songs of the sumday

potluck hues                                               

tragedy of a bargain
civic plaza morning market
planted in a pot/ centered
watered in that pot/ nurtured
strategic strung to guide the growth
elegantly curved
unlike the wild ones random lurching
framing edges of raw forest
reminding at a glance of flirtatious waxing sophist
in passing unexpected overheard
“I’d rather be a flower than a florist”
prefer to be a poem than a poet
blaring note than a brassy horn
stench of a scent than formulated fragrance
fresh dew than bending grass blades genuflecting to the morn
proud to be a weed instead of orchid
rebellious punk disruptor host resented
invading unabashedly a crevice of my choosing
poisoned/ plucked/ sheared swift removed but unrepented
not the lion but the roar that shakes the soul’s savannah
not the water but the wet which floods hope valley basin
not the eagle but the flight amid the clouds of crazy
not the medal but the triumph at olympics of high treason
sweetness not the sugar
brilliance not the star
warmth not the fire
sadness not the war
ethereal yearnings foolish as prayer
objectful of the tangible/ futile as prostration
envious of the experience of immediate sensation
frustrated by the filters unsuspendable
the process underangeable
do not order me to flower for the light as restitution
tax collectors buzzing rabid nectar contribution
closed petals as pursed lips at ends of roots
muscling ever deeper in the dirt
not disoriented nor ignorant to bio-law pursuits
bittered by the logic/ disturbed by the design
spitefully inspired ever darker down the mine
while bees above revile the absent fruit atop the vine
/
plastic clay ceramic stone
not every flower pot the same
common theme restricted zone
design depends on crapshoot claim
unspoken truth by Gardener known
even the stone cannot contain
determined roots rebellious sown
from seeds detestful of restrain
beyond the random chance of case
elemental matters reign
necessities depend on grace
by light or lamp by hose or rain
before the roots can well rebel
before the bloom can pot arraign
the planted seedlings helpless dwell
awaiting Fortune’s fate campaign
many seeds underfed with stems stunted
many weeds pulled in acts labeled “progress”
misdeed imprints from pale thumbs unwanted
late-to-blooms last in line for the largesse
but to dream for transplant is proof of the fool
to wilt to the pot circumstance a life fail
to bloom and bloom better the singular rule
to fait accompli an emotional bail
there was beauty before there were florists
unprotected by pots from the whim of the land
still some rares grow unspoilt in uncataloged forests
far from wrath of the spade and cruel reach of the hand
redwood of a spirit in daffodil caste
such is the lot of the lucky who thrives
soon as the bloom the season forecast
turns/ and the moment to reseed arrives
the risk to be trodden or otherwise snuffed
by a paw or a shoe or a bicycle tire
adds a sprinkle of thrill to the urbanite life
that can pass at the pace of an off the bay zephyr
but better a month in a park by the lake
than a year by a lamp in a pot
more righteous by breeze shall my soulseeds freebreak
than by bouquet my destiny bought