This Garden

This is one of my only poems that rhyme and is written in some sort of form.


This garden is rooted in love,
The planter, with laughter
Sows a seed undreamed of

The planter, in all his deeds
was, is, will always be
Knowingly sowing his seeds

This seed- the youngest of all
is sought with devoted attention
He doesn't care it's small

He tends, he waters the leaves
He guards it from the thieves

Hands delved deep in the soil
Dirt caught deep down his fingernails.
The sun's hot heat is his only toil

No longer works in progress
The tomatoes ripe, he seeps
his teeth into thick freshness

People come from all around
To see, to taste, to smell
fruits of the harvest abound

saturday ride

i wrote this in poetry class, last semester. it's not yet to my satisfaction.

I mount my green Raleigh
Whose life purpose not often
fulfilled, in rides
far too short
except this
instant of relocation

Mr. Green and I speed along
the lanes of swing sets, soccer balls
the acute smells of cut grass and wet dogs
I follow only intuit, detour signs-
the orange flashing more attention
than the green 5 mile bike post
to point a destination

I run into a hill - long and steep
I've tried it before, it's no use-
not then when I forgone bike rides-
fearing a tremulous fall
Not now, with college-girl sized hips
Can I work through it.
I leap off and I trudge Mr Green,
heavy in my arms, up the hill
Three cars speed by at once-
Dirty. Cool. Laughing like the gym
elite when they overlapped my mile.
Those sneering cars wonder why that
lazy wimpass is too small and weak
to keep up,
with their tough, flashy rims.

At last at the top, I jump back on
to reach my final stop.
Passing two flat-iron squirrels
I turn into the parking lot,
take off my helmet, lock Mr. Green
and pull the coffee shop door -
it's shut- who closes at 3?

I ride back past the kids
sing-songing joking taunts
to a slow, stuttering girl.
I find another retreat
in my escape to
the plastic trees.