Hands hold tight to the loose ends of hope
As we toil and crack, night and day,
Hoeing up bits of earth and its fragile retributions.
Our crops and little beads of sweat drip to waste
On the ground’s boiling soils.
Eyeh is another name for a deceased generation.
The ones that sprout stubbornly through restive
Delays get re-greened, losing vibes of communal
Watering, ceremonial baptisms.
Birds build their nests in haste,
When bent cusp-blades sprout secretly at twilights,
Behind ethereal curtains of dawn falling
To the consternation of treacly, bitter syrups of time . . .
Is this continuous planting . . . and delirious season?
Has it come to that —when drunken war mongers
Form weapons from slats of pallid bamboo stationed
At the guard posts of violated yams and their flaccid
Tendrils?
I fear.
Such suzerainty over yellowing crops
Transcends the coats of black dust hiding from the disease
Of identity.
It is still planting season, brethren.
The deafening sounds of cannons shake the stalks yonder.
There's a smug dance of weevils on the graves of tubers.
Florence has warm blood
and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter,
even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain.
She’s an element of Shiloh
in weeping quest of a promising Samuel,
and for this,
walks through long and clammy paths in July rain.
July, a month of sacred yams,
with breast tubers and milk tendrils,
befriends Florence,
an eloquent lamenter,
the quintessence of languor,
this day of streaming showers.
I have often had her tears
on my palms —
tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder
hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS.
Florence, battered in the rain,
frazzled by extreme caution,
with ambiance of July
and naivete of the grey ewe,
has prayed for her breasts, for her milk
and for the growth of her stunted soul.
I, too, have prayed —
for the rebirth of the seventh moon,
for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows,
and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.
“The end of democracy’s nigh,”
YouTube pundits in unison cry.
‘Cuz when Trump next marches
through those Golden Arches,
those tubers are all going to fry.
Typecast pivot rips past apart
Scars inflicted by the furnace
Scatter derma with war stars
Astronomy faraway magnifies
Little shards of light filaments
Filtered shadow breaks brittle
Tucked amongst terra, tubers
Crowd needy until seeker turns
Space ahead academy shunned
Parallel gripped group tightens
Outrage stoops, begger’s plight
Entombed below fossilised earth
Dust skull sockets consumed
Grazing on ash grain garbage
Gamma ray gardener unfazed
Leans into lambent movement
Moonbeam harvest penetrates
Microscopic split creates twins
Mind unbound by tribulations
Scales ether, nova knowledge
Constellation inured in growth
Reaches for chaos, apex prime
Shivers bravely beyond Pluto
Fragility faces future undiluted
First of October
Flying Over
Fresh from the farm field
Corn, mangoes, yam and tubers
Yield at my table.
I have a skin, brown tan melolin
Inside of me is water, energy
I have nodes from which buds are formed
I am shapeN like a football, a peanut, a fat lumpy carrot
I may develop sprouting, buds, green spots
I may be spoilage, not cause my parents giving me everything I ask
Interspersed in a tubular, vallecular
If for I am green growing out my sprouts
I am better off tossed out
Thrown away
What, Who am I
The one with many eyes, but no hands
Whom, am eye with eyes and spots
Inside me is water, starch and energy
Inside me ivory tan inside me
I am russet Burbank Shepody, Umatilla
What nation to I come from
What nationally am I
You see I am not human
But I human-to-see
I have many so love
the growing points so are potato tubers,
each with a little stem bud
the Red, White, Russet Oh’ how we love
begin to sprout, the growths those roots,
eyes, and bumps have a high
concentration of compounds see
I’m not human
I am a potato
See the tubers forming
sun kissed
they harken
see the flowers in the garden
petals displaying
fortitude, they are all forming
a wonderous fulfilment
Dad is out back,
speaking to his swedes and turnips.
He only grows tubers, root vegetables,
that I sullenly refuse to eat.
There is one flower
a Passionflower, 'Passiflora Incarnate'
that clings to the garden fence.
I could not see any passion in it,
until mum showed me
the creamy crucifix within
the blue and white corona.
Dad belly laughs
as mum, showing me,
piously makes the sign of the cross.
Dad is digging up a real beauty,
that's what he called it,
a 'real beauty',
a soil crusted cannonball,
the monstrous offspring
of a cabbage and a turnip.
He was not a religious man,
but he did believe fervently,
in those strange passions
some have
for cabbage soup
and mashed turnip.
An old kitchen dresser
stood against a wall
in the shed. Its drawers were full
of things that kept a small boy
occupied for hours.
Retired kitchen gadgets,
tools, balls of string
and a treasure trove
of discarded odds and ends
hoarded just in case
something there might
“come in handy one day”.
There was a drawer off limits
for little hands,
my grandmother's place for keeping
dahlia tubers safe and dry
for their winter sleep.
Brown paper bags held
the sacred cache.
Come spring they were taken
from their dark, musty crypt
for their yearly rebirth.
Planted in a square of garden
overlooked by the dining room
window, the tubers would
begin to stir in the warming sun.
By Christmas day, the first bright
blooms would blaze
extravagant color that could
be seen from the table
as we tucked into lunch
crowned in our paper hats.
To a child, it seemed like magic,
just pure magic.
Note.
Christmas in Australia
is, of course, in summer.
Some folks take it for granted
but nature is ecstasy unbound;
a promenade among the tubers,
amongst the pines, inspiring!
Enamel finger-smeared thick with butter
Yellow onions, yellow butter, floured and browned
Just add cream
From roux to dream
Now spice to glue that hold my world together
The team assembles for its tasty mission
Cheddar, gouda, mozz and more
Thick sheets of ham
Tubers sliced translucent
Layered, latticed, clothed in white bliss
Sealed deep into my black Dutch Oven
Four hundred twenty-five degrees, twice boiling
Every five minutes, I keep checking
Time warps
seconds are hours
Only half done, removing the covering
Top comes off, melting marbarella muck
Gilded golden gruyere
Splattering over spuds
Swirling cheese seas
Miasmic fragrant fromage tauntingly teased air
Beep! Beep! Beep! It's done!
Don't waste a moment
Too hot to taste
Bubbling lava lake
Slowly crusting cheesy skin emerging from the oven
Finally, the soup solidified, gooey cultured cream
Ready for the fork and spoon
Potatoes caked
Ham baked
Reality as gastro-goodness manifested dream
Onto my plate, my fork, my palette, my bliss
As I wake up in the Stone Age
My first feeling is relief
Gone are all the troubles that I had
I know that I won't last too long
When my medication stops
May not make the end of life too bad
First to find some berries
Other produce from the trees
Survey the situation, to catch fish
In the ground there may be tubers
Other roots to use for food
If I live or die may also be Gods wish
Animals I live beside
Would be my last resort
They would make a better friend than foe
Make my cover from the old ones
As they passed away
Surely as we're born, we have to go
Then I pause to wonder
Am I on my own
Or is an Eve beyond the rolling hill
You never know your fortune
And finding peace at last
You can make a life, if just you have the will
Still got hair, don't need a toupee
Even though my old body decays
Eat lots of tubers
A healthy old hooter
As I near the finale of my life long ballet
Aunt Bonnie’s garden showcased showy orchid-like irises --
beds of “flags,” a feast for the eyes, produced rainbows of color
yellow, purple, orange, bronzes.
She did not know her irises took their real name
from a Greek goddess, Iris, goddess of the rainbow,
Her glorious "flags" fluttered wildly for all who came
oogling and aahing, admiring shimmering vibrant multi-colors
Born, as they were, from sturdy bulbous tubers buried shallow
in late fall, hibernating through bitter cold, coming alive
May to September in splendorous array.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written March 10, 2022
especially for "I - Poetry Form - Imagism" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Constance La France
After winter’s cold dark days
Nature wakes up in different ways,
Colours start to return for all to see
It’s now warm enough to impregnate seeds,
For the annuals to begin their growth
Tubers and roots start to enact their life,
Under the heat of the sun’s invigorating light
Slowly but surely spring then summer comes into sight,
Fostering dreams and hopes so that our future is bright.
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