a long and empty storehouse,
The beautiful bachelors and bachelorettes
All remember how to drink
From natures vase,
And where to turn their faces
For one fleeting and lasting
Ray of purpose.
5/8/2014
pastoral meadow
newly shorn sheep grass mulching
woolly mammoth bones
The shade of a swizzle stick
Clank to a glass
Stirring of wet stuff
Cooling of gas
Pleasure from drinking
Washing it 'round
Gushing then gobbling
Drooling it down
Clunk; there's an ice cube
Frosted in vision
Sunken till risen
Expanding with fission
Spinning the cherry
In circles that narrow
Mulching the flavours
Till bones fill with marrow
Blending the colours
In one seemly manner
Tasting the sword
Through lips you have gored
Stabbing the olive
With one splintered pick
Tasting the olive
In one bite that's quick
Laying the napkin
Aside of the glass
The glass starts to dribble
The waitress walks past
brown garden
mulching leaves replenish
child laughs and jumps
The old year is gone
You say
Dead as leaf fallen
Under a barren tree
Dead
And still mulching roots
Of new growing
Things
Dead and still
Nurturing continuities
A breast in the mouth
Of bitter hunger
No hand can remove
How is a thing gone
And yet remain
To corrupt everything
Every new dream is a fruit
Of old ambition
Every ambition
Has a stalk of pain
Nothing dies
Until memory is lost
And memory
Is not the frost
In the sun.
My order is disheveled
Contemplating time
The root
Of all mortality
While I
Like an old year past
Away
And be dead
When no one remembers
For the ash
Without the ember
Is dust in the wind
The forest
Fragile as love again.
The old year is gone
Dead you say
The river flows
And never comes back
In tears or in rain.
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