Poetry Project #2
Weeds: Real and Metaphorical: poems celebrating the discarded and disregarded, the ugly and unloved
three low-lying hills
mark the boundary of a realm;
a dark cold lake of unknowable depth and beaten-metal surface
is ahead of me;
on an island in this lake,
an ancient tower suggests a history of wizards.
There are no dragons in the sky. Yet
Tim Roberts [part 1 of 'Daydreams and Detour Signs'. for part 2 see Tim's 'Notes' on Facebook]
A weed is a weed
when it's in the wrong place.
At home? It's nature.
Margaret Morgan
old tree--
what have you done to deserve
flowers like these?
Myron Lysenko
lost from the last relocation
boxes of flotsam
my first divorce papers;
goodbye letter from the musician
(his others, long ago, burned)
both my plait and my mother's
hers not so blonde, but longer
forgotten, moving, love relics
Kate Dellar-Evans [from Belated Unpacking]
a marriage break-up
she flirts
he flirts
they're tied up
in sexual knots
not learned
in scouts
or guides
wife watches them
and weeps
silent tears
at what was
destined to be
Carolyn Cordon
my old guitar
in the wardrobe
humming tunes
to itself
Steve Evans
my Dhaka friend
picks uncultivated plants
no farming
herbs greens fruit
unmarketable
outside
the number economy
loved eaten
a chaos of plants
each one
adding to the fractal
quantum of food
pluck them
talk to them
nourish them
leave them be
Susan Hawthorne
Who is to say whether weed or willows
Who is to claim wasted tears or pillows
Who is the one whose work it became
To decide what is worthless
Who is to blame?
Jackie Hosking
The weeds grow here
The weeds grow there
Those dratted plants
grow everywhere.
I pull them up
I rip them out.
I turn around
and more will sprout
I mow them once
I mow them twice.
And back they come.
Not once ---- but thrice!!!
Trevor Hampel
Spare a thought for the hand-written letter
rare as those hen's teeth
shy as a red setter.
A relic of those olden times thought better
by those beneath
the hand-knitted sweater
Belinda Webster
I'd look at the runny blue letters
curved and flowing like waves
and I wouldn't be in the classroom
anymore ---
I'd be down at the beach.
One day it came
to an end.
Inkwells went out.
Biros came in.
John Malone [from 'Inkwells']
In the 50s
in the playground
in the gravel
we found little green weeds
and underneath their clover-like leaves
were little fruit
and even tinier seeds.
We called them "Plummies"
and ate them with gusto
(or relish if we preferred)
Judy Dally
Edited by John Malone, with Deborah Green assisting.
We hope many people read this and add comments so the poets can receive some well deserved feedback.
No copyright infringement is intended with the use of these images; the photograph of the lake is by Slug; the painting of the old guitar is by Geoff Benzing.
The poems are each copyright by the writer.
