The Weekend Gardener

You mock the flowers I can raise:
A grown man should find better ways
To sow his seed and harvest praise.

Mutual funds look good, and hiking,
Plumbing repairs, and mountain biking--
Hobbies manly and much more striking.

Adam gardened. Cain, who killed.
Onan bore seed, although it spilled.
John Ball revolted. First he tilled.

Let me manure. I fork. I spread.
Like harlotry, in white and red,
I raise commotion from a bed

For private pleasure, amply paid.
In shadow, color: sun and shade
Where Cain worked hard and Abel played.

Goin' Up The Country

Pish and Tosh rode into Broomfield, scents

Of Liberty and saddle sores, denied

Their basic rights of rye and brewskis, all

Because the goldleaf fell at others’ feet.

Not yet, they said, a floozy by each wrist

Of every taste in radical descent

Down from the mountain streams with rills so bare,

None ferried fruit. I say, no seams for me,

Said each, blaming the other, and the girls

Sang country blues before they had been born.

The Dowager Biddy

The dowager biddy of our neighborhood

Uncovers evil everywhere: she mews

To voices lost in the wainscoting; she teems

With fled and ancient cats; she says the pith

Of the neighbors next door is spoiled, like fallen serfs

Exhausted by disaster. Debutantes

Are not what once they were: it’s in their eyes

And their tiaras. She sleeps in her car,

Parked out in front, to trick the foes and fiends

Who offer their casseroles in covered bowls

Shaped like the skulls of mayors she has known,

Domos and seneschals, now making light

Of all their troubles, there at Fairlawn, done with

The scene at Holy Family. She was there.