Outback, A Garden Bed

Note: It’s been months since I posted and years since I did regularly. I used to post about mental illness and existential dread, often nihilistically and without hope. Well… maybe there is. Comment and like below!

Outback, a garden bed.
Carrots, peas, radishes, cilantro
Inside, my head.
Minute thoughts, goals, impressions.

 

Amidst the flora, brambles
Vines, Dandelions.

 

They shade out
Drink dry
Pull down

 

One browns and falls
On a first shoot
Pressing down
Until both die.

 

A vine grows up
Around and pulling
The trunk and branches
As the tree grows weak

 

I spend hours pulling.
The tops break off.
The roots stay in,
And they return 

But there’s one less
One day, all is clear.

He said vines would grow
And we are to tend the garden.

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Plants Break Concrete

Note: Thought of it while listening to a sermon on ‘I am the true vine.’ Nature’s strength is subtle, but intimidating. The same with Christ’s. Like and comment below!

Plants break concrete.

By my house, workers

Built a path around

A maple tree.

 

Two hundred pound slabs

Like a weight dropped

On a lifter’s neck to stop

and choke off its roots.

 

Now thirty degrees

and a peace-sign-split

later, the shallow roots

Broke through concrete.

Different Matters

Note: No note. Like and comment below.

Oil and water never mix
Dissolve salt in and still
Never will they mix.

Place them in a bottle
Shake until your arm
is a warped tire.

Place it in a pot
With a fire underneath
And never will they mix.

Wait hundred years
For fluoride additions.
Switch water for juice.

Water washes and sustains.
Oil seasons and prepares.
Misplaced and both are a mess.

Which are we?

Mixed Metaphors

Note: my pastor couldn’t keep to one analogy, so I got distracted and wrote this.

The smooth oily butter

Of well formed words

Sugary sweet rhymes

And a pinch of angst, acrid,

Salty, but helps to taste

Light assonance like flour,

And chocolate chip consonance

Clanking in the mix.

Baked in the mind of a half

Baked poet.

Let your mind chew.

Still River Flow

Note: even rivers make me think of mortality…. probably a complex or two there. Like and comment below!

When I drive to work

I pass a placid river

The reflection inverts

My world’s perception

for a moment the water

Is more saturated

Than the fall colored trees

And my multicolored eyes

Each day the picture there

Is the same, but each day

The river water’s changed

in me; it fills a new bank.

Each day, one more grey hair

Each day, another check box

Each day, new water molecules

Each day, each day…. each day

Until that river

Flows unchanged

And the driver

Has cycled through.

Rupert Beekman

Note: I write with an artists group every other week. This is a rewrite of a Tolkien short story, which is far superior to mine, that I wrote during one of our exercises.

He worked for eight hours and drew one single line that that day. Four hours were spent reading Tennyson, three pacing, 30 minutes cooking, and 30 minutes taking a walk around the block.

The next day, he left his books outside his studio, grabbed his supplies, and began the first twig off of one branch of many branches on the tree that was to be his painting. He finished the twig and its leaf. Though only after starting and stopping more times than he has hair on his head, which aren’t many.

The canvas covered a wall. One night he stared at his little twig and cried. His open casket wake was six days later. His house didn’t sell for years. The fibers in the canvas grew weak and the boards in front began to warp.

It did sell and a family moved in to restore the antique shelter. Their toddler ran about the house and his inconsiderate hand pulled the leaf off if its twig. The boy showed it to his father, a renowned art collector with a habit of selling pieces of little worth backed up by his reputation. He didn’t think much of it, but managed to earn a small vacation fund at an auction for it.

The leaf is now in a walnut frame in a small town art museum mostly dedicated to landscapes and trouts. A local nurse had to console a patient’s family today. She went to the museum after work, herself an artist. Nothing spoke to her throughout her walk until the end of the gallery where hung one little leaf. She blew her nose one last time and read the name.

Reflections on a Dead Rosebush

Note: True story. Like and comment below!

We were with child, we writhed in labor,
    but we gave birth to wind. -Isaiah 26:18

Rose poems are cliche,

but I have a dead one.

I inherited the bush

from a careless caregiver.

 

I sat in a pink chair

best suited for grandma’s

at high tea or a man

googling ‘rose bush thorns.’

 

The internet told me

The bush is diseased.

There’s not a cure, only

resignation as it dies.

 

My hands want to pull

The illness from its veins.

My hands want to cut

The choking chafe.

 

But I am not one

to decide its fate.

I can only shovel.

I shovel myself.