My plants are dying.
Some wither by the wayside. Others, destined
in their own chlorophyll psychedelic mindfuck
reach out to the Heavens and are Hell bent
on finding the sustenance of the sun. I wonder if its the soil.
Mixed parts with fertilizer and the such
but we all know the grass is greener on the other side.
Probably sunnier there too.
Warm.
The kind of weather where women flaunt their parasols
and gloved white hands, pearls dancing off the
sunglasses of the husbands that mow just near the picket fence.
Maybe its too much water.
leaves are perkier with just enough bounce,
sturdy to the prickly fuzzy knees of bees.
At least the lady bugs enjoy them.
They seem to surround themselves near waxy goodness
polka dots and dance trots to and fro
the emptiness of withered hope.
Couldn't be the roots.
Oh, God...not the roots.
Mind as well rip up the entire earth that surrounds them,
throw them in the air and let the silken strands
fall where they may.
invisible screaming voices
falling into the blueness of air
the sweetness of jaundiced tabletops triumphantly teeming with pollen.
But of course, they still reach for the sky.
The brilliance of the sky.
They lean where they're familiar.
I hear my MomMom's voice telling me, You can bring em' back.
Handle with care. Talk to them. Give them more sun.
Coax them back from their conventional grave
and let them breathe.
I have a silent memoriam for them.
Recall some Psalm I half remember
talk to a God that I hope is there
add a little hymn for good measure
and cut off the dead leaves.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Let them be the reincarnation
to the brilliance of the sky.
-b.r.rivera
#30in30
6 of 30, April 2012
Some wither by the wayside. Others, destined
in their own chlorophyll psychedelic mindfuck
reach out to the Heavens and are Hell bent
on finding the sustenance of the sun. I wonder if its the soil.
Mixed parts with fertilizer and the such
but we all know the grass is greener on the other side.
Probably sunnier there too.
Warm.
The kind of weather where women flaunt their parasols
and gloved white hands, pearls dancing off the
sunglasses of the husbands that mow just near the picket fence.Maybe its too much water.
leaves are perkier with just enough bounce,
sturdy to the prickly fuzzy knees of bees.
At least the lady bugs enjoy them.
They seem to surround themselves near waxy goodness
polka dots and dance trots to and fro
the emptiness of withered hope.
Couldn't be the roots.
Oh, God...not the roots.
Mind as well rip up the entire earth that surrounds them,
throw them in the air and let the silken strands
fall where they may.
invisible screaming voices
falling into the blueness of air
the sweetness of jaundiced tabletops triumphantly teeming with pollen.
But of course, they still reach for the sky.
The brilliance of the sky.
They lean where they're familiar.
I hear my MomMom's voice telling me, You can bring em' back.
Handle with care. Talk to them. Give them more sun.
Coax them back from their conventional grave
and let them breathe.
I have a silent memoriam for them.
Recall some Psalm I half remember
talk to a God that I hope is there
add a little hymn for good measure
and cut off the dead leaves.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Let them be the reincarnation
to the brilliance of the sky.
-b.r.rivera
#30in30
6 of 30, April 2012
You're the only person who can make the "F-Bomb" sound so sweet in poetry!
ReplyDeleteHahaha! Love it! :D Best comment ever.
DeleteThis poem is an allegory; its representation may not be visible at first, but that's the entire point. It can lean to the subject of something else. In this case, it's about the human soul. How we can be "dead" so to speak on the inside. Too much watering is depression. Bad roots equate to upbringing. Regardless of how we all hit rock bottom and wither at some point in time, we can be refreshed and renewed. Our human instinct, just like plants, are to find the optimism and reach towards the brilliance of the sky. Hence, phototropism. It's the plant's natural ability to lean towards the sun, always searching for a way to stay alive, to feed off life.
This one was very personal for me. It needed to be written.