Weedy Poems | Examples

Gratitude

Low tide.
Scattered rocks wear 
weedy jackets to shield
sea life from the drying air
and in the far distance,
clouds leak a fine mist of rain 
as if to cool the heat 
of a setting sun.

It is a joy to be here -
on this beach, at this moment 
that has taken the universe
billions of years to unfold
by blowing up stars, recycling 
the leftovers into the wonder
that is here and to take it in,
made me.

cruelty to toads

the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats

when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool

it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation

once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain

no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere

Wildflower

Quite by chance
I saw a single, small, white wildflower
amid a crush of grass and weeds 
along the roadside, its presence crowded out 
by seed heads and space hungry leaves 
of species honed for survival.

This wildflower occupied an area
no larger than my little finger 
and even then was bumped and bullied 
by weedy neighbors. It fed 
on the leftover light filtered down 
through the tall grass.

I would like to think that in this sometimes
bleak universe there is a caring
and benevolent force that tries to preserve
such fragile beauty from the rampant 
excesses of survival and greed, nudges
the odds to favor such a humble flower,
nurtures its seed.

PSYCHEDELIC

PSYCHEDELIC

There was a decade, it was the 60’s I’m sure
When everyday things were just a little bit off
As if there were rumblings in the earth’s core
And when scripted lines gave way to improv

There were plans afoot, some quite nefarious
A Hippy time, with weedy substances to share
And was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Minds set free and wearing flowers in the hair

Rainbow colours swirled to the sound of sitars
Free love, at least it may have been for some
And a coming of age of good electric guitars
Whilst others just sat crosslegged acting dumb

Psychedelia was a mind state and the fashion
Radical changes working through the system 
And all things anti-establishment, the passion
Rules got lost and older people missed them

The time when all free expression took a lift
We may look back at it with little veneration
Not only tectonic plates that began to shift
We still hear echoes of that Beat generation

The Perennial Diver

Bubbled 
in a young man's breath,
I glided along the weedy
and rock strewn bottom
just out from shore,
a companion to fish 
and crustacean, a finned, 
neoprene clad denizen 
of the deep. 

The limit of my lungs made me
gorge on this underwater
world in the brief time
a held breath could last.
I packed so much
into mere minutes
to nourish a lifetime.
I always felt saddened 
in having to surface 
and leave such wonder 
behind.

These days old lungs
barely hold a breath.
At night I now dive deep
into other places 
where poetry is - 
take in the mystery,
feel saddened
when I have to surface
and leave that world 
of words behind.

Blue Petal

Seldom does the morning wake me now
Too long has there been a dream of green
Foggy with the mist of the sea bay
Filled with those small white boats
slowly bobbing about here and there
Tethered to the waters and our desires

The sun through the glass panes comes
Amorphous as thoughts touching everywhere
Castings shadows defining the darkness
Spreading the light vigorously as a summer storm
Where just outside the bedroom window sill
Hangs an aging flower box peeling off its blue paint

It has no flowers or dirt, the bottom is long gone
A reminder to another time, another grace
A traveler from the past in torn britches
And broken straw hats popping their lids
You can watch the blue paint chips drop down
To a weedy grass like petals of forget me nots
Today was another day of green dreams.

The Breakwater

Large boulders piled high
stretch out into the bay
and form a breakwater 
that shields the beach 
from high waves 
and heavy swells rolling in
from southerly gales. 

I have stood there
at the end when the sea
was hurling its rage 
and all fury exploded
like bomb bursts of watery
shrapnel into the air. 
I have seen such power 
subside and tamed
to compliant licks 
around the feet of rocks.

More than forty years ago
on a deep breath
I snorkeled down its ledges
into the rock strewn and weedy
world that lay at its base,
places where stingrays slept 
and where fish glided
effortlessly along crevices 
and over sponge
covered outcrops.
I cradled a fragile seahorse 
in my trembling hands.

I no longer have
the confidence to rock hop
its length to the end
but stand where it butts
the land, commanding memory
to whip up a wind
and set wave upon wave
to awaken a soul 
from its sleep
and make it feel
the sting of a southerly gale,
wet, cold and wonderful,
once again.

Small Fish

Holding onto a rail.
I lean over to see my reflection
mirrored in the water 
and small fish swimming
in the camouflage of me.

I muse whether they are feeding
on my thoughts, nibbling
on the strands that loosely 
float my day, making 
their easy way towards
a dark clumped deep
in my shadow.

I can almost feel 
their small fins brush the inside
of my skull, following
the course of a fear,
threading passage
through a weedy tangle 
of doubt.

Then, swimming deeper,
their excitement seems 
to grow in what they find,
feeding on something
that is hidden from me,
beyond the reflection
of my own mind.

Weedy Eschatology

The aging street mourns its faded splendor.
It remembers having red tulips and roses
in manicured, fertilized, emerald lawns
in community yards lining its borders.
But neighborhoods gradually decayed,
and nobody’s planted flowers in years.
The asphalt’s once-black fresh-tar patina
is now gray and chockfull of countless cracks.

In those rifts grow rows of feral weeds
that no person planted or wanted.
Rooted in forgotten fissures of the world,
weeds lift their hearts and heads toward the sky.
Survivors of severe environments,
baked by blazing sun, infrequently watered,
deprived of easy access to nourishing soil,
and squashed by droves of mutilating tires.
Yet, still the stalwart weeds survive,
paragons of beautiful resilience.

Glamorous, fragile flowers are transient.
Plain, ordinary weeds are forever.
For humans who feel our messy lives
are more like run-over weeds than roses,
weeds’ wild fortitude foreshadows
an unexpected, untamed eternity.

Words that squirm

Sometimes words are magnets stuck to your heart
in melody, prophesy, promise:
true or false. 

Sometimes words are puff-balls on weedy-stalks:
whispering things that blow away
on a breath.

Sometimes words make points that hurt:
bitter rusty knives that jab
and scar.

Words behave like viruses – mutate, transform, disguise.
Sometimes they mean the opposite of what they meant
before.

And sometimes 
these eels, these words that squirm with life
come leaping from your mouth
in love.

Help Us

Unseasonal rain has kept 
the small pond 
half full of water.
More than a hundred tadpoles 
crowd its weedy shallows
which, by now, would normally 
be a dried out bed 
of sludge cracking 
under a hot sun. 

They take refuge
in the brown shadows
of their diminishing world,
plump prey for birds.
Still infants and at least
a month away
from becoming frogs,
they are running 
out of time. 

Their world is shrinking
fast and one by one
they are being taken.
I look on.
‘ Help us. Help us.
 Take pity on our innocence ‘.
I can almost hear them cry,
gathered under their flimsy cover
like children
trying to hide from death
falling from the sky.

Transformation

It came,
piercing the bright air
above the garden
with a sudden presence,
the first dragonfly
of the season. It darted
and hovered over me,
glistening in a spellbinding
grid of movement.

What was weighted 
down and stuck 
in the sludge
of a long winter reached
after its fleeting shadow. 
Shackled forms hiding
in the weedy depths looked 
upwards towards 
a transformation. 
Somewhere near,
fragile wings began to unfold
in the shape of a prayer.

Blow Winds Blow

Blow, Winds, Blow


Blow, winds, from the 
thick, suffocating heat
of the steamy tropics,
from the arid deserts
of the high plateaus
and frigid steppes of Asia.

Blow from the eastern seas
and the western oceans
across the weeping rivers
and jagged mountains.
Ripening seeds of change
search to find a home.

Howl, Winds, howl!
Find your way through
the cracks of open minds
and plant your seeds.
Then whisper, whisper
them into the ears of those
who need listen and hear.

Blow them like cinders
into eyes to make them
aware so they process  
truth as it struggles
to drive its roots down deep.
Blow, Winds, blow
far away and wide
into hearts and minds.

Let the good seeds take root
to burst up through
the mud and mire to
grow straight and strong,
to multiply and proliferate,
choking out the roots
of weedy lies so we can
once again breathe free.

Cruelty To Toads

the toads do not dive
they plop into the scummy pond
pale green bellies floating beneath them
like airbags
they paddle and back-stroke
through the weedy water
as slow as inflatable boats

when i visit them
i turn into a kid
lobbing pebbles into the spawny drink
to watch them scatter
they remind me of fat men
hastily departing a swimming pool

it is a joke i prank them with
i keep doing this
until they turn to glare at me
heads half-submerged
eyes bulging with indignation

once it began to rain heavily
raindrops crashed into the pond
like exploding peanut shells
.
the toads commenced to croak in unison
the noise almost drowning-out
the sound of the pelting rain

no doubt they were bidding me
to go drown somewhere

Rain Dance

the gray green frogs
that often
silently squat as still as bricks
and blocks
around the pear-shaped garden pond
are frisky

restless
they plop in and out of the weedy water
boasting bigly as they billow out
many a full-throated croak

- a raucous gasconade
that both far and near
splashes upon the ear

they declare
a coming of a wetting

as bimbo thighed
legs akimbo and wagging
they swim
through cloudy waves
of mincing midges

- and other madcap
bity water-skimmers

a sure telling of a drenching
with a later drip
of rainbow glimmers

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