STRANGLEWEED
(ACCORDING TO MY MOTHER)

Dodder
is a parasite
that lives on
the dogwood tree –

in the spring
it is orange
and looks like
the California poppy

from a distance.
It grows down
in the marshes,
and we have learned

about
it.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Two for Saturdays? I mention "milkweed" in one of the verses of this poem.

THE BUTTERFLY ROAD

When I was drowning,
a cocoon was in my throat.
I could barely get my head above
the water, but when I did,
I opened my mouth
and a monarch butterfly flew out!

A monarch, a monarch,
a monarch butterfly flew out!

I lifted my eyelids in pain—
even my eyes were gasping for breath!
My pupils were choking on white water—
but I saw those orange wings
opening and closing
above my face

Like a living October,
a warm wind in November

Resuscitation—

Oh, then they all came!
My one, fragile, flying monarch
called ten thousand—
they landed on my skin,
they kissed my pores,
they drank water from the inside
of my ears like milkweed

and I could hear
again
the singing

II.

Will I ever breathe in
and breathe out
like a normal child
who could be kissed
and the kisses would be sweet?

Will no one come,
will no one come,
and save me?

I see you now,
orange wings, black eyes—
my soul outside my body.

A monarch, a monarch,
a monarch butterfly flew out of my mouth!

Come back to me,
and help me live
and learn to use strange scissors
from underwater
to cut the butterfly nets
and let all the others

go free.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Ooooh! I like this prompt. Have a great idea -- if I can pull it off. Back later! Loved "Dionaea Muscipula" Robert!

My poem challenge for today: Kudzu, a killer vine that grows amuck in the Southeast: The USDA declared kudzu to be a weed in 1972!

Kudzu

Kudzu...
wild, all consuming...
like disease out of
control.

deceptively you
tangle yourself...
tighter and tighter.

parasitic notions
your intention...
amuck
you run.

swallowing up
all things around...

The Roses He Sent

He used to bring me roses,
yellow, pink and red,
in attempt to make amends
for all the ugly things he said.

He used to bring me roses,
and I’d put them in a vase,
change the water everyday
with a fake smile on my face.

He used to bring me roses,
each time I did give birth.
We’d take them home with baby
and plant them in the earth.


After years without fresh roses,
he sent me a dozen yesterday,
a little too late, I thought sadly
as I threw them all away.

He used to send me roses
now he just imposes.

laurie k.

RHODODENRONS


If dust motes could only speak,
or the paint on walls refute
the chauffeur’s alibi
spoken through pencil-thin lips
how he was busy at the time
waxing her green Rolls Royce,
Lady Bretton would know
the lying monster fellow sprayed
her rhododenrons with Glyphosate.
She would give the commoner
a sizable piece of her royal mind,
dismiss him from her employ,
then borrow Lady Spenser’s
handsome other driver.

#

I Lei me Down

a fingertip’s touch, one keystroke
sent my latest work to the name
just above the person, who enjoys
copy. I hit delete immediately.

but the time it took was too much.

Like links on a lei, each blossom
complete but connected, the words
cascaded. First a reply e-mail, terse:
“Can't do it. Thanks though. A lot”
Then a second from the same man

OK Kumari,
So here's my answer to
your very difficult challenge.

And,
then he said...
"I really don't like
poetry"

my bad - hustled an explanation
apology from me, zipped off
into cyberspace – my mistake!

Then an oddly empty feeling.
the alien realization. Poetry
is not for everyone? Ouch.

A lei is a circle. I came back
to myself and inhaled the thick
scent from each individual
eccentric event, Freudian slip?
I think not.

“Plant”

Lord, I plant my feet,
On the firmness, placed beneath
Slumber, holy light

Noble strife, by day
I walk the path you provide
Dance in soft firelight

My fears diminish
Feel your presence at my side
Lord, I plant my feet

Ninacarole
11/7/09

Ursula...and Mom

Her name was Ursula
and she was a long, viney potted plant.
I think she was either a Wandering Jew
or maybe a Heartleaf Philodendron. I’m not sure.

She sat on the windowsill behind the kitchen table
which was the side where my sister Sue and I sat.
She must have really loved us
because she was always curling around and hugging us.

Ursula didn’t know when to stop, however.
Often while we were eating, she would get into our hair.
Mine was straight – half a problem.
Sue’s hair was really curly. You know what that means.

One day, Ursula got knocked off the windowsill.
I don’t remember how, though.
Dirt and roots and leaves spilled everywhere,
but we replanted her and soon (along with a few new little Ursulas) she was her old huggy self once again.

Ooops - sorry - the title should be just *Ursula*

I Kill Plants

I don’t mean to.
I just do.
I try my best
but I lack a green thumb.
Still
every time a plant
sees me come near
its little stems and leaves
move in defensive gestures
as if to tell me,
“Please try silk or plastic.”

St. John’s Wort

We start out in driving rain,
mixed with snow,
gale force winds,
water pooling on pavement,
hydroplaning a concern
to add to our worries.
Son’s wife about to miscarry,
a long-sought-after second child.
She is in hospital in Saint John,
and we will see to Zahra,
much beloved first grandchild,
and allow Andrew to visit
with Melanie in the hospital.
We arrive safely and greet
one another with chin’s high
to try and not to alarm the child
who clings to her Poppa’s legs.
And for ourselves, disappointed,
We need to brew up protection,
and fight those bitter juices
that have invaded our bellies.
After Poppa leaves and Zahra is at play,
we think of Tipton’s Weed,
St. John’s Wort, hypericum
herbal relief that solves nothing
but temporary anxiety, panic
spurred by the inevitable,
the unchangeable, a familiar part
of the mixed formula that is life.
The sun shines bright outside
the storm has had its day,
and Zahra has gone to the park,
to write happy words in chalk,
and her grandmother is drinking in
her wort of healing, frequent laughter.

Standing By

Yes, they all agree.
It's time to go.
Relatives and friends
trickle away
leaving her
to close the door.

Washing up their plates,
she listens to the sounds
of silverware
clinking softly under the suds.

Her eyes cold and hard
as the knife she holds.
Staring at a dripping distortion
of herself,
the face on the blade
is unrecognizable.

Stabbing the knife into suds
that close behind the blade
in a slow thin flow,
no visible trail is left
to show the water's wound.

Her tears drip through
unnoticed
in the changing color
of the dishwater.

Relatives and friends
stream in
to stand by her,
a torrent
of sympathetic chatter,

Red roses,
her favorite,
so lovely
standing tall
together.

Yes, they all agree.

That was clear
as dishwater.

Pink Lady Slipper Orchid
(Cypripedium acaule)


She doesn’t like to be disturbed
So much relies on patience, persistence,
the perfect conditions

Seemingly rare, she’s
more common than you think
native and wild, hiding
in plain sight in the weak light
on the forest floor

Particular, but enduring
she knows what she lacks,
pursuing it with patience and diligence

Soaking up the timid rays
penetrating the canopy to where
she resides, she may wait years
for what she needs to flower

Offering no reward to pollinating bees,
she takes what they offer, then
packs her bags lightly, setting them
free in the breeze, hoping some
friendly fungus will fulfill their needs

Beautiful and lush, but also touchy and rash,
you should handle her with gloves
if you handle her at all

Day 7 – The Willow

We had separated
You and I
Too many nights
of back to back
face to the wall

I left
moved out
Found someone
to take me in

In the backyard
Was a willow
Great old tree
bending gracefully
to the earth

I stood
in my sadness
Under her canopy
and watched the bark

Slowly a face appeared
An old woman
embedded in the trunk
laughing eyes and
twisting hair

She smiled at me
And it was good
All the years of standing
and just being
spoke to my broken heart
And healed me

It was so comforting
to see her there
strong and proud
in the bark of that tree

My hand touched her
and I was drawn in
healed by the woman
in the tree
the willow in the backyard

Mock Orange

Sweet smell,

Unmistakeable.


Green wide leaves, open.

Small yellow star flowers,


Adorn the plant,

Every spring.


Standing like attentive nature devas,

Beckoning connection into open arms.


Deception seems hardly,

Possible.


How many things,

In life lure us in?


With a masked scent,

That isn't really there.


Yet we go in,

Sensing . . .


Something is in the air.

NORTHERN PAMPAS GRASS

We thought those lovely fall plumes
would enchant our garden. Taken,
we planted babies, watched their
awkward weedy stage metamorphose
to tall gracefulness. Lovely heads
waved in autumn breezes.

They did not stay put.

With greater speed that we expected,
grass crept into adjacent beds,
sowed seeds, produced offspring.
Even the rudbeckia protested
its now-crowded conditions.

We were forced to perform
selective removal.

Now the garden is defined.
Delineated.
Grass deflected.
Such is an urban garden.

Patricia A. Hawkenson, your poem "Standing By" is so poignant and beautiful.

THE LADY’S SLIPPER
(C) Richard M. Atwater

Far from the side of any road
Or pathway that runs through the woods.
Deep in the forest in shady groves,
Near watered brooklets you’ll find the goods.

Rare to the sight of any man,
Secluded and most difficult to find.
Clothed in her glory, in solitude repose,
Placed by God as just one of a kind.

Soft, and delicate, in royal pink,
With vascular lines that wend their way
Through the ball-shaped dainty moccasin flower,
On a tall green stem, in the month of May.

And if by chance you may find her dressed
In the color of pure celestial white,
Then blessed indeed will be your view,
For rare ‘tis seen such a wonderful sight.

Like exquisite beauty of a damsel fair,
In the flower of her youthful zeal.
With eyes of blue and hair of gold,
And sculptured in femininity of a Godly hue.

With dainty feet shod with slender toes,
‘Cross the arch to the heel at the base;
Like Cinderella’s lost glass compost
Lies the mystery in the shroud of a glorious face.

The face of a flower of the orchid clan,
Majestic from the head to the foot.
“The Lady’s Slipper”, which can not be worn,
For the name so called is only moot.

Unknown to most, and seen by few
Who are blessed with a ‘calling and election made sure’,
As they wend their way through the forests deep
To seek out the truth of the clean and pure.

For life is real with an earnest stance,
With flowers strewn all along the way:
There’s the buttercup, and the daisy too,
And ‘the Devil’s paintbrush’ to keep us at bay.

And a thousand and one colorful varieties,
To attract, to appeal, to distract, to allay,
But the path is sure to the secluded place
Where “The Lady’s Slipper” brings peace and hope to show ‘the way.’

The Rose has Thorns.


Dark curly hair cascading softly
brown spaniel eyes sparkling.
I will never forget your beauty
or the clean smell of cotton
from your clothes.

Never forget your low tone of voice
or those long graceful fingers
tightly gripping the gleaming sharp knife
as you mugged me that evening
long ago.

Mangos

Where did god place the first Mango?
Did it come from the mythical garden of Paradise?

Were they green skinned, with luscious, sweet orange pulp?
As found in Egypt?

Or were they pale orange skinned, with vibrant orange souls?
As found in Mexico?

How many mangos did Adam & Eve eat?
How many kinds were in the garden of Paradise?
Did they eat them all?

Before she got into
What kind of Apple?

Thanks for getting us all writing.

But I must admit I enjoyed last year's challenge more, as it was focused on generating new writings around a theme. I have been finding that this year's prompts are not as helpful to generate poetry for a chapbook based on one topic.

I hope to see this change soon?

Snakeroot

For the first time,
at eighteen, I find

myself beneath
a boy. He doesn't care

about me—
just about my virgin-

ity & taking it. I
don't mind that

he doesn't care
'cause he is Chicano

& his hair is soft under
my fingers. We are

in his attic & his
mama is gone

& his step-papa,
too. His kisses are

closer to bites. I will
need snakeroot

to come out of this
alive.

Kudos to all so far today. Some wonderful reads!!

"Honeysuckles"

Honeysuckle vines
remind me of
a simpler time
of summer nights
and lightning bugs
of Smore's beside
a campfire.

Whenever I smell
their sweet perfume
imbuing the air around,
I breathe in deep
and take it in
and long for days
gone by.

I seem to be in a bit of a vindictive mood this (now) afternoon

Poison Ivy

even as with martyrs your death may be a lethal cause
your burning carcase so polute the autumn air that
breathing your particulate poison passing
can inflame and shut the air
from bronchioles, alveoli
a killing hate and more I have for you
and would expunge you from existance
root you from the memory of all mankind

Tree

Standing on my left leg with my hands in the prayer position, I start inching my right foot up past my ankle. Steady. Don’t rest it on a joint. I can make it as far as my knee but not above so I put it back down on my calf. Safety first. I try to raise my arms into a triangle above my head but I shake. I feel like one of those old weebles which could wobble but not fall down. Not me. I can fall. I am not shaped like an egg, more exaggerated hourglass with, apparently, uneven legs for when I switch to my right side it is all I can do to even stand on one foot. I can’t keep my hands in prayer position. I must hold them out as if I am pretending to be an airplane. But I don’t want to fly. I’m supposed to be connecting with one foot to the Earth. Grounded. Yet, I think, with my arms out to my sides I am more tree than when I have my hands perched in front of me, than when my bent leg is pressing back into my temporary trunk. So what if I sway? A tree is meant to look solid but to still dance.

Hackberry tree is still standing
though our swing is gone.
You gave me my first kiss under
those knarled branches.
The tree is older than mother
and yet it still stands
a testament to our years of
using its branches for fun
We built a club house with
my cousins' help. Quick,
I see the bulldozer coming.
One last picture of our son playing
right where you asked me to marry you.
We must use the wood to make him a swing.
Perhaps he will swing there
with his intended.

Elizabeth is an eleven year old character in my novel. She writes this after touring one of Colorado's parks.


My Mom is Like a Yucca Plant
Elizabeth Ruth Scott

A yucca’s berries can be
mixed into cakes.
The young flower stalks
can be eaten like asparagus.
The fruit tastes like potatoes.
The roots can be used in
rootbeer to make it foamy.

Like the yucca
Mom feeds us


The yucca’s leaf fibers
twisted together make cords
for rope ladders, fishnets,
cradle board ties, baskets,
mats, even building materials.

Like the yucca
Mom holds things together


Cords made from yucca plants
can also be used for belts,
sandals, and cloth.

Like the yucca
Mom clothes us.


Yucca roots are ground up
to make suds which are
used for shampoos, soaps,
and in cleaning products.

Like the yucca
Mom helps us keep clean.


The foam from the yucca roots
reminded the Native Americans
of thunder clouds which brought
them cleansing rains which
symbolized spiritual cleansing.

Like the yucca
Mom teaches us about God.


Yucca are often planted in yards
because of their bell-shaped flowers

Like the yucca plant
Mom makes our lives beautiful

The Jade Plant that stayed forever

The Jade plant is watching me again.
For more than 40 years it kept its silence.
Claiming the spot between the front
Door and the staircase as its own.

It watched my husband when he was
Still a boy. Endured his pinching of
Its fleshy leaves. His sister’s draping
Of it in scarves and beads in those
Summers of love.

Stood silent as the undertakers men
Carried the old man and the old lady
Down the steps and out of the house
Forever. (It might have wondered if
anyone was left to give it water.)

Then it was mine to care for. Our
Children gave it crazy names. It
Never stirred. Not even when the
Dog used it as a bathroom. “Bad
Dog” we said, and taught him
Better manners.

Nobody looks good as they age.
Plants are no exception.. Through
The years, it bright leaves dulled
And many fell off while the stems
Grew thick and twisted.

It was ugly. I told my husband I
Hated it. Sometimes I threatened
It with the vacuum cleaner. Once
During an argument with my husband,
I managed to kick the pot over and
Rolled the plant across the snowy porch.

The next morning it was back in its
Spot, acting as though nothing had
Happened. It is still here. The
Children have moved away, my

Husband has been dead for three
Years and here it sits. To the child-
ren, it is am object of affection, a
memory of their childhood.

I live alone with 3 cats, who pay
No attention to it and yet I feel
Compelled to water it once a
Week. Soon, I, too, will be gone

It is not mentioned in my will.
If the children want to fight
Over it, I don’t care – perhaps
When the house is sold, it can be
Included ,

Lily of the Valley

Lily of the valley,
is said to be born
from Eve’s tears as she and Adam
were banished from Eden.

I think it fitting
That it is poisonous.

It should be a sin
for women
to be blamed
for the downfall of man.

NARCISSUS: a pantoum
(Echo)

Child of privilege, I used to watch you
stretched out by the pool to tan in summer,
peering heartsick through the fence, just wishing
you'd arise, shrug off that heat haze when you'd

stretched out by the pool to tan in summer
with your parents out. The doorbell rang, and
you'd arise, shrug off that heat haze when you'd
saunter off to meet the gentlemen who,

with your parents out, the doorbell rang. And
I saw everything, down by the deep end:
saunter off to meet the gentlemen who
want to come inside, those sugar daddies.

I saw everything, down by the deep end:
how you'd primp and preen and pluck, and murmur,
want to come inside? Those sugar daddies
lusted like an August sun, admired

how you'd primp and preen and pluck, and murmur.
When they took you, I confess, I gazed, I
lusted. Like an august son. Admired
what I could not be and could not capture.

When they took you, I confess, I gazed. I
know such dead expressions, sun-kissed lily.
What I could not be and could not capture:
perfect body, more than love could pay for,

no, such dead expressions. Sun-kissed lily,
sold that soul, ignored my love, desired a
perfect body. More than love could pay for,
skin trade, I could only enter if I

sold that soul, ignored my love, desired a
deep-end temple, ornamented with the
skin trade. I could only enter if I
watched you ruin yourself for beauty. Strange, this

deep-end temple, ornamented with the
child of privilege. I used to watch you.
Watched you ruin yourself for beauty. Strange, this
peering heartsick through the fence. Just wishing.

"In this world we walk on the roof of hell, gazing at flowers." - Kobayashi Issa


Perennial

‘Bleeding Heart’
and vision blurred
by her own precipitation
she stumbles
upon the crimson tears
in terraced tiers,
stays awhile, awash in bloom.
Home later, she looks it up
(Dicentra Spectabilis)
‘thick root system’
‘transplants well’
‘hearty, lasts longer, keeps on flowering’
‘Also called Venus’s Car
or Our-Lady-in-a-Boat…’
smiles, dreams of escape.

Plants in Nature

She plants herself in nature.
By an endless tide.


She trusts a quiet forest,
As a place to hide.


Silently she watches the sunset,
As she blends with the changing light.


She plants herself in the desert,
One with the fading twilight.


At noon,
She is motionless,
On the edge of a pristine lake.


Breathing in the subtle depth,
Is often more then she can take.


At sunrise,
She plants herself,
In the mountains.


By full and flowing streams,
After all the planting,
She dances on moonbeams.


She contemplates,
On nature's ground.


To honor Mother Earth.


No other way has she found . . .
To sanctify her birth.

Plants in Nature

She plants herself in nature.
By an endless tide.


She trusts a quiet forest,
As a place to hide.


Silently she watches the sunset,
As she blends with the changing light.


She plants herself in the desert,
One with the fading twilight.


At noon,
She is motionless,
On the edge of a pristine lake.


Breathing in the subtle depth,
Is often more then she can take.


At sunrise,
She plants herself,
In the mountains.


By full and flowing streams,
After all the planting,
She dances on moonbeams.


She contemplates,
On nature's ground.


To honor Mother Earth.


No other way has she found . . .
To sanctify her birth.

Dandelions

And as they slide into the booth, she knows what she wants —a vegetarian
omelet with a bowl of grits and toast as sides and "Oh, yeah, home fries."
But he waits, takes his time, asks the waitress about specials and the size
of portions. He says "I'm not in the mood for pancakes, today," and "Do you
want anything else, Honey Babe?" She shakes her head because she knows
how he is with his money —only debit, never credit since he tends to forget
what he spent and ends up spending money he doesn't have. It's always negatives
and overdrafts with him so he's being careful. And if he had his way they'd be eating
dandelions from his backyard morning, noon, and night. He read somewhere, once,
that dandelions can be floured and fried and by the look in his eyes she knew he was
dead serious.

THE REDDITCH NEEDLE WORKS

[based on Elihu Burritt’s Walks in the Black Country, 1868]

How far the lowly needle’s come through ages,
from fire-hardened thorn to fishbone to brass,
gold, iron, steel – that secret brought to Britain
by a Moor. A dangerous art, the pointing
of needles on the grindstone, fine steel dust
filling the lungs and killing by consumption.
By your time, Elihu, the grinders’ fan
carries the dust away, a safer trade. Still,
in this Redditch needle plant it takes 70 pairs
of hands to ready a needle for market. Here,
they manufacture one hundred million needles
a week. Of those, thirty million are shipped
to America, that’s been ripped like cloth
by Civil War. As if needles could mend
what bomb, ball, and bayonet have done.

My Great-Aunt Roz

Symbiotic
artificial
plants
living
feeding
off my great-aunt
who watered them
well into her senility,
then when she was
no more, out cold,
once more I watered
her dusty ferns, old
broad leafs, like canvas
for shedded skin, or ash
presumed hers from years
of a soul living in body
prematurely, infamously dead.

excuse this post just trying to change the link on my signature

The Plant

He hardly spoke to anyone around
No one, knew why he always looked down
Why bother with human contact
when there was a world of his own to interact

He clearly lacked self-confidence
always seemed to way too intense
As if his world was just too immense
of course, it was just a means of defense

As a matter of fact
the people around him
caught on to his act
So, they let the fun begin

Soon, he was being called Broccoli
To represent his lack of fortitude
It was easy to see
Why everyone took on that attitude

Though he was a man
no one seemed to understand
he just wanted to be by himself
too afraid to interact with anyone else

He needed their compassion
Not their taunts
Though, a normal reaction
they were hurtful words no one wants

He eventually moved elsewhere
Not that anything was any different
No, things were the same everywhere
as would be his undesired intent. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 7, 2009, plant poem. A different use of the plant. Taken from an
episode of Star Trek The Next Generation, starring the guy who played “Howling Mad Murdoch”
from A-Team.

Twin submissions

Kate of duplicate
And Pete of repeat,
Had not made it clear,
I was already complete . . .

Therefore . . . I should have hit delete!

Sorry about that!

Plant it deeply in the wiring
Make it seem just like its own
Keep the fingerprints to a minimum
And get back home.

November 7th: Plant Title

Mint

No aphid could resist
Your sweet, refreshing scent
But I will not give up,
My precious chocolate mint
Or lemon mint or orange
And spicy spearmint, too
I’ve taught my kids to love
The smell and taste of you
Leaves of every green
With that familiar grain:
A texture rough, but soft
Your family trait so plain
The aphids buzz about
Seek out you to destroy
But I will not relent
Though they would spoil our joy
My toddler learns to SMASH
Those pesky bugs mid-air
You cause me so much work
But still, you must be spared!

The Strawberry Fields Forever
© Rich Atwater Nov 7, 2009

Hillsborough County, east of Tampa Bay, lays a place of far renown,
A veritable quilt of surrounding lush farms, all stitched together by highways,
Strawberry fields forever, citrus trees abound, and plant nurseries, grasses mown,
Once known as Ichepucksassa, as an Indian village, passed by territorial byways.

Antiquated buildings are renovated into museums, such as the old railway station,
The fruit and berry fields move on to international markets far and wide, while-
Herein resides the headquarters of Idasukshed’s Paso Fino Horse Association,
The winter strawberry capitol of the world of “Florida Strawberry Festival” style!

Plant City, Florida, of tropical Gulf Coast climate, has a name to conjure “fauna-flora”,
Vegetables, fruits, tropical houseplants, and noted plant nurseries would make it seem so,
However, truth be known the name comes from railroad pioneer Henry B. Plant, aura,
An early developer, as the town’s “Embracing the future while preserving the past” is motto!

An annual family event, celebrating the harvest of the strawberry, in the heart of Florida,
Complete with amusement gala carnival, merry-go-round carousel, Ferris wheel, jubilee,
In 2010 the fiesta dates be set for March 4-14, and guess who will be there---yes, me, and Valya!
A Daddy-daughter affair, to relive it once again, as when we first went, she age ten, Yippee!
=======================================================================
Poet’s Note:
In commemoration of the Annual Florida Strawberry Festival in Plant City, Florida
Based on poet ASIDES prompt word; “plant”

The Chair

There is a chair
out in the woods
covered as rare
by vines so strong
can hardly see
the chair I swear.

I often muse
this chair in thought
of lordly elves
and forest plots,
of things unseen
of which they’re not.

I can see his
crown upon his
brow, fairy folk
and pixie scowl,
judgments made and
justice given.

I sit upon
this covered chair
and wonder if
the vines will creep
over my arm
and lulled to sleep.

Will my bones
soon lie beneath
these creeping vines?
And when the vines
failed to move,
I sip my wine.

The pixies dance,
the fairies sing,
the elven lords
give ladies rings,
I am their Queen
and you my King.


Warmth

On winter evenings
when I come home,
I take my shoes off
and stretch my
cold toes and feet;
and when I sit
down to rest a bit
my dog plants
herself upon my feet
as if to say “hello,
glad you’re home,
now let me warm
your feet.”


The Kiss

I ran screaming in terror
down the darken lane
as the black demon ran
behind me,
never slowing,
never gaining,
just keeping pace.

I could hear the heavy
breathing of my pursuer
and imagined I could feel
it’s hot breath on my neck
as my hairs stood on end.

I was getting a stitch
in my side and knew I wouldn’t
be able to run much further.
I was slowing down…
I stopped and turned…
Oomph…
The largest, blackest dog
I ever saw planted a wet
slobbery kiss across my
entire face,
and then sat down
as if to say
‘do you want to do it again?’

Ficus benghalensis

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like
if I planted myself in one place, if I spread

my roots far and wide, above and below
like a banyan tree, whose epiphytic existence

can’t seem to decide whether to stay or go.
Who would I be if I planted myself

in one job, one career, one geographic place,
rather than flitting about, attracted to one,

then another, enjoying them all until one morning
I wake, know it’s time to move on. More restless

than a banyan tree, I spread wings over places,
over lives, over jobs, more like a honeybee

than a banyan tree.

Can there be a plant so fine
As the lovely columbine?
Five small petals open wide
Often with five more outside
Swooping earthward into spurs
Long thin tubes where life occurs
Bobbing bees and hummers, too
Slurp the nectar as their food.
Beauty through the color range
Yearly crosses genes exchange
This year's blossoms mix and merge
In the Spring new hues emerge.
Intricate and exquisite,
Prompts the question I submit:
Can you see God's plan divine,
Gazing at the columbine?

Deciduous

Never understood the impulse
to carve initials in a tree, bench,

concrete. "Here lies one whose name
was writ in water," just as my name

twined around my body’s trellis
will fall away in winter’s icy light.


(the quote should be in italics...it's what's written on John Keats' gravestone, for those who might not know)

Douglas Fir

Our Christmas Days do not have gold
or frankincense or myrrh.
But what we do have every year is
a great, big Douglas Fir.

It’s filled with ornaments galore
and lights so bright they blur.
There’s a Christmas train that runs around
our holiday Douglas Fir.

Beneath the tree, the dogs will sleep,
the kittens stretch and purr.
It seems that all of us agree.
It’s a mighty nice Douglas Fir.

Our families often disagree,
but today they will concur
that the prettiest sight they’ve seen today
is our festive Douglas Fir.

And when our dinner guests are gone,
we relax with a nice liquor.
We toast the beauty of this day
and our beautiful Douglas Fir.

Another Christmas come and gone,
and we’re back to the way we were.
But the memory of the day lives on
with what’s left of our Douglas Fir.

CHAMAEBATIA FOLIOLOSA

Bear clover, also known as fern-bush, bearmat,
tarweed, kit-ket-dizze, mountain misery.
Grows in mixed conifer and hardwood forest,
up to 17,000 stems per acre. Resinous oils
have a penetrating odor that repels most
animals; the oils stick to boots and pantlegs.
Grows luxuriant around the ranch
where those people disappeared;
where search dogs thrust their noses
into its stiff, tangled, ferny mass,
finding bits of charred bone, human
bone among bear clover, where someone
cultivated mountain misery.

Kiva

Sowing loans, not alms.
Planting hope in the world,
one peace at a time.

I agree with "disappointed". I have been trying to stick within a theme when the daily prompts are posted. I guess that is why it's called a challenge. But today's prompt threw me of kilter.. Not one of my better poems, but at least we still have 23 more days to go & can choose 20 poems to send.

Why are there only two persimmons?
Because in flowering time, our new house
is what flowered, and the construction
put a chain-link fence on the tree’s base
that must have tripped the tree’s off button.

So, two fruits, but it’s fortuitous
that neighbors share guavas and apples
and all of us enjoy bounteous
harvests of leafy, green vegetables.
And there’s store-bought food, canned and frozen.

In the daily quest for edibles,
cultivation may be a hobby,
livelihood, business or possibly
none of the above. That’s why we’re free
and vastly lucky, each one of us

who can enjoy a crop of pretty
orange leaves from a persimmon tree.


DA

A PLANTING GONE AWRY

Plain Jane was not happy.
She'd gone in for a change.
Doctor showed her implants
that came in quite a range.

Thirty-eight-D, her choice;
most pliant and good size.
Thought it would be just right
to please all of the guys.

Day of operation,
doctor ill as could be.
Half-way through, eyes were crossed;
reached for thirty-two-B.

Jane has filed a lawsuit.
Malpractice is her plaint.
She plans to get even:
balanced is what she ain't.

W

Fail-uh-whatsis?

So there she sat
the blushing bride-to-be
trying to fake her way through
ordering her wedding flowers.

The florist saw through her quickly.

What did she know?
Her Mom could root African violets
from cuttings with great success
a feat that made her quite famous
on their block of rowhomes.
But like her brilliant cooking techniques,
Mom kept her gardening secrets to herself.

So there she sat
in the florist's customer chair
feeling uninformed and inadequate
having no idea where to begin.

When one photo in the shiny binder caught her eye
the corresponding glint in the florist's eye
was difficult to miss.
Our girl hadn't seen many orchids in her young life --
the family purse ran mainly to carnations --
and she couldn't even try to pronounce
the fancy name for the fancy blossom
she couldn't resist.

Phalaenopsis?
Fail-uh-nop-sis (accent on the "nop")
the florist repeated with infinite patience.

On her wedding day
no one but she (not even Mom)
noticed the few pure white beauties
mingled among the more prosaic blooms
in the bridal bouquet.
(The groom, of course, had other concerns
as did every young man of the time
taking to himself a virginal bride.)

She never forgot the flower
or how to pronounce its name.
When things fell apart much later,
she tried to find a way
to blame the whole sorry mess
on the phalaenopsis orchids.

“Plant”

Miracle mirage, in many forms, none astute as a tree.
Taking root, bursting from the seed within,
Chloroplasts of cells, creating pigment green.

Stretching toward sunlight, arms grasping for life,
New branches, shooting angles adorn the scene
At work, photosynthesis, magnificence preen.

Seasons pass, protect from winter wind and cold,
Nurtured, maturing, adding tell tale rings,
Worth it’s weight in gold.

Presence, nobility, reaching utmost peak,
Just a short sprint, worthy
Of “hide and seek.”

Ninacarole
11/7/09

PLANTING OF THE LORD

Those who are His
are destined to flourish
in the place He plants us;
that we may bloom for His glory,
produce seeds for harvest,
and increase the garden
in His kingdom.

Righteous

i will plant my feet
because you won't budge

i will not speak
because you won't speak

I will not miss you
because you won't budge
and you won't speak
and you are wrong

I will show you

I will plant myself here
I will not grow
I will not budge
I will not thrive
or bend or sing
because you

are wrong.

Banana! I didn't know our names were linked to our websites until your comment above! Thanks for finally helping me to make a connection!

Okay, I'm stretching it a bit for today, but I'm technically within the prompt, and since my purpose is to write a rough draft of poem a day and have 30 poems to work with over the next year, this qualifies even if I'm pushing it.

Since my friend Ann is the subject of the poem, and the "plant" in the poem that grows, she is also the title. See, pushing it, but not really breaking the prompt.

FOR ANN

The seed planted,
the first class. She returns.
Beginner,
Intermediate,
Advanced, three years.

Thousands of forms, repeat
seiku hyungs,
pyung ahns, nihanchis,
bassai, chil suns.
Umteen sparring matches;

sweat, bruises.
Hundreds of thousands
of stances, make
them lower, punch harder,
train, train, train

until the exam.
For hours and hours,
show what she's made of, pushed
to the edge,
pushed to her limit.

Bends on left knee
sheds her red belt, sheds tears,
she stands once
again, plants her feet,
a black belt blooms.

The Old Meat-Packing Plant

Its proximity both allured
And repulsed me,
A precarious stonewall serving
As sole separation between it
And our easternmost field.
I’d heard tales they’d
Slaughtered horses inside—
Chopped up then ground
Them into dog food.
I wondered if,
While tilling the earth
Grandpa had ever heard
Their murderous neighs.
Even then—long before
I’d sipped its sanguinity—
Death conjured figments
So phantasmagoric
My heart metronomed in time
To their heebie-jeebie beat.

She always held her breath, hoping for a clear and cloudless
sky, at least long enough to allow her to witness the exact
instant when the sun slid down the sky and out of sight.

Each night she had her front row seat on the porch
overlooking the intercoastal waterway. No neighbors’
lights obscured the sky; only railing seemed to hold
back the horizon until, like a magician’s dove, a wisp
appeared, under wraps, escorting the sun from view,
leaving in its wake only a sprinkling of stars.

Funny that should come to mind late at night,
before she slipped into sleep, letting go of her grief,
as she wondered once again just where she had been,
what thoughts had run through her head as his life
ebbed out. Had her heart lurched? Had his presence
hovered ‘round her then eased away unseen?

The Sugar Maple


With frozen limbs of stillness
arms naked, standing bare
his wretched wrath of winter
brings death to Autumn air

Stripped of all her beauty
as colors fade away
a tapestry of gloomness
mourning shades of gray

His breath with bitter coldness
dressed in snowy white
causes pain, illusions
smothers nature's light

Displays a rude awaking
sends chills down to the bone
sheets of glass portraying
his nasty undertones

Drowning out her whispers
from thrashing of the wind
his shadow taunts, is haunting
round and round it spins

Old man winter lingers
grasp is strong and bold
frostbitten fingers crippled
'neath his icy hold

Soon, with season over
he'll slip behind the clouds
sun will bring a warmness
embrace her with a smile

Dressed in springtime color
awaiting children's birth
peeking out their little heads
hands clutching Mother's skirt


November 7th. 2009

(prompt- plant)

(c) Rose Marie Streeter

I am a little surprised to find my original post deleted
in which I stated that compared to last year
this year's challenges/prompts have been disappointing
in that they do not lend themselves to writing on a single theme.

I *hope* to see this change!

Shannon, AKA
'Disappointed'

Words planted always
Grow. The bad choking out good,
The kind, flourishing.

You do NOT have to have a theme for your poems this time around. It's not one of the rules. However, if you want to write around a theme (as I've been doing this month), then the challenge is to do so while still working with the prompt. I would argue that no matter what your theme there is a creative way of making each prompt work with it.

Rose

Yes, a rose
by another name
may smell sweet.
But a rose named
Rose may stick
her gum under the
dining room table,
swear like a pirate,
punch you for
no good reason,
and fib about
who ate the
last cookie.
Have you met
my sister, Rose?

Queen Of The Night

Peniocereus greggi, deset
night-blooming cereus, slender
unassuming cactus, mistaken
for a dead bush stuck among vibrant
blossoming brethren, ignored
until one glorious midsummer’s night
trumpet-shaped, intensely fragrant, white
flowers bloom, their waxy petals
followed by a red-orange, elliptical
fruit barely three inches long.
And then you are gone
before the sun floods the land,
a rare, precious, one night stand.

judy beaston

STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER

We sat on the fence
at our old school,
memories rush like
the fall of the waves,
washing over our history
and receding back to
the hall of past dalliances.
We shared many dreams
in the corridor of passing
and hinged our hope for
a life together on the
bleachers of our youth.
The dances we shared and the
first kisses of aspiring love,
left a mark deeply on my soul.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
the reminders are many here
at the origin of our connection.
Strawberry Fields Forever!

Thank you Robert for setting the "record" straight.. I took your advice and was able to make my poem for today fit into my "theme".

The Investigation

Crime scene investigators
crawled over the corpse like ants.
They were drawn to blood
and there was plenty of it
It’s to be expected
when you fall that far.
“He must have startled the burglar-
a victim of circumstance.”
said the inspector
as he donned his sunglasses-
even though it was midnight.
His partner agreed.
“No prints were left” he said.
“Only a few stray feathers were found,
but the neighbors saw the guy leaving.”
“Good.” said the detective as he stood sideways.
“Put out an APB for this guy Jack.”
“And have someone clean up
that damned bean stalk mess.”

Dandelions

Flamboyantly attract the eye –
small suns shining in a green sky -

white cloud puffs spread on a breeze:
gardeners like control - these weeds

yellow-spike that illusory fruit.
A forked blade snaps the taproot,

slides it out smooth as a snake,
but soon serrated leaves sneak

slyly out of the hole,
new roots ease into the soil.

Jenny Doughty

Cactus



She stood tall, her thorns proud in their ability to protect.
The rough exterior a perfect defense even when
there where no offenses flying about.
She was created to conserve life giving water,
but she decided that the only thing she was interested
in conserving was
herself.

"Poison Ivy"

It masquerades
behind nature's
mask of smiles,
waving
innocence
though poised to
inflict lasting
scars
once it's quiet
attack has been
launched,
then becomes her once
best
friend.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

Cactus, the Tough Guy of the Plant World

My cactus has been
with me for twenty
years. Throughout
a period of come-and-go
coma plants, the cactus
held on, reposing in a

sun-filled windowsill.
Scant attention was paid;
scarce water provided.
The cactus seemed
to survive, even thrive
with blossoms of white

flowers. Perhaps he
(Charles) warmed to
my cat, Jake, ever
present in the window
at his side. He has
never known trauma

except for moving
cross-country, only
plant to tough it out
on the road. Charles
was not replanted
even once; his skin
prickles at the thought.

"mallowsweet"

mallowsweet,
sweet mallow,
burned to refine
the efforts
of the centaurs
as they divine
the future from
the stars.
though I wonder
if it's maybe
through the
inhalation
of the fumes
that they see
what they see.
after all,
even Carl Sagan
enjoyed a
magical herb
now and again
to gaze at
the stars.

Geranium

Sadly, you reach
for sun as winter pulls
the sun from my patio.
You thirst for water,
and I give you none.
Still, your pink blossoms
brighten my kitchen
as if to say,
I love you, I love you,
I love you...just like
that man whose heart
I broke that summer
in Guanajuato, the one
who didn’t want a green
card, who only wanted
to kiss me if only
I would let him
even just once

I'm enjoying the challenge of keeping the poems within my theme. Thanks for the unique, thought-provoking prompts, Robert!

laurie K.

The main rule of this challenge (of this blog) is to just have fun and write poems. As long as you (and I) follow that, everyone should have a great time.

BACK IN THE USSR

Привет товарищ, является хорошим,
чтобы видеть, Является хорошим для Вас,
чтобы прочитать меня.
Я, быть шпионом в Кремле для правительства.
Является очень хорошим! Является превосходным!
Я имею быть установленным КГБ
к выполнению многих деталей, 1-2-3.
Каждый должен сделать много напитка кофе.
Я пью чай, думает, что кофе воняет.
Также должен измениться,
бумага сыплются небольшая
латвийская комната. И сделайте
чистый зачистка подталкиванием метлы,
я являюсь действительно заводом,
ое название во вторник.
Я - полицейский. Я несу значок.
Являются также шпионом, преступление не платит.

НАЗАД В СССР

Hello comrade, is good to see,
Is good for you to be reading me.
I be spy in Kremlin for government.
Is very nice! Is excellent!
I have be planted by KGB
to performing many detail, 1-2-3.
One is to make much coffee drink.
I drink tea, think coffee stink.
Also is to change paper roll in little Latvian room.
And make clean sveep pushing broom.
I am really plant, my name Tuesday.
I am cop. I carry badge.
Am also spy, crime don't pay.

Gee, did I miss some controversy about the "theme" or just an overall confusion? I personally like the idea of trying to fit the prompt AND a unifying theme, but that's me. Either way, as long as it conforms to the prompt, no problem, right? Good work Robert!

Personally, I am happy there is no theme. Just to have my point of view here. I believe that today's prompt was a wonderful change of pace, not that the others were not good, they too were a lot of fun. But then, I am not like everyone else, I am just here to write for the fun of it. I know a lot of you see this as a stepping stone to being published, and I believe it is as well, but not for me. So, as a result, many of you take this more seriously then I do. I personally have no desire to go and print, nor have others read my work. I write for myself alone. It's my means of escape from the real world. If only for a little while. Just like someone else smoking a J, or having a shot of liquor, I get lost in a poem instead. I guess we are all here for different reasons. I wish you all the best. I know your work is the best.

Walt, "НАЗАД В СССР" is an amazing poem. I do not know what the title means, I am assuming, you wrote the title in the poem above, and the poem in Russian, then the title in Russian, and the poem in English. Just a guess my brother.

Ralph.

This one's especially rough--I'm excited to edit in December! I love having this daily push, though, since normally after a long day I'd just say "Nope, too tired to write today." Not so, with day seven waiting for a poem. (And day eight quickly approaching.)


To an Unknown Tree

I don’t know if you are real
or imagined, some cobbled-together
fantasy from a novel or my dreams
or memories tangled by time.
I once read that our most cherished
memories, ones returned to again
and again, chip and wear like Formica
while the seldom remembered
remain pristine, polished,
edges intact with delicious detail.
I try not to remember you too often.
Is that silly? But when I do think of you,
my magic tree, I am seven again,
tripping along behind big brother
and big cousin and I try to catch up,
tramping in deep Kentucky woods,
branches and leaves kissing my face
in benediction. Come, child, they say,
like Yeats's wild. Come see. And so
I follow, deeper into the wood,
until we reach you: this tree—real?
imagined?—taller than I believe,
taller than big brother, big cousin, so tall
I crane my neck and look and look
and see a leafy-green sky arcing over us,
a giant mama bird and we in her wing.
Did I really play on roots big as my waist?
Did I really lean against your trunk,
feeling small but oh so safe?
I don’t know: but it doesn’t matter,
because even now I will tuck you away,
protected in the back of my mind,
and you and I, tree, will always
be together, safe.

Shannon, AKA "disappointed" - your original post was never deleted. I noticed it both this morning and later today when I was reading other people's poems.

Robert, thanks for the clarification. That'll make things much easier, for me anyhow.

Poppies

She plants poppies by the roadside
to cheer up the drivers on their way
home from work, because they were his favorite
flower, because he was a veteran, because his
blood, when it dribbled out of his ear, made a
red whorl on the white pillowcase.

She plants poppies by the roadside
because it keeps her hands busy, because
she loves flowers, because she wants to
bury something that will rise again,
because if she isn't doing something
with her hands they wrench and wring.

She plants poppies by the roadside
because her love for him is eternal,
because she needs something to take care of, because
it requires no intercessor, because the petals that
bloom out of the wrinkled bud are thin as
the wall between here and him.

"The Angry Dandelion Writes"

The Angry Dandelion
is calmer these days.

The chemicals are no longer
in her bloodstream
and she explodes
with less unpredictability.

The sadness,
though,
is still there.

Perhaps she senses
the rest of the world
inching away
and sometimes
it hurts

but other times
she doesn’t notice
as she’s deep in
her private world-
her hand scratching out
tales of lost girls
absentee fathers
reliable siblings
and furtive love.

Write on, Dandelion.

May your words
be your key
out of the bondage
of this world
just as it was for me.

Someday
an unexpected breeze
will blow your wonder
free

and you’ll pollinate
the world
with your humor
your beauty
and all the dreams
I know are inside.

Planning comes in winter,
Plotting the land,
Choosing the harvest,
Hybrid or heirlooms?

When the ground thaws
Enough to till up rocks,
The hardest work is done,
Necessary for planting

Future crops.

Winter came early to us.
Lost employment,
Broken cars, no money,
And then my father died.

The thaw is coming,
Insurance claims.
Time to plan the future.
Hybrid or heirloom?

Future lives.

The Journey: Day Seven: a poem with a plant name as title

Cosmos

Compositae seems appropriate,
but no, it means plants with heads composed of many florets:
aster, daisy, dandelion, goldenrod, marigold,
ragweed, sunflower, thistle, zinnia,
and cosmos, christened for its evenly placed petals,
Greek for harmony, an ordered universe.

The cosmos starts frail and needy, short, spindly stem
with fern-like leaves, and buds are scarce.
Poor growing conditions—much sun, little water—
illogically encourages growth, and soon
the cosmos is wondrous, an abundantly floriferous,
tall-stalked, airy plant. Its blooms rise high, dance on sultry
currents, wave and wag, bow and bend, their lithe curvature
echoing the rounded days of summer.

Harmony. An ordered universe.
When we planned flower beds for a daughter’s outdoor wedding,
plants were chosen for height, for color, for composition.
We watered, we fed, we weeded, fenced deer out, prayed
our ignorance, our lack of a green thumb, could be overcome.
The beds of moon roses, salvia, four o’clocks, daisies, lupine,
snapdragons, cornflowers, with banks of cosmos behind,
became our greatest gardening accomplishment—
an orderly arrangement of harmony, flowers, and love.

Transplant

Like the seasonal flowers, say,
pansies in winter,
the city used to
substitute on the ramp-walk that
z's up from under Walnut Street
Bridge to the Bluff and
ends with--my husband
says--huffing and puffing in
front of the Hunter,
we'd like to move ourselves
in the next season of our life
to a condo near the riverfront.
If we can get the green stuff
to fertilize the transplant,
I think we'd thrive there.

Yes, Amanda, thank goodness for December edits. My poems, while a good start, are pretty rough, too. But I'm determined to post every day, so, onward!

GLASS ONION

Translucent orb
I'm looking through you,
diffused perception
through and through.
Tasty, with
a pungent air,
you give my soups
and salads flair,
You bring tears
to my very eyes,
you scent my breath,
that's no surprise.
Step lightly, my
favorite aromatic,
you're too fragile
and that's emphatic.

Shamrock

Mystery plant
Sitting on the sill
Transported outdoors in the summer
Comes and goes at its will
Flourishes
Blooms
Then fades
Til reborn again
In all its green shades

Patricia

A Precious Seed

A seed is planted a life begins
It grows in fertile ground
It swells and grows and ripens
When time is right the fruit will come
After many long months in the dark
The new life will emerge into the light
as a blessing to all, a sweet child.

~Memories of Jasmine~

Sweet Jasmine lingers
Clinging to the morning dew
Night blooms remembered

---

Unbeleivable! It posted! Now if I could only remember that particular string of grumbled curse words I used to get the darn thing to go through...

.
Concrete Plant

In 1958 my father
bought a concrete plant
one block east of the highway
at the edge of town
in Morgan Hill.

He’d survey his field
of red trucks, white drums
spinning, the piles of
gravel and sand gleaming
in the sun.

In time he added
dump trucks, loaders,
ten yarders, intercoms,
and patiently taught
a string of yard boys
how to make pier blocks
with leftover concrete,
how to lay them out
in rows like orchard trees.

As the plant blossomed,
the town became a runaway weed
claiming water rights, air rights.
Shops and restaurants
multiplied.

After fifty years, surrounded
by boulevards, malls,
fast food and big boxes,
the concrete plant was
transplanted to another
edge of town to make way
for townhouses.
.

Poppies in a Flanders Field

In fields of brown
They laid them down.

In fields of green
New hope was seen.

In fields of red
Remember now the dead.

Fleur de Chanson

The root of our voice
wraps fibrous round our chi,
fed with emotions kept
firmly planted in our belly.

Straight up airway's a stem
sent from root to bloom,
air to the air bound,
reaching toward both lyric and tune.

The leaves on both sides,
shoulders and diaphragm,
power balancing
breathing, bearing, bubbling I am.

Our mouth is flower,
box, palate, lips and tongue
shaping tone and pitch,
so unique, each fleur de chanson.

Ghost Flower

shivering by day
and glowing at night

the flower with
curled wings wrapped

around a tiny moth
at center, as if

by firelight, this
desert by eclipse.

Named by a western
explorer, chronicled

by a reclusive botanist
for whom a series of

deep Mojave caves is
named, this flower

talks with a lisp.
Not entirely solid

forever hard to find
unless you tiptoe by.

Ruth Nolan

Couldn't resist...

Anemones

Oh, we get less respect than ants,
Who’re never taken for mere plants.

Cyperus papyrus

they say the pen
is mightier than the sword
but when a murder is performed
with the reed of the Cyperus papyrus
suspicion falls upon
the popular writer
of cosy paranormals
who grows the plant in her garden.

A Paper Coffin
one copy only
(a must for collectors)
hand written by the author
on five hundred sheets
of antique papyrus
in a presentation box

Nopalitos
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

nopalitos
nopalitos
how I adore thee,
long green slivers
of prickly pear cactus,
slightly tart and low carb
fresh, bottled, canned, or dried,
hiding in my scrambled eggs
and chorizo, waiting
to pounce on my Diabetes
and bare-knuckled,
be the one to throw
the first punch.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Coprinus Domesticus

I leaf my way through
Pages of suspects
I scrutinise
Colours and shapes
Size and spore
And then
I see you
A bell shaped and smooth,
Pale and white tinged,
Black gilled and odourless
Mushroom
Can I eat you?
Chop you up
Fry you in butter
And add you to my
Bacon sandwich?
“Inedible”
I guess not.
I toss you
On to the compost heap
Where we will
No doubt
Meet again next year
And have the same conversation.

OCTOPUS' GARDEN

The octopus' garden
gave a bountiful yield,
it was amazed at all the crops
in its underwater field.
Kelp and seaweed topped the list,
they make a tasty salad,
if you're a deep sea kind of thing,
the best you've ever had.
Farmer Oc had farming rules,
but sometimes had to bend them,
'cause an underwater farms were hard,
though it had eight arms to tend them.

Advertising

You plant ideas in my head
Of all the things I need
To be attractive
Attract a mate
Lose ten pounds
Master my thighs
Have fresh breath
Buy these latest jeans
And you tempt me with food
That I was not even hungry for
And I’m lovin’it
Hot and satisfying
It’s the real thing
When I have it my way
And it gets me through my workday
When you break me off a piece
Of that kit kat bar.
And hand me a Redbull.

Mulberry

We watched the squirrels run
with hungry purpose
across the horizontal limb
that paralleled the crossbow
in our windowpane

Stepped out to join them
in the gathering of bluish purple
gifts from the tree,
even sampled the green berries--
hard and sour on our tongues

Sometimes the squirrels
chattered jealously over our heads,
coveting our plumpest finds

Rinsing off berries,
muddied fingers and toes,
we knew that
a just dessert awaited,
best eaten cold
with memories of the picking

a real rush job today!

Stinging nettle

Have you ever been stung?
What did it feel like?
I daren’t touch them
On the last day of the holidays
I’m going to come and grab one.
(he didn’t)

Rhododendron

“I am dangerous,” she says via
the voice program which speaks
in its digitalized monotone.

“Don't get close. I clatter the other
way after a quick evisceration if
you try.” She speaks from experience,

betrayed by childhood friends who
dropped her once the effects of
curious stares became too much.

When their awkward adolescence
could not face her wheelchair
dragging them down to her level

of pain. Her danger is isolation,
too much time alone with a family
knotted with passion plays she

can't escape except through the
fantasy land in her head. Beware
her slow slide into a world which

bears no relation to this, where her
vast power imitates la Bella Dame
sans Merci and she drags you into

a fate worse than death.

I posted the wrong poem last night (after an eleven-hour train ride with my only internet access via a student’s i-Phone.) Here’s the one I meant to post.
Grandma Sally Rose

She lived all her life near Brick Church,
the solid center of her home, her husband,
her son. And when he took a wife, she offered
no complaints, taking the time instead
to teach his young bride what her own mother
had not: how to feed her family, how to
love without restraint, how to turn her
snowball bushes from pink to blue, how
to accept grace, to offer forgiveness.
She gave the pair a cutting of the rose bush
growing up beside her kitchen window,
wrapping tender roots, teaching her
to read the almanac, to plant by signs.

The rose took root and grew in sandy soil
against the house where would grow old,
bearing fragrant burdens of flowers,
blooms beautifully imperfect, smelling
of talcum powder and sweet old ladies.
Each Mother’s Day and Father’s Day,
I cut a small red bud to pin to my lapel,
a token in these parts that my parents lived.

My mother, their daughter, took a cutting
of her own. She learned while still a girl
to take what she needed or wanted, gifts
rarely offered freely, yet never forbidden.
Her roses thrived in one house then another.
Always moving, never putting down roots
she left a trail of Grandma Sally roses.

I feared I lacked the touch, since I took cuttings,
planting, tending, only to watch them wither
under a curse of unintended neglect; failure
to thrive they call it when children suffer such.
At each new house, Mama instead I try again,
bestowing the root-wrapped bundle,
barely more than a stick.

She who had taught me how to cook, to sew,
to offer thanks, to show mercy, helped me
cultivate patience and roses, so I would know
when I had found my place, a home with soil
just right for growing heirloom roses, reaching up
toward my window, whispering family secrets.

IF I FELL
(Planting the Seed of Love)

A look, a smile.
A pique of interest
in a friendly face.
Something that touches
deep into your heart
and takes hold of your
entire being.
The shy supplication
that offers a glimpse
at your tender side,
but with an air of
confidence that confirms
your need to spend all
your emotional capital on
that one person,
that one soul that
makes you whole.
The one that holds you closely
in high regard as well.
It starts with that look, that smile.
The seed has been planted
to blossom and grow.
Tend it well.

THE END
(They're Closing the Plant)

Announcements were made.
They're closing the plant.
People who spent their entire lives
working for those lives,
find themselves unemployed.
"Downsized", such a silly word
to mean "the shattering of
hopes, dreams and aspirations"
or at least the postponement of same.
The game is simple, it's like
chasing your tail,
your severance package check
is in the mail.
And Mr. Corporate Big doesn't see
the faces and families of those
he's set free. Left with
their dignity just hanging on,
and a determination to
prove those big-wigs wrong.
They're closing the plant.
The announcement was made.

POPPIES

A veteran of wars, tired and old,
stands on the stoop of the library,
with tales untold and a hand full
of paper poppies. The small innocuous
faux flowers that carry stature.
The wear and wrinkles on his face,
screams of the unspeakable horrors,
the friends he had lost,
the sacrifices made at any cost,
the battle for freedom and
the right to express the voice
of a nations once proud, now distressed.
And a broken man, proud and weary,
stands at attention, eyes glossed and teary,
and a handful of paper reminders of
victories and glories for the promise made.
Your donation seems small in what you are giving,
a small compensation for the life you are living
paid for by the blood of many women and men,
for in the end the gratitude shows with
a shaky salute and shake of a hand.
Wear you "flower" proudly, don't be nervous,
and by the way, thank them for their service.

no honeysuckle, rose


no-body's wearing living clothes this year
no vine woven camo evening gowns this year
after lonicera japonica
lost us clients with it's
moniker
we won't be designing pants
made from endangered plants
no one's using living clothes this year
no-body's wearing mountain bikes this year
no, no one's wearing mountain bikes this year
since my assistant was accused
of bike-napping
on the news
we won't be using mountain bikes this year
no-body's wearing polar ice this year
oh, of course we won't have polar ice this year
it was rare
and almost pretty
but the air here turned it
shitty
no one's going to pose polar ice this year
you won't see feather beds again this fall
no, we won't have feather beds around at all
those that had them in their attic
made the knock-offs too
dramatic
that they must be sent a message
leave your quilt squares on the wall
we'll have none of grammie's afghans
or those bath room mats from sears
we won't be wearing things like that
for years

The Gardener

She plants the seeds
a careful suggestion here and there
a thought expressed over tea
never fixes her child’s problems
just cultivates the fertile mind
for future harvest.

Lamb’s Ear

In her eyes, you are more than a plant.
She senses your discomfort
In transitions.
She sees your response
To her emotional upheaval.
She fingers your soft ears,
As the silk of her blanky of years gone by.
She gleans comfort from your presence.
In her eyes, you are more than a plant.
You are needed.

Plant a Plant in a Plant

Teddy Bear Nanny Camera;
All-In-One Camera Alarm Clock;
Mirror Spy Camera;
Pen Camera...
Who needs them when you can
Plant a Plant in a Plant?
Undercover video surveillance or reconnaissance,
For which read spying
Is all the rage
Especially if you’re into blackmail.
And need footage as evidence of actions, people, or events.

Just don’t water the plant you plant in your plant.

De, love the poem, as well as the quote from Kobayashi Issa.

Walt, Walt, Walt. I never cease to be amazed. At times, I feel you would appreciate a "my favorite of yours is ..." or a "I love this line:..." but it is generally too hard for me to choose when it comes to your work. Each one is different from the others.

Where's my Hannah?

Hoping for reading time tonight.

Ralph:

Keith and I received an unexpected call last night, letting us know Rand and Shelly were in town. We got together with them. It was a heart wrenching time. The pain is so raw. So piercing. They have not read your poem, nor my letter, as of yet. They have literally thousands awaiting them. The outpouring of the Columbus community, as well as the Durango community, has overwhelmed them. They read and accept calls as they are able. My heart is full for them.

I’m sure they will read my letter and your poem as soon as they are able. They were touched by your kindness when I told them about you.

Marie

“Great Falls Park”


Crashing over rock and falling thunderous
into the Passaic, the Great Falls drove silk looms
and coal furnaces, growing a city of engines and progress.
Now Paterson’s mills, plants, factories are broken brick,
hollowed, full of ghosts. No one wants to drive the vacant
blocks past broken curbs and fallen houses.
A boy went to a party last night and was shot dead.
Still the Great Falls roars, throwing tons of churning
water, hour by hour, into green river, moving forward;
there is always the chance to begin again.

Adieu

We watched eighteen wheels
rolling up the long curved
rise, our drive, trees we planted,
watered, arching over, now
shadows falling thick,
dense air of sighs.

What remained of our possessions
moving toward retirement,
distant from this sheltered cove,
Weeping Willows dripping leaves,
wind-brushed grass where Holsteins
grazed, unfazed and unaware
of our goodbyes, whispered
to all of them,
the lone great heron,
beavers in their den,
turtles sunning on the shore
once ours,
uncluttered now
our kayaks sold.

Hands clasped, we pressed
for comfort from the future,
then released our grasp
to go.


Jane Penland Hoover

Thank you for the update Marie. Please give Rand and Shelly my deepest condolences on their loss.

Ralph.

Between my 41st birthday and a catastrophic meltdown on my primary computer, I haven't been able to write for the last few days. I'm on my backup right now, and here's hoping it will do until I can afford to buy another one, or that the Geniuses will be able to save my Powerbook.


Palm

Fronds, not branches. The core
of the palm bursts up, always up.
No spreading boughs, no leaves
to rake at molting time. Old fronds
unzip, like fingers declasping
after an embrace, fall to brown,
to be stuffed in yard waste bins
or pulped by traffic and rain.
The next fronds push up from
the core, to lengthen and spread,
to clasp and embrace, then fall,
unzipped by wind or weight
or the insistence of the new.

THE PREGNANT ONION EXPLAINED IT ALL

“Here, Mom, this is for you.
Happy Birthday.”

I accepted the dwarfy little plant
as my radiant daughter explained
that it reminded her of me.

“Why?” I asked.
“It’s round and fat
and has spiky hair,
and this reminds you of me?”

We laughed,
there in the parking lot
of the best breakfast place in town,
as my daughter told me
that she didn’t even know the name
of the plant she had purchased.

“It’s a pregnant onion,”
I said.

“What’s it called?”
she asked,
as if she hadn’t heard me clearly.

I repeated myself. . .
“It’s a pregnant onion.”

With eyes as bright as the sun,
and an indescribable glow,
my beautiful daughter said,
“Well, that makes two of us.”

Cacti speak?
Heavens, yes!
If you eat
one small piece
of the meat,

Cactus says,
“Let me teach
you to praise.
You must reach
for the heat.

You must catch
with each spine
every touch
of the sun.
Make your cells

crystalline.
Shine, Divine."


DA

Meadowsweet

She was Meadowsweet
Spread amongst the Lady’s Bedstraw
Sacred to the ancient Druids
Tasting like a summer honey
With a smell
That makes hearts merry
Come to me my Meadowsweet
Slip your Lady’s Smock
Lay amongst the Thyme with me
Your lovesome Ragged Robin

Amaryllis
By: Meena Rose

Dramatic presence;
Stately elegance;
Beauty sublime.

Thank you;
For honoring
My dinner table;
During the
High Holy
Times.

Yellow Lady Banks

When she was 18
and her grandfather 84, he made
her lunch, then took her to his backyard, which sang
songs for butterflies and an old man who found
solace in antique roses that had helped
him through the gut-twisting loneliness that came
when his sweet wife was taken away
by an unexpected caller, cancer. These beauties caught
his tears and eased him through the many nights he wanted
to end it all, and now that he felt his time drawing
close, like thick-slate clouds before a thunderstorm, he wanted to leave
a gift for his one grandchild, Jane, who was named
after the woman he had loved for forty years.
He held Jane’s hand and walked
her in front of his favorite bush, which was covered
in a chorus of Yellow Lady Banks. He motioned
his granddaughter to bend near to these sunshine-sprouted
healers and said, “Breathe deeply.” She inhaled
and then felt her first hint of heartbreak as he continued with:
“Every time you smell a rose, you’ll have a picture of me, even after I’m gone.”

"Evergeen"

I cycle
leaves of fire
golden swishes
under tires.
Tomorrow ice
its clear color
and whispers of white
will make me slide.
Breaking, breathing
a new green world
purple crocuses
peer out of earth
I lose my gloves.
She waits
she watches
as I pass
Ever standing
Ever stately
Evergreen.

PLANTING SEEDS OF DOUBT

Once she planted the seeds of doubt
nourished by lies, they began to grow
The first time you brought me to meet her
I knew
she took my hand
threw her arm across my shoulder
led me to the only chair
You sat beside her on the sofa
smiling nervously
waiting for approval
But she just smiled
that sticky sweet smile
I grew to hate
You persisted, she told you to wait
Just a year
We waited
She said wait another
but I was with child
Her lawyer drew up the papers
Prenuptial Agreement
I signed away my rights
At first you said you didn't believe
but I could see the doubt
behind your eyes
every time you looked at our child
In the end
you were too much of a coward
to face me yourself
She was happy to oblige
But I looked her in the eye
and tore the check in a hundred pieces
tossing it out the window
as the taxi pulled away

J. Kuykendall

Quercus (Oak)

The sun slipped
Through the
Oak tree
Painting the
Picnic table in
Shadow leaves
And light
While the breeze
Tickled my neck
And whispered
Secrets that
Only I could hear

Baptisia

Bapto baby,
A butterfly blue.
Born to the body
Oblong, bluish-black fruit.

The bluebird and a bird’s-eye:
Blue False Indigo view.

PLANTS

Some people don’t belong in gardens
They think weeds are pretty
They bend back the tender leaves
to see the bloom
before its time

These miscreants tread heavily into conservancies
Wander off the path
To get a better look
Scare the wildlife

Better we secure these green places
Remove blacktop access
Save the earth
Save the pristine, earth

Earths’ Nursery
To grow and nourish to even devastate
Say: Achillea millefolium L. var. occidentalis DC.
Western yarrow:
Perennial, mellow, lives to grow, low toxicity
Say Ranunculus repens
Creeping Buttercup:
Beautiful, unpleasant side effects though avoidable with a bitter taste.
Name thousands of plants that are not what they seems, not what you expect.
Did I say plants, did we mention humans?
Beware, take heed, be alert and have faith that you can help cultivate all.

Acanthus

Only the movement of cat ears
among fat green leaves
gives the hideout away.

The flick and twitch
above yellow eyes
track the progress
of sparrows feeding.

Ancient, found on Greek urns,
the acanthus spreads along the fence.
Huge leaves fan to the ground,
provide jungle foliage.

The sparrows, wary,
fly at cat crawl.
The cat gives up on the birds,
curls into a nap.

November Poetry Challenge day 7 “Plant”

Implant

She tells me about her implant, as if I know
She got it during cataract surgery, and I do,
Because I’m taking her ocular history—but
I wonder, as I often do, whether she knows
Anything about other implants, like the kind
That hugs your chest instead of a breast when
You’ve have cancer, or the plastic egg that can
Be used to simulate a testicle—I’m betting
She has no idea.

Christmas Cactus

In early November faint buds
stipple our Christmas cactus,
just nibbles of pink peering out
as if they can’t wait to fill
our gloomy autumn days
with blushes of rosy daintiness.

They seem eager to display
their beauty before the holidays
when people are too rushed
to stop and admire their fragile
petals and exquisite hues. I’m
glad they make an early debut.

Barbara Mayer

His lyrics moved me in youth
to listen in a dark room, candle lit
massive speakers exposed
showing plastic cones and plates
slightly blurring as energy rose
my hand twisting everything clockwise
beckoning the stairway to heaven
to rise to meet me in Kashmir
after my battle at evermore
winning hearts of hobbits
burrowed deep in mystical woods
calling forth with the rain song
hoping he would carry us home
with his ramble on
as we mystified our night.

(not page, but plant)

CARNATIONS

Used to like them,
but now
they just remind me of
funerals.

Choices: Day 7: Plant

Rescued Plant

They threw it out.
“Too wild,” they said, “we
can’t make it stand up straight.”

My eyes saw vibrant vigorous green,
limbs arcing, leaves draping,
lush exuberance.
“I’ll take it.”

They laughed. “Well, if you
trim it way back, it might be okay.”

I smiled, took it home, gave the uncut
plant pride of place in a
sun-kissed corner.

Then came a summer day when I slid
the now taller-and-wider-than-a-person plant
onto the deck, gave it light and fresh air
while carpets underneath were cleaned.

And at day’s end, I found my inadvertent
error, cried when my jungle queen stood,
burnt beyond hope by the very sun I’d
meant to bless her with.

I brought her in, shaded and sheltered her,
watered her, prayed for reprieve, but finally cut
away all that would not, could not, revive.

Unable to accept the loss and my mistake, I
tended the stubble—the handful of stalks a few
inches high—again and again until one day,
a bit of green, not yet a leaf, appeared.

And now today, a sun-kissed corner of my house
once more overflows with arching limbs and
sways of leaf, taller and wider than ever,
wild and free.

Coreopsis


I feel a kinship with this plant:
Like me, it can grow almost anywhere
thrives in poor soils, tolerant of drought.

We have no serious
diseases. We do tend to sprawl
in moist surroundings (water, chocolate).

A wildflower at heart, we both will thrive
in gardens. We can be cultivated,
grow big and tall if given fertile ground.

Our golden petals hide our darker hearts.
Mostly low maintenance, although
taller plants, like taller ladies, need support.

PLANTS

My mother tends her plant
toils over them morning and night
making sure her garden grows.

She clips and hoes gently
stakes and prunes lovingly
nurtures each flower and stem.

My mother hums in her garden
looks over her little ones
coaxes and cajoles each bud.

She puts time and love into her work
makes sure her garden grows
I’m envious of those plants.

Should You Tremble at My Door

Should you see my quiet house
and step up to my door

Should you close your vapor hand
and try to form an timid fist

Should you stand there like a child
and want to vanish further still

Do not drop your arm - transparent
but knock, as if the wind.
Or more don't knock, come in, come in.

Please don't ask permission
should you see my quiet house.

Please don't wait
to guess a judgment in my gaze
or, dear, unsure,
don't tremble at my door.

Ginkgo biloba

The ginkgo effaces itself
on a suburban lawn
dropping golden fans in the autumn
and stinking seeds in the spring.
To cross the paradox and
Live without change
Just as you did
in hidden forests
at the birth of Christ
and moments in which the Buddha passed from
life to
nirvana. Moses split the Red Seas.
The ginkgo lived sliding through
The slipstreams of time and
never got wet.
It comes to its life again
from a blackened tree-stump
on the steps of blasted
temples in reborn Hiroshima
as if the bomb were nothing more than
the lightning that frightened
the dinosaurs.

Magnolia

…you sweet thing, you’re driving me mad… J.J. Cale

If we had built a mythology around you,
we may have said you were a musician
with long fingers, all the better to play
the harp or the lute. Perhaps you
wore flowers in your long brown hair,
and you bathed in a sweet perfume,
one that all men would find irresistible.
But for some transgression,
perhaps rejecting a young god’s advances,
you were transformed to a majestic tree.
Your long leafy fingers, dark green,
keep their color all winter, and in spring,
you put magnificent blossoms in your hair,
petal-bowls of white velvet,
with an intoxicating fragrance
we cannot resist, even if it lasts only a day.

Tulips

He brought me yellow tulips
amazed
that someone actually listened

they're my favorite
i exclaimed
he nodded and said
I know

i pressed my two lips
to his
for bringing me tulips

Papaver Rhoeas

Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel,
Was contemplating behind his easel
Adding black dots to a vast field of red
Solemnly remembering the fallen, the dead
The poppies he painted on Flanders field
Bloomed every year only to yield
To the turn of the season as the year passes
When veterans unite to raise their glasses
When the proud and the humble unite in song
Remembering the good that fought the wrong
Bart added green, some blades of grass
And a cloud of yellow mustard gas
He added a cross of pure white marble
And stepped back for a moment as if to marvel
But instead a tear filled his eye
And unashamedly he began to cry
He fell to his knees and started to moan
When oh when would peace be known?
For on foreign fields still young men die
And at home their families still wonder why
Now in far away Afghanistan
Brave boys do what little they can
The poppies there are for opium
The deadly Papaver Somniferum
Bart added a bird to his landscape
Then covered the canvas with a drape
It would soon be seen by all that came
To the cross in the square that bears the names
Of all those fallen but not forgotten
Whom time preserves whilst corpses are rotten
And heads will bow as hearts lift to heaven
On the eleventh day as the clock strikes eleven
All wearing the same badge of pride
Held with a pin to their coats sides
The common poppy, the flower of blood
That bloomed in the fields and in the mud
Whose message is clearly understood
Lest we forget, for never we should
Papaver Rhoeas on coats and on wreaths
Remembering the fallen and sharing the grief.


Iain.

Roots

So far as I could tell
my father’s mother and my mother
shared only the tops of plants, the tips with roots
setting shoots to grow
in new soil.
Over turkey, over foil-wrapped potatoes
and not-yet inherited china platters,
my mother and his mother
had little else to share.
In my own home now
grow the grandchildren of these cuttings:
Rhodedendron
a cactus or two
Amaryllis,
the bulbs or branches of difficult interactions
rooting me to my past.

Gloxiana


There we sat
in the full blaze
sun of late July
on my father's deck
looking out beyond
the little koi pond
where large fish
sparkled
beyond the waterfall
created to spill into
the pond
beyond each bud and
flower in full blossom
beyond the carefully
lovingly created eden
of my father's making
born in the dreams of
a Brooklyn windowsill
filled with tiny pots
beyond to the far end
of the acre's reach
to the stand of gloxiana
listen said he
because I will not
be here next year to tell
you how to keep them

The other ugly bags

They’re mostly water, you know,
A collection of cells
that make up compartments
that make up veins
that make up leaves
that suck up more water from the earth
and use it to turn sun energy into plant energy
so I can turn plant energy into human energy
and use that energy to
plant more and give them what we both need.

No one was supposed to find out
who you really are. You were a
plant, a spy, meant to keep
tabs on my daughter. Now you
lie on a cold metal table in
a morgue. I don't have to
ask how you ended up here-
no doubt you fell preyto
my daughter's charms and
she sniffed you out. Shame.
But I can't look back. No,
I need a new plant.
Something more...robust.

I DON'T GIVE A FIG THIS YEAR

In years past,
My tree was overladen
With sweet nourishing fruit-

The pastry chef
On her way home from her boring typing job
In a nondescript office
Picked a bag to turn into fanciful delicacies.

The teacher
On his way to school
Put some in his lunch bag
Because they are full of calcium,
And his students needed to see his good example.

The priest
On her daily walk
Paused for a moment
And took one or two for refreshment,
Leaving the rest for others
Who might need them more.

The grandfather of thirteen
Delighted in the bright smiles
Of his grandchildren
And the neighbor kids
When he presented them
With this summertime treasure!

And still there were plenty
For my family and me.

This year, I said "I'm sorry"
to the pastry chef and teacher
And priest and grandfather
And to my own family-

Because this year I don't give a fig -
The bears came and ate all of them!

Pothos

Passion, longing, the burn of desire
twined between the other plants
draped across the breakfast bar

never developed, the environment
an infant despite the time passed
unable to grow, not even knowing
what it would mean to grow

Maximilian Sunflower
Helianthus maximiliani
Michaelmas-daisy

Sun-loving, shade-hating Maximilian Sunflower
doesn’t thrive in the soil of sunny California
which is surprising, with its stout, towering light
green to light red stem and bright yellow,
daisy-like flowers flaunting a bit of San Francisco
hippiness, but only in their happening central U.S.
Native Americans used parts of this plant
as sources of food, oil, dye and thread, so I tread
into the old hippie vernacular ~ spring and summer
being its growth period ~ and remember the 60s
“summer of love,” with its patchouli oil, tie dye,
and threads. It can be used as a wall or hedge
because of its great height. And communal nature ~
how dense colonies form with other shrub-like plants,
and they all dance in a reseeding ritual
when the winds blow, or best… after a fire
when they really let go. They are generous and gentle,
allowing rabbits to graze on the young sprouts;
the older ones a grazing place for white-tailed deer,
elk and antelope. The flower occurs in disturbed areas
like rocky ledges, roadsides and fences. Perhaps
Picasso used this sunflower in his peace posters,
peace warrior being the flower’s other name,
Michaelmas, Saint Michael of Archangel fame,
Satan banished from heaven on Old Michaelmas Day,
they say. And sing, “Lord God to Thee We Give,”
for the Lutheran day, feast and prayer. This flower ~
yellow-headed hipster, angel, and food from the earth.

I'm trying to keep with a theme ~ a book of poems about my daughters as a Christmas gift to them this year. This prompt was tricky, but "Maximilian" is the name of our beautiful yellow cat, and I get teased about having been a hippie, so there's "theme" in there somewhere.

Reflections on Plant Life

I always said that if I were in the hospital
I might prefer a book to read over a bouquet
of flowers as the flowers would fade away
and die, something I would prefer not to.

but then again sometime it is nice to
be surrounded by the beauty of flowers
even if it is only temporary beauty
to enjoy for a few moments, days.

Life itself is fleeting like the beauty
of flowers, with its savored moments
of joy and loveliness, essence
that can inhaled but never captured.

I hate to get roses,
Always have, always will.
They’re just so “not me.”
Bright colors, snooty,
Painful to the touch.

No, I prefer a flower more gentle,
With a few flaws, yes, like
A Star Gazer that stains the
Skin and clothing each time
The pollen is bumped.
An accident, unintentional of course,
But worth the heavenly smell
Filling the world.

I hate to get roses so each time
They are sent, they are given away
To someone, anyone, as I fill
My vase

With a lone beautifully challenged,
Perfectly made,
Star Gazer
Because I think we have
A lot in common.

Glechoma hederacea
We’ve always called it creeping Charlie,
Not ground ivy or gill-on-the-ground, though I would
Rather think of it as something desirable
Its lush leaves winding through the patches
Of crab grass, its purple flowers speckling the yard
Like tiny LED’s, stars-on-the-ground,
They’ve never called it that. I deserves a stellar name
All the years I have tried to pull it up
All the years we’ve tried spraying it with
Borax only to waken to its pungent
Odor almost as soon as the snow has melted
It springs green, not brown from under
The blanket of winter, defiant of man and
The order of nature, it could grow on the tundra
It could flourish on the dark side of the moon.

New Pieces

Bought myself flowers
Today
Put them in the vase
We broke last year
When you slammed the
Door in my
Face

Hauled your favorite plant
In
Out of the pouring rain
Trimmed the dead
Bits but the
Leaves are
Yellowing fast it
Shouldn’t be
Long

I’m picking up the
Pieces of what’s left
Of our
Storm
How are
You?

Jaboticaba

pick
bite
pop

just a little more
as you stand in front of the laden trunk

pick
bite
pop

better it be more
once you start you can’t stop

pick
bite
pop

savor the food of the gods
transplanted to this tropical realm

pick
bite
pop

cast your eyes around
answer my call

pick
bite
pop

better not stop now
as the juice flows down your throat

ja bo ti ca ba

black purplish round fruit

let your senses be taken over
in a stream of pleasure

pick
bite
pop

Plants

For me to write a poem on plants, my friend I am afraid
The information that I share, will be of lower grade
When I think of plants, gardening comes to mind
Potatoes, peas, carrots, varieties of all kind
Corn, turnip, sunflowers, things growing on the vine
There are many that I plant but all names don’t come to mind
Cucumbers and tomatoes, green and yellow beans
Veggies of the season, pick, dig, and clean
As I said my knowledge has a ways to grow
So I thought I’d tell you as much as I now know.

Raymond Alberts

:Seeded soul:

The tiniest one may flourish, bloom
from the trenches of the soil to clutch
the rhythmic beat of deeper music,
to become sapling, to rise, to toil
beneath the thrumming sun. When it grows below

the sheet of dirt it must root before it can reed.
But how to make the bed. Slender
to let slip the rain to soak its home of earth
where the seedling is enveloped
beneath a fertile fold of grass.

Philodendron

Queen Marble Fern
Is how I learned your name
Tough little creature that you are…
No matter how I tried
No water
No light
Moving from place to place
No attention
Certainly no tender speech
Nothing managed to kill you
Until one day
When I realized how much I loved
To have you there
Not demanding anything from me at all
I looked again only to find
You slumped over
In desperate need, much like myself,
Of great feeling and deep words
Of love

… but it was too late

2009 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Day 7

Butterfly weed (Asclepias tuberosa)

“The butterfly is a flying flower, the flower a tethered butterfly.”--- French poet, Ecouchard Le Brun

A flat rock bathes in sunlight,
solarium for basking butterflies

who flit from stone to clustered flower
bright orange among the spiralled leaves of

butterfly weed, caterpillar host,
it masks its bitter poison in fragrant nectar,

entices Lepidoptera, genus Danaus
species Danaus plexippus.

These winged gossamers congregate
to puddle in moist sand,

in oil stains,
imbibing needed mineral salts.

Ephemeral polymorph, the Monarch,
the milkweed butterfly:

Last generation of summer
enters diapause, begins its journey.

When Danaus plexippus returns,
generations have passed.

In the garden, the butterfly weed is
fragrant once more in welcome.

Carol A. Stephen
November 7, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

The spanish bayonnet
planted too
close to the gate
was the bane of my
childhood,
the barbs of each
leaft catching
sunburned arms
and legs, already
scraped by
clumsiness.

I had a
conversation once,
with someone who
didn't know what
spanish bayonnet was.
and I found
myself at a
lost how to
decribe
something that
I knew so
intimately.

Day 7 Poem about a plant
Dinner time

You plant
Water, sunlight, fertile soil
You wait
Water, sunlight, fertile soil
You weed
Water, sunlight, fertile soil
You sow
Water, sunlight, fertile soil
You reap
You wash
You chop
You cook
Lets eat!

Lily

Lily lies about everything
Lily white
Open petals
Spelling, spilling death
Standing in corners
Like hope
But only showing up
When the caskets are out

DANDELIONS

There are litte yellow suns in a sea of green
There's only one thing this could mean
Spring has come calling once again
With her warm sun and growing rain.
Some call them weeds, I call them treasures
They're one of nature's beautiful pleasures
A free gift to us after all the snow
Some are in a hurry to see them go.
They bring out the mowers and chop them down
But they make me smile instead of frown
They're bright little reminders that all is new
When the cold winter winds are through.
So go ahead if you must
Grind them into the dust
But I will enjoy them while I can
Painted by Mother Nature's own hand.

Nandina

Heavenly bamboo
Mainstay of my fall garden
A flame of color

Mums, Then Geraniums, Then Poppies

She was always good with flowers,
Painting like you could pick them,
Geraniums red as indignation,
Mums spiky petals throwing yellow,
Orange poppies,
translucent in the light,
You could almost smell
their stain on your hands,
My rewards came unexpectedly,
I received the Mums for my divorce,
Her validation my decision was sound,
The Geraniums for moving near by,
Her thankfulness,
The Poppies for marrying well a second time,
Her relief I’d be cared for.
She up and left one day but,
I see her everywhere,
She left me bouquets of herself.

Melianthus

From the other end of the world
I would travel for its fragrance
Partly for the pure joy that there is something
That smells like one of my favorite foods
And the curiosity that the scent of peanut butter
Could come from somewhere other than
A peanut or the jar in my cupboard
Since I learned of this plants existence
I have a dream, to one day
Plant a beautiful bluish-green Melianthus
Next to a Cosmos Troanguineus
Would a Peanut Butter plant
Growing with a Chocolate Cosmos
Bring the joy of a Reese Cup
Without actually eating one?

Memories

Sunlight, steaming through the window,
its warmth belying the frigid February day,
is captured by the crystal sphere of dew suspended
from the tender white orchid blossom
that reminds her of her father’s love,
whose gentle hand had cared for both.

Orchidaceae Disa

Once the grasslands of Swaziland were abundant
with your tall stalks, bright as an African sunrise -
powerful medicine against infertility,
your roots ward off the evil spirits,
keep storms at bay.
Now, the grasslands are barren, harvested
to fill the vanity and the coffers of the privileged
with your choicest blossoms.
Is it no wonder that this once fertile country
is now home to death and disease?
Perhaps, once the Earth is healed,
when you and yours are able to flourish
yet again, perhaps then the evil spirits
will return to their dark holes and the storms
of disease, degradation and disaster will
no longer beat against your gentle land.

Viper's Bugloss
(Echium vulgare)


1.
Bristly with a curved lip, a deep bell
whose red stamens project an invitation
to stop by the fields and wayside.

One of nature’s few and precious blues,
its brilliant sapphire blossoms, the herbal says,
can drive away sadness; cheer one’s temper.

At the roadside, if you try to pick it without gloves,
the rough, prickly leaves do irritate.
Flowers curved and spiked,
like a snake’s head, fangs at the ready.

2.
In the dry waste spaces it prefers, the lithe
plant, beloved by bees, spreads
until whole hillsides and medians
become the illusion of a lake reflecting sky.

3.
Let me swim in some pond like that.

Viper's Bugloss
(Echium vulgare)


1.
Bristly with a curved lip, a deep bell
whose red stamens project an invitation
to stop by the fields and wayside.

One of nature’s few and precious blues,
its brilliant sapphire blossoms, the herbal says,
can drive away sadness; cheer one’s temper.

At the roadside, if you try to pick it without gloves,
the rough, prickly leaves do irritate.
Flowers curved and spiked,
like a snake’s head, fangs at the ready.

2.
In the dry waste spaces it prefers, the lithe
plant, beloved by bees, spreads
until whole hillsides and medians
become the illusion of a lake reflecting sky.

3.
Let me swim in some pond like that.

Plant



De Palm Island

They've put in palms
beside specimens
blooming technicolor,
boasting texture.
Planted water slides,
fountains and restaurants.
Built boardwalks over
the rocky shell filled shore,
and dumped soft white sand
behind breakwater boulders.
Brilliant Parrotfish linger
amidst long dead coral
in the keeper
or some paying guest
cares to throw some crumbs.



Planted on the moon

The flag holds square and stiff,
planted and abandoned,
relic of pioneers
who may never come this way
again-whose grandkids may
lay claim and build outposts.
How long was Columbus dead
before we bought Manhattan?

"in case the keeper" Sorry

Plant an Idea Today

So flexible they can waver in most winds
So colourful they show us our every hue.
Minute alpines surviving in barren cracks,
giant redwoods each its own mountain refuge
Spiralling tubulars living on support
but ending in beauty, a flourish
that swamps the succour sought.

This valued history, more than can be spoken,
each survival having secrets, the knowing
instinct of our parent ages

And now we let them die
One by precious one

For we've lost the wisdom of our sages,
selling out for our own short, selfish run.

Forgot to turn the page. Actually had three

Gypsophilia

The baby's breath floundered
just south of sturdy pines.
Sun was sufficient,
compost liberal.
Growth continued spindly,
sprays sagged from bouquets;
breath of launguishing babies
drooping and failing to thrive,
'til I chanced upon a line
of Latin on a t-shirt.
Long forgotten tenth grade lessons
illumined my mind
to the nature of this plant.
Gypsophilia: lime lover.

Perfume Plant

roses crushed between
gears romance distilled
Into liquid form

mkm

Mesquite

Lacy branches swaying in the wind,
Twisted and gnarled limbs entwine,
As if denying passage to animal and man.
Botanical enemy of cattleman
When it out competes the grasses
And defies annihilation by fire.
Fire which only slows its spread
And kills the grasses round it
Strengthening its resolve to dominate.
Friend to Indian and pioneer alike
As it fed, sheltered and healed them
In the Southwestern deserts.
Once fodder for ground sloth and mastodon,
Now sustainer of cow
And of Coyote in late summer,
A single mesquite
May witness two centuries of history.
It symbolizes our Southwestern deserts
Like Coyote, Black-tail Jackrabbit,
Western Diamondback, Scorpions,
Saguaro and Prickly Pear Cacti.
Whether Honey, Screwbean or Velvet,
These legumes share characteristics
And are able to hybridize
When species overlap.
Its forbidding thorns grow long and sharp
Outlasting flesh they may invade
Protecting the treasure of root, bark, leaf and pod.
Bark used for baskets, pottery, fabrics and medicine.
Leaves brewed for medicine or tea.
Trunk and branches hewn for firewood, weapon or furniture.
Even the thorns themselves
Find usefulness beyond the branch
As awls and needles for tattooing.
The sap can make a tasty snack
Or can be used as glue
As well as dye the fabric
Created from the bark.
Friend or foe, the mesquite grows
With taproot deep
Waiting once again
To nurture animal and man.

Plant

A seed
that contains
everything needed
to grow into a plant
if buried in fertile soil
given water and sunshine
and time to grow deep roots
will push through the surface
reach up to the sky toward the warmth
of the light of the high sun
and reach its potential
of color and beauty
as a flower
from the soil
that is fertile
and contains
a seed.

Bleeding Heart

Bleeding heart
Mourning glory
Carragana hedge
Dahlias
Sweet William
Bachelor buttons
In the shade
On the fence
Way down by the barn
Backyard rows
Meant to cut
Planted by the step
Mother’s plants
Memories
Teardrops line the way
There, there now
Mama’s home
Laugh, enjoy to love.

Day 7

The Bitch

There is a vine whose Genus and species names remain
a mystery to me. She is clever, conniving and completely
evil. During the days of early spring, she awakens
from a winter of planning her next moves.
Her Self shoots out hundreds of thousands of little
snakelike arms which travel underground at
amazing speeds and unbelievable stealth.
They search for anything and everything to embrace.
Once they sense their victims, they break through the
surface of the earth to quickly wind themselves around them.
They slowly drain the life of each fresh kill, while sister
arms continue on, searching for their own unknowing
victims. She quickly takes over acres upon acres; moving,
embracing, killing. I hate her.

Plant Life

Bent from standing in the same place
Day after boring day she lets her mind
Take her far away forward in time then
Back to the way it used to be and lets
Memory unspool the way the bobbins
Do as the thread changes colour so do
Her dreams, her fingers used to bleed
But no more, now each one is tough
Hardened on the end to a callused mess
That she knows is numb to every touch

She thinks back to when the plant was
One where they all sat at long tables and
Fashioned cigars – yes cigars – and that was
The best time ever she can remember the
Smell of the tobacco is still rich in her nostrils
Even though more than three decades have
Passed since those golden years, thirty years
Of silver discs and standing stock still planted
In the same place letting her life pass her by

DANDELION FLIGHT

Mandy Dandelion was born in spring,
the first of her kind that year
She waited and she hoped
that more would soon appear

And so they did in bunches!
Just to name a few...
Randy, Candy, Sandy, Brandy,
so many friends, who knew?

The Dandelions multiplied
They grew strong in the sun
Atop each stem a bud soon grew
They blossomed one by one!

Wise old Rose watched with delight
to see them all surprised
at their new golden manes
of fine petals comprised

Mandy loved her bright new look
and flirted with the bees
who tickled her with buzzing wings
She cried, "Ooh, stop that, please!"

But Brandy wished to be like
lovely Iris, tall and lean
With graceful leaves and ruffled hat
such beauty to be seen!

And Randy envied Sweet William
who boasted red and white
flowers with a heavenly scent
He was a delight!

Rose heard the Dandelions
argue and debate
their desire to change themselves
She said to them, "Now, wait!

"While other flowers seem better
there's no need to cry
You have a very special gift
for you know how to fly!

The Iris and Sweet William
will wither where they stand
But you will take off to the skies,
who knows where you will land?"

The Dandelions took her word
and looked forward to the days
when each would somehow soar
to head their separate ways

As summer waned their golden manes
began to turn to white
until they became like tiny clouds
and the breeze lifted them in flight

Mandy Dandelion yelled goodbye
to all her friends below
then flew off like a tiny bird
Where did she go? No one can know!

(For children... just having fun :) )

Pulling Roots

They shut it down with nothing more than shrugs,
Lame excuses having nothing much to do with China or Japan,
After weeks and months of promises
From men in fine silk ties and crisp white shirts
Buttoned-down in excess in contrast to our denim,
Silk socks, silk handkerchiefs, silk promises
From weeks and months ago,
They shut it down,
Despite those promises and shrugged

Away, away, away,
The roots of families living grandfather to son to
Me in dusty boots and faded jeans with patches at the knees
My wife and children there beside me
When the men in silk unsaid what they had said
Just weeks, just months ago,
That they were part of our extended family,
That they would not forsake us,
That we were the backbone of their company,
Of their family of companies,

Silk shirts, buttoned down,
The people who brought people in
To stifle union efforts
Bloody granddad saying this is what is needed
This is what must come

Silk shirts and handkerchiefs
We are a family, we are America,
Dad coming home with stink of sweat,
Stink of unmade paper, stink of America
Upon his brow and denim jeans
And winking to me saying
This is what America is all about

Silk shirts, silk socks, leather shoes from Italy
Glasses rimless made in far off New York City
standing at a podium and telling me, my family
We are leaving.

We are pulling roots.