The Lawn ...
Aug 4 2014


is mostly weeds.
Broad-leafed scrub.
Clover, in flower, close to the ground.
Which I hope goes to seed, replenishing itself,
green, compact

succulent.

Bare patches
are scorched earth
colonized by dandelions.
They have erupted unchecked
leggy, and menacing,
all serrated leaves, priapic stems,

metastatic tufts
for puffball heads.
And indestructible,
strutting like a conquering army
mocking
my sovereignty here.

Now the anthills have started,
smooth sandy mounds
busy
with hard black bodies,

workers, and soldiers

brothers-in-arms.

The future of earth, after we're gone,
man's brief tenure
in charge.

The lawn mower
rattles and roars,
turret, rusted
puffs of dense blue smoke.
A rough leveller
conferring the illusion of order;
at least, for a day or so.

Because even in drought, weeds grow.
It will take a hard frost
and long winter
to keep them in check.

Minefields, dormant

beneath the snow.


I took a quick glance out the door -- letting-in the dog -- and the possibility of a poem immediately struck. I actually like my weedy lawn: it grows slowly, and nicely resists dryness. The saving grace is that they're low-growing weeds, and act much like well-manicured grass. So except for the dandelions, which at times over-tower everything, it's a pretty good ground cover. And very low maintenance; which is, after all, my main criterion (for just about everything!)

This is the first time I've revisited the cursed dandelion since a poem written years and years ago, now lost in the mist of memory. I like this stanza best. And I especially like "priapic stems"/ "metastatic heads", not to mention the beginning of the martial metaphor.

... Ahhhh, if only the whole lawn were Dutch clover!

I suspect the worker ants, as well as the soldier caste, are all infertile females. Failed queens, as it were. Or are they simply impotent males, identical clones? I've decided that ignorance is best here; after all, "sisters-in-arms" seems to lack a certain mercenary something!

My lawn mower is actually cordless electric, and looks sleek and futuristic. But the rattly old gas mower was irresistible, reinforcing the over-all sense of corruption and neglect. The turret turns it into a tank, notwithstanding shooting blanks!

The same concept of dormancy ended my last poem -- the one about mosquitoes ("A Hundred Times Life"): both leave the reader with this sense of malignancy, barely suppressed. So, does this reflect something about my subconscious state of mind these days? Or is it just the easiest and most natural way to end, a nice neat conclusion to 2 seasonal poems?