Backyard Eden

Category: 2-dimensional, Writings | Tags:

A collections of prose-poems.  Please use the Contact link if you would like to support me by purchasing a copy of the chapbook.  © 2008  Use with the author’s permission only.

 

Dig in the dirt find at the root of evil the roots of ancestry. Pull the weeds for invasive species. Break out of the tomato cage when I come of age. Resist lazy urge to douse myself in pesticide, instead aerate fertilize till I’m pushing up daisies.

Even saplings fruit if trunks are woody. Cherry picker ‘nother plucker shakes her peach tree, string bean skinny itsy bitsy teeny weenie you’ll forget-me-not zucchini.  Still green, quick swipe snatch unripe antiboon plucked too soon.

A symbol of love yet would prick and draw blood same color as soft extremities. Velvet to a single touch but if grasped will slice fingers. If picked cherished and enthralling for a time then petals drop off blackened until only thorny brown stalk remains in vase of stale rotted water. Unless preserved pressed between pages kept from sight dies dried crisped flattened retaining none of sweet hypnotic scent. Better yet, best to leave to grow on own, go to fruit and get rosehip. Hip hooray. New day bouquet by any other name.

Trellis a story of a morning glorious before you nipped the bud, causing such wisteria.  Lattice remember how you twined around me twin, climbed to heights no vine of passion flower before had hung, died in the sun, left me a hanging basket case of bleeding hearts.

Ants in my pants. Stick out green thumb become seed on the breeze. Buzz with the bees pollinating the trees. See woman on knees pruning dried leaves pray to mantis that vine will fruit soon, but June sun is unforgiving. Sorry lady, don’t bug me. Upward gust blows on, dandelion. Betterfly.

Watch flower bloom and prick my hand on stamen. Plow in the raised beds, a hose down thorough in the morning or evening best. Tubers are fine, but how bout a threeber? Keep birds and bees in check, spill seeds with caution and don’t forget the pillbugs. Get your rocks off my asters, you dig?

Mom’s pie in the sky apple of my eye, don’t fall far from my tree. Family recipes dangling from a precipice, what of this one good apple in a bad bunch? Upset the whole cart, sour apple tart, one a day make you crazy.  Maybe I’m an orange after all.

Can’t elope with you, honey dew you know how cucumber some it is to stay cool as a, general rule if you can’t keep your head above the watermelon, spit the seeds of melancholy you must be out of your gourd.

Daffodilly dally day lily and finally, a bulb goes off. Peel away the layers of the onion, and what shallot be? A loaded pistil, don’t shoot the messenger. My tulips aren’t sealed, so no need to tiptoe through. Happy gladiola-hands with hidden agendas – the rap scallions – leek information. This Narcissus knows no bounds.

Shh. Don’t stalk so mulch. Potatoes only have eyes for you. Whisper sweet corn to my ears and you can’t be beet, sweet pea. Shucks. Plant one on me.

Spring into action. Corn new copious amounts of vegetables pillaging. Artichoke the yokels in the bumpkin patch. Grass is always greener until the soil is completely depleted. A plague of low cuss threatens her labor of love. Rake-up before it’s too late. 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. needs a Green House.

Thyme is ripe, rip the solar panels from the roof. O, Reagan, no! You’ve brought a dirty bush to mow down the human beans, says don’t give me no chive – I need the neem oil. My shrub’s axis of weevils might get irrigated, might balm back. Though the desert is parsley populated, we can still fennel the mint. Do you cut the mustard greens? We’ll make you a marjoram before it’s all terragon. Desert sage wandering jew says give peas a chance.

Petal the wares not worth a hill of beans. Get your grubby hands on something, anything, you penny pincher bugs. As long as we’re raking it in, squash the little guy, sow what?  Weed ‘um and reap.

Rain fell with your name on it. Wilted blossom overwatered, roots rotted, forgetting-me-not hardly un-comfrey. Perhaps you’d have dug me if you’d picked me first. Or would I have been another handful of petals tossed on loves-me-not? So much depends upon the red watering can’t.  Fallen down your well, better I had drowned than found it dry.

Ponderosa branching out, spruce myself up and pine. Sweet ironwood ash for a date. Hemlock eyes and filbert me up a fever tree. Maple the maidenhair of this harlequin glorybower and kumquat like no other. Leaves change and fall for yew. So poplar, resting on laurels and lilac a dogwood, breaking my chestnut. What fir? Because I’m elderberry? Try sycamore. You no longer have my persimmon. Don’t sassafrass, my bark ain’t worse. I’m plum out. But oak hay, I guess olive. And leaf.