The Poetry Marathon

“…not meant to be perfect,” she mumbled at me,

As I hoed out the weeds from around the tree.

But in my mind, it was a perfect planting,

From start to finish, or someday would be.

So I kept digging for the ideal, the end goal elusive,

With such vigor and fervor, it bordered abusive.

And she frowned

and she fussed

to be inside

cooking

sautéing

deep-baked

or fried,

this series of recipes

she’d never tried.

“…but the weeds just keep growing,”

“They do not!” I lied.

And I kept on digging

But, so did she,

‘til she got what she wanted—

Away from the garden and me!

Plant Combinations for Your Landscape, Tony Lord, Creative Homeowner Press, 2010.

“This book is not meant to be a series of recipes for perfect planting.”

I have never been to Ireland, though I’ve heard its bonny song;

Folks who look like me and Grams; the place that I belong.

Red ringlets, tangled, twisting, as the breeze jaunts jolly by.

Small and simple gardens, wind-rippled, rose-wreathed and blithe.

Cobbled streets, and meadows, and seas of glistened blue.

Doors of every tinge, and taverns—just a few.

And folks who look like me and Grams, that she remembers too.

Two by two, they arrived.

Two by two, came aboard;

Lions and tigers and bears—

An astonishing, feather-furred hoard!

Great flannel clouds gathered thickly,

God pulled the plank, slammed tight the door.

The riotous, rambunctious load,

Thundered and rattled and roared.

The rain fell with pelting and pinging,

Geisers spewed like never before.

When the tempest was totaled,

All was scoured and clean once more.

Catching fireflies, the heat, found a strange little cottage,

The smell through the window of nice hot porridge.

Fresh pie on the sill, flowers in a blue bottle,

I zoomed through a gate in the fence made of wattle.

Lethargic after my pilfered snack,

Someone was coming, so I crept out the back.

I never did see whose breakfast I plundered

And they never knew who brought fireflies—but wondered.

I am illiterate when emoji are presented.

Most to small to see them well, to read them or select them.

Em is one of my daughters.

Oj, her drink;

Is, was, are, am, and were, are verbs to be—I think.

And as I said, at emojis, I stink!

I have, as it were, never gardened in clay soil,

Never tried to dig through pugs the size of Volkswagens,

But here I stand, pitchfork bowing, three broken shovels

And no end in sight.

It is good for me, this tenacious editing of sand and seeds,

Watering, hoeing, mourning losses and waiting for rain.

Never knowing whether the wind is bringing lightning or light,

Or driving me inside.

My dry soul, clay and waterless, has seen better days;

Arable days of tilth and tenderness,

When I stood, unbowed, seasoned with salt and liveliness;

Now merely the decrease of days.

When dry leaves will crumble.

When bitter winds will whine.

When harvest is over.

No covering of snow. No melting spring.

When seasons and seasoning lay quiet.

“Here she lies, a well-seasoned gardener.”

Glistening through trees,

Into the misted garden,

Sunlight kissed the blossoms.

Water in a million ways,

From misty mornings, end of days,

And between which round us splays,

We shelter from its touch.

Umbrella-ed, cloud-filled plashing ‘bout

To rampant tears that trickle out,

And both wash away the hurtful doubt.

We shelter from their chill.

Where stars reflect their bronze-bright glow,

In silent lakes and river flow,

And trees stretch aloft as they grow,

To caress the Maker’s robe.

Dear Joy,

I hope I find you well

With inspiring things to tell.

My memories are so strong

But time stretches long.

Isn’t that part of a song?

Let’s get together if you are ever nearby.

I miss you so much I could cry.

Don’t have your new address.

Last post came back a mess;

Undeliverable, at best.

For all I know, you might be dead.

Enough of that stuff that shouldn’t be said…

Please, oh please, show up at my door,

any time, any day.

Missing you more and more,

D. Pression

They say the spread can be derailed,

Or at least the effects can be curtailed,

If we keep our distance; stay six feet away

All through the night, all through the day

And are overly careful when we get the mail..

But for so many, it obviously failed…

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

You can’t see the smiles hiding from view.

Maybe, in their eyes, they are smiling at you,

But remember to be cautious in everything you do.

Even if they think you might be smiling too.

The virus gets them young, get them old, gets them dead.

The psychological ‘what ifs’ jangle in their head.

And the ones that make it through are damaged ever more.

With malfunctioning hearts and fears by the score.

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

I’m tired of this mask and keeping far apart.

It might be better off if I had to lose my heart,

Than to breathe only covert, stinted breaths of hope,

And chance a closer view at what love looks like? Nope!

But wait—is it worth it? I will never know–

Wearing a mask everywhere I go.

Sej2020