A worm's eye view never seems to be a problem
for those who prefer not to be perceived.
I inch along the ground,
cowering in the light
and moistening myself in hallowed raindrops.
The sky clouding over is my perfect afternoon.
Gentle breezes and summer downpours
are the creatures' form of relaxation,
while children cover themselves in the safety of concrete barriers,
These perfectly straight lawns
bordered by paved expanses
are insurmountable obstacles; guaranteed death.
After the rain,
childlike giants scoop us up
and force us to succumb to concentrated beams of sunlight
filtered through magnifying glasses.
Why Does It Never
Get Dark Anymore...
At Night, I Mean...?
Would You Want
A Black Out?
Are You Asking?
Yeah, Dark & Scary...
Please.
-Gray Squirrel
12-04-2025
Promised oasis
hidden in banality
suburban secret
Something about the new
Stage behind the red swagger
Green TVs, living that luxury
Almost getting lost with the sullen
Eagles lifted to heaven level
Gray in the garden bed
I’m painted yellow and
Glowing like a scarecrow
Angel among the dead heads
Smoked up across America
Smoked up in back yards, kitchens
Bedrooms, smoked to heaven
And hell and found a way back
To sleep before work starts
I’m molded in the sealing
Of your bathroom tile watching
Scum blossom. Lost in the open
Neck draining on park pavement
Only good men chase bad kids
Everyone knows he was loaded
Days after, we found bullet holes
Through the walls, bullets lodged
In the door of our car. I almost
Thought I’d find a hole through
My heart. Three days past the
Rude waking and I’d find a bullet
Still burning some hell through me
In the grass, I lay my head,
a pillow soft, a verdant bed,
blades of fingers gently wrap
around my limbs, a loving trap.
Leaves rustle up their lullaby
as buzzing bees go buzzing by
a symphony of sight and sound
out of the grass life lives unbound—
Suburban waste stretches beyond and far away
Languishes under the hot hazy sun
Seasons reap
Memories run
Remembering things better left unseen
Memories reel in the theater on the mind
Things fragmented in frame
Of mental photographs
Faded edges frail
brittle fluttering
Summer rainstorm run the horizons
Lightning lances the rain
Fall is coming, frost is in the eves
Pumpkins gleaming a thrilling sight
Images crystalize by chilly winter nights
Summer comes to burn away the sight
Spring color runs, fades
Autumn rights delays dies
in the passing taillights
Suburban boulevard’s lost
in fog shrouded waste…
See the girls on the corner
In tight tanks
And micro minis
Popping gum
Locking eyes
Driving boys wild
See the sunlight
Outline their curls in gold
Memories of youth
In the Suburban wastes
Walking the streets at night
Running with the summer moon
Oh, from what demented mind was born
A thing so pointless as a lawn?
Surely some old eccentric lord
In a mansion, born both rich and barmy,
Who could so lavishly afford
A mighty artful minion army
Of sowers of seed and pullers of weed
Of mowers of grass and spreaders of feed
That could do for him each filthy deed
And meet the lawns fortnightly need.
But we, suburban lowly born,
Must perforce do all this on our own
Lest our green and lifeless lawn
Become like a meadow, overgrown.
Oh, from what demented mind was born
A thing so pointless as a lawn?
© Barry Freeman – May 4th 2020
The sweet bird songs heard at the break of dawn
Mixed with the sound of sprinklers on the lawn
Neighbors readied boats for bobs in the bay
Morning papers landed in each driveway
Boxy air units were wedged into sills
A mailman in shorts delivered the bills
I rode my bike downhill to feel the breeze
Getting vitamin D was done with ease
Voluptuous housewives gloved in the garden
Black barbecue grills covered in carbon
Thirsty drooping plants on blazing back decks
Lobster red shoulder blades and sunburnt necks
Lunch was a sandwich and chips in the shade
Washed down with a glass of pink lemonade
Money was made from the grass I would mow
Listened to baseball on my old radio
On towels in backyards lounged sun seekers
Chlorophyll stained the tips of my sneakers
The mower’s blade spun like a propeller
Musty scents wafted up from our cellar
Plump purple mulberries there for the pluck
The beckoning sounds of the ice cream truck
Mom cooked supper and the heat was obscene
Hamburgers, tater tots, and cowboy beans
I ate with gusto like a death row man
Napkins aloft from the rotating fan
Symphony by crickets under the stars
Blinking fireflies and candles in jars
While gold-laced suburban skies shine, it is wasted on the child.
As he pouts behind a picket fence, vanilla ice cream melts.
Watching the manicured lawns grow, I long to loosen the green.
Written 5/25/20 for Jenish Somadas’
Let the Pens Flow Sijo Contest
Once was I a teen,
That's when Mum got mean,
Dragged us off on long drives,
Her whinging did give me hives,
Maybe she could not hack us growing,
Autonomy we wanted knowing,
We tried not to be like our mother,
Turned each into totally another,
Nag, nag, nag and moan,
Not again! I'd sit at home,
With music and a fur pal,
A book, a pen, a suburban gal....
So, in half a century,
Not much changed for me,
I sit and scribble, solo,
But never alone, my muse, lo!
His oars (mind, arms, and legs)
were insufficient as propellers to earn a living.
In the underground´s nasty passageway;
or was in his life´s nasty passageway?
Anyway! There, he, like an imbecile, sat,
another torn mendicant, holding up his hand to indifferent passers-by,
asking for a gaze or just a word of hope.
Hope! What hope?
- The hope that remains as a candle into his heart.
the little flame that every day fights the Almighty forlornness -.
At night, unanswered the pray
the candle would shrivel;
and he became the symbol of a supplicant without faith,
hopelessly holding up among his hands,
and offering the burned out candle and misery of his life
to others indifferent passers-by.
There, at the underground´s nasty passageway.
Or was it his own life´s nasty passageway?
he huddled and covered with the black cloak of failure, remains sat
in the midst of despair.
Just till tomorrow.
Suburban Pastorale
(I walk in nature still alone. Thoreau)
Among purchased trees
he seeks repose
and bruised
by civic alienation
forgets that Eden's cleft
has led to all that's made.
But surely he knows
Man and Nature
bound only by cultivation
are not the same.
For he, like most,
prefers his nature tame.
Curbing Drinking Suburban Bourbon
What we could be doing is probably curbing,
Things that are disturbing and also suburban;
Before drinkers die,
A tariff do apply;
Never drinking or have been serving bourbon.
Jim Horn
It's Saturday in suburbia U.S.A.
Lawn mowers buzzing, chores underway
Planting and pruning, nourishing flowers that will bloom
To announce and brighten the month of June
Contented cats perch on fences high
Loftily appraising the collared dogs led by
To the dogpark, filled with Frisbees and tennis balls
A meelee of fur, a Fido free-for-all!
Teenagers holding signs - for a small fee, to support their JROTC
They will clean your cars - from grimy to shiny!
Kids on bikes and boards fly down the steep hill
Heedless of danger - transported by thrill
Farmer's markets - trendy veggies and jams, artisanal pleasure
Yard sales - for pennies on the dollar, you could discover treasure
At the local high school field, the softball game starts
Everyone participates - everyone plays their part
As evening folds in, grills are fired up
Smokey meat smells waft by - time to sup!
In suburbia U.S.A
It's just another Saturday
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