I really did ravage on about pressure
and air while they really wanted to
close this huge box, this purchasing
category of men, taking building to
extremes with hammers and stills
waiting to be mastered.
The grass grows but for the new brand
of red, green, satiated on Italian herbs.
Yet it is tasteless, this yearning for
perfect green, as paint, it asks for
feeding and other nonsense of aerobics
and blood pressure.
Heat really dares you to walk out of
there into the sunlight, baking, walking
in wilted fashion, as though cook, yet
liking the box, the normal life of
blooming flowers, though they are
likely to be extinct for a time, without
the stare of the entrepreneur, the better
blame, the superior, it runs red, its
petals of other worldly breeding of
stars our earth could be, with at least
It’s crystal water from the planet -
and at one time it could have made it
as an English garden.
Or a haven for the super cactus, passing
by guardians of Mars, those rovers
that hover over the likes of planting
fools, perennial in their attraction for
the universe, the unnoticed box, but
bright and happy and green and -
it’s right to welcome green and lots of
color, they bloom to disgrace or displace
others with an inpatient look,
yards with tools that don’t bloom
but for pressure washing the garden.
© 2014 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.