Eleven Eleven Ninety Nine,
the day this comfortable house became mine.
It matches, first glance, all others round the block
Same roof, same shutters, same initial plant stock.
I should be ashamed, as a child of sixties fame.
They ARE made of ticky tacky; they all DO look the same.
Tho’ they’ve changed o’er these years as we’ve lived, loved, and lost.
I’ve added, for instance, more flowers than most.
More daisies, more lilies, more iris, more roses.
Bright poppies seeded for great June poses.
Even my tree, my poor suffering ash
grows against all odds ’round its cruel looking gash
where we cut out the blight caused by dastardly bugs.
The pesticide worked, ‘long with frequent tree hugs.
Yes, the yard, front and back, is chaotic, small splendor,
Like the kind you would get putting all in a blender.
Not the neat, fine order of my neighbors’ straight bricks,
rather, here a plot, there a pot, grape ivy ’round sticks.
A prickly, old rose from the ancient prairie (I did not plant it)
crowds the bargain lilac near the Hansa quite hairy (I do like it).
I planted six strawberries, back in two thousand two,
which now reach the hundreds growing just where they want to.
Inside my small castle, things are not much finer
by the standards of any highly paid designer.
I know hardwood floors are the dream of most.
I chose commercial carpet; the color of toast.
It’s dark like a floor, and comfy, and soft,
and though a bit tailored, would look great in a loft.
My walls? well they’re sad, with colors galore.
I paint was high as I can reach, then I am loath to do more.
It makes me tired, my arm hurt, that’s all I will say
It’ll all get done some fine day.
My furniture suits me…my long, green leather couch,
my Eastlake setee, where my Grands like to slouch.
The turntable ready to give the Allmans a spin.
The trolls, and the books, and the crucifix – thin.
From the cross hangs a dearskin medicine bag,
hand beaded for me, a gift from a dear hag.
(Forgive me, dear Margaret Forster, wherever you are,
it’s just that hag rhymed. YOU are truly a star).
I shall continue this analysis at a later date.
There’s work to do that simply cannot wait.
Time to head to the front “office,” with its red IKEA chair
and the bed with the red quilt. Emil Catt is always there.
What privileged robins live in my back yard…
racing through the sprinkler, barely giving me any notice…
but WHO, may I ask, tipped over the big blue pot under the umbrella?
Emil Catt, was it you?
bleeding down my back rock wall.
Snow is on its way
I am kept ever humble…
whilst tearing out errant vinca vines from out the front garden, I reached down to pull up my sagging socks, only to realize ’twas the skin round my ankles drooping there
I see you bindweed
riding Virginia Creeper
across the back wall.
Do not even think
I will allow you to stay,
after all the hail.
Hail be damned! Lilies,
thumb their bright noses
I cannot see it, but
somewhere nearby stands a cottonwood
with rustling, sparkling leaves,
deep, spreading roots,
long, rough barked branches
and cotton snow
drifting through the air,
sticking to bricks on the front porch,
attaching to the back umbrella,
floating atop the sprinkler water filling the morning gutters,
catching in my hair,
packing into the corners of those screens not shredded by the recent hail,
and clogging drains,
clogging the breath of all those allergic
to the simple things of Spring.
THE POPPIES ARE BLOOMING!
BLUE VINCA, SPECIES GERANIUM, CLEMATIS
THE LAST OF THE RED TULIPS
BURGUNDY PANSIES WITH BRIGHT FACES
HANSA AND HEIRLOOM ROSES ON THE HILL
THE OCCASIONAL, BLASTED DANDELION
LORD! YOU HAVE OUTDONE YOURSELF THIS SPRING!
ps I tried this in lower case, but only caps catch the excitement!
My sweet Lord! that hill
awash with heavenly blue
soothes a heavy heart
choke cherry blooming
delicately sweet soft blooms
jam in the making