DANDYLION
I am a humble dandelion
(You see, I know my place)
I’m not up there with the roses,
I occupy a lower space.
To some I’m an unwanted weed,
At best an unwanted flower.
I’m not pruned with secateurs,
I’m hacked to death with a mower.
It’s your fault I get everywhere,
When all is said and done.
If you don’t want me in your lawn,
Don’t scatter my seed head for fun!
Categories:
secateurs, flower,
Form: Personification
(a turtle creation story)
Turtle flexed his jaws
as hard as secateurs.
Monkey-See saw
flew up the slippery trees
mimicking
the snapping sound
above the mealy ground.
It was the first Saturday night
and most of the good things,
and most of the mischief
had been sown hours before
but monkey-see knew there would be more.
Fishnet Tights,
the first last-born lady
was crying softly
not knowing why she was weeping and wet.
Her buttery bosoms heaved – we the proto
air-breathing zoo-lings all saw
and most of the swarm grieved
through their embryonic nostrils.
Turtle explained her woe
by opening wide his scything mandible.
When she looked down in it,
Fishnet-Tights saw, red and chortling,
in that ancient maw
his bobbing Adams Apple.
It was then that she became with kids
those troubled knuckle-heads,
the fabled Cain and Abel.
Monkey-See let out a howl
that flew from tree to tree top.
All the scaly birds knew
something big was up.
Turtle winked,
then slept for an eon or two
until all the zoonotic creatures
plumped up - and grew.
Categories:
secateurs, poetry,
Form: Free verse
a thorn pricked her skin so venom oozed out
she laughed it off with one almighty shout
lanced the huge boil and proceeded to reap
ignored sharp pain though the bandage did seep
blessings arrive in all kinds of fashion
when poison left she took to her passion
gathered rose buds and flowers late at night
conquered all fear and abandoned her fright
dreams settled her soul and planted fresh seeds
aware that lush peace was all that one needs
she gave all secateurs away for free
applied soil and compost to her apple tree
next to roses she buried defeat
talked to sweet plants and watered the treat
when she woke again with sadness no more
she minded the morning cleansed to the core
the story’s morale is one single prong
even if painful reveals what is wrong
when life hands out sorrow change direction
for its progress that counts not perfection
Categories:
secateurs, analogy,
Form: Rhyme
A THORN AMONG ROSES
I tell my blooms I’ll protect them
And see they meet no harm.
So, if you come near with your secateurs,
I’ll scratch you on the arm.
But the blooms all say I’ve got it wrong;
You mean no harm at all.
Apparently pruning’s good for us,
Especially in the Fall.
And all that smelly manure
You spread around our roots,
Is all for the good in the long run;
It produces healthy shoots.
They don’t mind if you snip them off
And make a nice bouquet.
They’ve always wanted to feature
In somebody’s wedding day.
But it’s still my role to protect them,
Every bloom and every bud.
So, if you come near with your secateurs,
Be prepared to shed some blood.
7th July 2020
The Flower, The Thorn or Both Contest
Sponsor - Chantelle Anne Cooke
Categories:
secateurs, rose,
Form: Rhyme
As the days shorten and skies darken
Greenwich meantime feels like a lean time.
With a heavier coat I go out scarfed,
my hat pulled down, to find those last leaves
compact in corners and crevices.
With whitening fingers gloved I crouch
and pluck them for leaf mould; while wood lice
watched by a robin, head cocked, alert,
are plucked as he darts for a morsel,
as blackbirds too pluck the last berries.
As a north-easterly blast attacks,
it is time to retreat from the chill
wind into a defensive shelter,
to sharpen secateurs for pruning
apples, blackcurrants and gooseberries.
Winter battles as the rain rattles
on the windows, probing and testing.
I bring in some logs and lay the fire –
match to kindling it begins to roar.
Now dusk it's time the curtains to draw.
Hot drink clasped, I behold a new moon
crescent up into a clearing sky.
There beneath the starlit canopy
snowdrops begin to poke through the grass
as if to reflect the countless stars.
In the morn I rake moss from the lawn
to keep warm – it pays to keep moving –
with aconites as if acolytes
soon to join a vernal procession
into the promise of renewed life.
Categories:
secateurs, garden, moon, november, rain,
Form: Verse
Half a Century
Fifty is not old if you are a tree and the oak tree holds acorns
already planted in waiting for the wheel of life to continue in
sentient beings on time weathered paths one step at a time
I used to be the little child with budding flowers spreading
branches wings for leaves and restless roots pruned with giant
secateurs of what the tempest’s norms held in store for growth
Youth no opprobrium no graceless ignominy’s dishonour but a
rebellious tentative and necessary premise for fulfilment and still
today mere age is no achievement and tree rings not a triumph
At times the reaper has ignored the oak tree fruit and had a go
with ropes and chainsaw poisoned water nails in bark and acid
rain and yet this seasoned sapling stands its tiny ground in time
It is a tree because of branches and without them it is just a stake
some of them withered some are supple like the child I used to be
and somewhere in boughs and twiglets lies the youth of ageing life
Categories:
secateurs, birthday,
Form: Free verse
singing, entrancing
the winding stream cleaves the high valley
grey mist consoles silent sentinels
of a remnant sylvan ribbon
midwinter dawn excites the sleeping wild rose
all is whiteness and the frost is on the slopes
the naked orchard anticipates
the saw and the secateurs
huddled workers around a rusting tractor
breathing mist to the mist
wait patiently for the diesel to thaw
hushed they spy the mountain lorikeets
flashing crimson and ultramarine among the branches
free from their daily shreak and chatter
each one alights alone upon a silver branch
perfect silence abounds in the zen moment
slowly they begin to chime one to another
single notes of living sound ring across the white hollow
no temple bell can imitate or artist's brush convey
such transcendent beauty
the bright-eyed workers stand transfixed
dawn's first breath precedes the rising of the sun
perhaps it is the deepest sigh
of the very queen of heaven
walking as she would
wakening the minds of men from their long slumber
to become aware of her untamed beauty
before it fades forever from the world
Categories:
secateurs, nature,
Form: Idyll (Idyl)
I love the sweet violins of my world
That issue the clandestine tunes,
To soothe my nerves and quench
My desires spooky and strange;
I love the forlorn sight of the sand dunes
That adorn the arid spots of my life,
Tucked away from cacophony and strife:
The secateurs that the tree of wisdom prunes;
I rejoice in the tranquil quiet of lofty minds
And the treasured solitudes of all kinds;
A refuge from fuss and bustle that ruins.
Categories:
secateurs, love,
Form: I do not know?