Her Father’s Rose

(author's note - this explains my hatred for gardening.)



By June the grass is long

The lawn is also spotted with those weedy flowers
Which I call mo-be-gones, ‘cause once I mow they’ll be gone

I let the grass grow, I love to let it grow
Until the grass stalks and the seed tassels waive high
As American amber waves in the wind,
It’s then that mowing grass saves me
From buying grass seed from stores,
From the sin of reseeding the lawn,
Why scatter God the Farmers good seed
When this simple honest lawn reseeds it’s self?
Or, you’re right, perhaps that’s just my excuse for being,
  I’m lazy

Her Father used to mow our lawn twice monthly
Whether it needed it or not
But grudgingly, as if with nature
He’d set an unnatural score,
And I didn’t envy him those
Scratches on his arms and neck
I never understood just how can
A man cutting grass so hash up his arms?

"Are my Fathers roses in bloom," she asks me,
"My Father clipped clip a rose from that bush for my Mother everyday, whether sick, or well, or,…"

"You mean in the old garden patch?"
"I guess, but clipped flowers don’t bloom as long,"
"They’ll be happier to stay in sun and on the vine."

"My Father used to say that, but then he said he found religion."
"You could clip me a, later, if you think of it."

"I could, but then their petals will drop."
I did not know it, but later I’ll tell her
"After that, I’ll gladly take my revenge."

So I mow the yard
His rose bush is waiting,
Spooning an arch over the grass walkway,
Conceitedly just waving fro, not to, just fro.
As I pass the mower under her trip wire arms
She turns her thorned arms on me
Winding tendrils round my arms
And scandant for my shirt and neck,
With feral spurs she pulls me in, scoring
By a final vicious touch - she spikes my forearm

"Ah! Fuck you rose!"
"Cut that out or I’ll mow the lot of you, Don’t think I won’t…"
"Fuckin’ attack bush!"

I press on mowing more laps around the summer lawn,
While the sun and the poppy aromas of mown grass
And 2 stroke engine smoke conspire to exhaust me
Soon my wounded pride and painful battle scars subside,
Yet there is a cool wet running down my arm,

Blood, red blood
Blood, red blood, red as her feral rose petals,
Blood, red blood, and painless as finding an engorging tick, deceiving,
Blood, red blood, as if I ought to curb the mower,
  and wash this up before it stains my gloves and clothes,
Blood, red blood, and blood ready
  for that unholy conversion of my once Christian and sympathetic heart

She asks me "What Happened?"
"That bush attacked me. Look at the blood!"

"Ooo!, that looks like it hurts. You could trim it if you wanted to."
And now is that later when I tell her
"After this, I’ll gladly take my revenge."

With a blunt rusted shear I clipped
An innocent sprig standing in the sun,
And then another for its lover,
As an example to stand and atone with the first
Before my judgement of cold blood,
Then I tried this gory bouquet by
Standing them in a short glass mug with tap water

The Romans called it decimation
They made no last requests

"Here baby. Bloom of the Rose that bit me."
"Oh, they’re beautiful!"

Echoes of That Ol’ Damn Fool Owen

I Knew A Man with Dish Pan Hands

This is certainly nonsense, But as I spent an afternoon hashing it out it just HAD to be typed up, and now YOU HAVE TO READ IT!
And if, after reading this. it still seems like nonsense, well, that’s your problem.

I Knew A Man with Dish Pan Hands 
     (for Keith Knapp)

I knew a man with dish pan hands
  Who travelled here from Turkistan.
You say a man from Turkistan
  Can here with dish pan hands?
That’s what I understand.

Why did this man from Turkistan
  Come here with dish pan hands?
To work upon the land.
This man with dish pan hands came here
  To work upon the land?
That’s what I understand.

What means had he, this man came here,
  With dish pan hands from Turkistan?
A legacy of a demand.
A legacy from a demand?
That’s what I understand.

What plans had he, this man who came
  From Turkistan, with dish pan hands,
  The heir to an estate demand,
  Who came to work the land?
He had great plans this curious man
  Who came to work the land,
  From Turkistan, with dish pan hands
  Or so I understand.

Explain what came of his great plans
  This man who came from Turkistan
  And on and on and and and and….
  That I may understand.
He tried and failed to work the land,
  This man who came from Turkistan,
  The heir to an estate demand
  And on and on and and and and…
  And so, you understand?

How failed he, to work the land,
  This man who came from Turkistan,
  This heir to an estate demand,
  And on and on and and and and…
He failed to work the land, this man
  From Turkistan, despite his plan,
  And on and on and and and and…
  For when he took the plow in hand,
  He found the plow he could not man.
  He could not man the plow this man,
  That’s what I understand.

Why not?
'Cause as I’ve said, and on and and…
  This man had dish pan hands.

Shadow Tricks

Special, a new post for anyone who's just received their JKB Newsletter,
And a gracious shout out to all you Skidmore Theater geeks, whomever you is;


Shadow Tricks

My Shadow tricks in puckish fun
When we play out in the brightest sun
At work, at play, even Sunset
His mocking me is not done yet

My Shadow is phobic with doors
For crossing them he just abhors
When I go in, him I won’t see
He pouts outdoors, and vexes me

At night, from on the welcome mat
I’ll call to him, like he’s a cat
By star or moon he’ll glow and fade
About the yard, wisps of night shade

But most nights he is never seen
And I do not know where he’s been
Yet when by bed I turn my lamp
Then there he is, that gibeling scamp!

My shadow’s first crawled into bed
Before me, now, still as the dead
My Shadow Imp! Where have you been?
Damn Shadow Imp! Who let you in?

Mother’s Day, (or A Poem only a Man Could Write)

Spent the afternoon reading Shel Silverstein.
I know it needs a re-write, but today is the day... !


Mother’s Day, (or A Poem only a Man Could Write)

Some think that Mother’s day is for
Their sweet ol’ Mum to take a rest
But actually it is really meant
To put you children to the test

Can you make breakfast early?
Can you wash all these clothes?
Can you wrap Mama’s present
In bright paper and bows?

Can you reserve a table
For a family of six
And then when it’s time
For the bill, pay the checks?

Mom’s don’t rest on their day
They just think of the toil,
And all of the things that
You’ll probably spoil

It's not if you’re able
To succeed or to fail
It’s more sort of Mom’s way
Of on the job training

You see, Mothers’ don’t rest
When it’s their special day
They’re attentively watching
As you take the Mom test

For all Mothers’ know
That time will have it’s way
And that they will all be
A Grandmother someday

And when you test your kids,
Then you’ll love Mother best.

Trumpets of the Spring

Another poem which needs to be posted while it's still in season.
Anyone with a suggestion on how to improve the last line is welcome - comment either here or on Facebook.

Trumpets of the Spring

Sing, You Trumpets of the Spring,
You welcome seasons warm,
Where bird and bug and beast return,
Paroled from Winter’s arms

Blow, You Trumpets of the Spring,
To North from blustery South,
With clean air fair, you toss my hair,
Refresh my stagnant heart

Dance, You Trumpets of the Spring,
In winds that dry night’s dew
Your blooms held high, by green leaves fly,
In place as Worlds turn new

Tempt, You Trumpets of the Spring,
With scents and pollens pure,
As humble bees attend to thee,
Your virtue is assured

Fade Now, Trumpets of the Spring,
With tears of April showers,
Your lovers have Tulips to kiss,
Don’t overstay your hour

Withdraw, You Trumpets of the Spring.
Stay shy of Summers flare,
From Fall which leaves us Winter’s chill
And turns the green Earth bare

Who is not dead, who does not live,
Within her Goddess’ womb?
Next Spring, she’ll birth you once again,
Dear Natures’ herald Flower.

The Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

What does the internet need, more cat poems?
I'm glad to supply.


The Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

She had a blanket, old and worn,
From which a terror would be born.
It’s pile, delicately shorn,
Was colored in the stripes, and scorn,
Of the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

It had once hung upon the wall,
Eight foot by four did those claws sprawl,
She took it down late it the fall,
And laid it in a closet stall,
To hold the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

Our cat adopted liked to sleep,
Upon an armchair that we keep,
Where sheddings piled like kits asleep,
And far to deep for hand to sweep,
Need we the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan?

"I’ve got that blanket," she did say,
And so we pulled him out one day,
His face and claws foretold foul play,
More fearsome far, than I can say,
Was the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan 

We laid it over that armchair
At first our cat seemed not to care
Of why we might have put it there
But he liked it when he did repair
To the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

One night, while climbing onto there,
He pulled it straightly taut and square,
It formed a tent over the chair,
Which gave him space to climb in there,
The lair of Olde Shere Khan

As our cat slept, as all cats do,
He would somnambulently mew,
These fearsome feline rumblings grew,
And it appeared to breathe anew,
Resurrected, Pelt of Olde Shere Khan

Our kitty, in his awesome chest,
Did not just sleep but soul invest,
Now here is Shere Khan manifest
With growlings in his angry breast
That despot, Olde Shere Khan

Will he hunt me, like Mowgli,
So he may be a King, singly?
Those eyes have voice now, and I fear,
It’s best we move away from here
Far from here,
And the Pelt of Olde Shere Khan