#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry, Uncategorized

Hello, My Name Is Dandelion – #52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 29

Let me start

by saying I sprout anywhere

that needs my help,

and I leave only when my job is done.

Fight me all you want,

I’m a stubborn one.

You might consider

calling me ‘Magical Nanny’ of flowers,

for all I do to help others;

my head of closely-packed florets

is plenty big enough to take the title.

Not convinced I deserve it?

Well, take a peek at my résumé.

Item One:

My tough taproot easily pierces

compact soil, splitting it apart like a geode,

loosening clumps, aerating,

making space for weaker roots

to settle in.

Item Two:

I can survive with few minerals –

in fact, when my leaves wilt

as I snuggle close to the earth,

they leave a healthy stock behind

so new seedlings

won’t taste hunger.

Item Three:

Every spring, up I pop,

(even if your soil’s a touch acidic),

offering both pollen and nectar

to ravenous emerging insects.

I’m quite popular with them, you know.

Item Four:

Though my blooms may close on chilly days,

waft some warmth my way

and I’ll stretch, blink open my golden lashes.

There, aren’t I glorious?

Item Five:

Need to make a wish?

Blow on my seed head, observing how many

fluffy white parachutes break away,

and it’s sure to come true.

(Okay, that one might be a myth.

But you’ve got to admit,

it’s a cool myth.)

Now, have I stated my case enough

for you to let me grow in peace?

This poem is part of a project I’m doing to raise money for the RSPB, a UK wildlife conservation and protection charity. Being autistic, nature is often my only place of solace, and I want to do all I can to protect it. As I’m not very comfortable around other people, most of the standard ways of helping out (volunteering, social fundraisers etc) were not a good fit for me, so I came up with #52weeksofnaturepoetry, where I have to post a nature poem here on this blog each week for an entire year without fail.

If you’d like to help, please share this poem to encourage others to take joy in nature, and if you have the time and means to donate, you can do so here. Let’s help keep our wildlife wild!

(You can also become a member of the RSPB and support them month to month. Members receive Nature’s Home magazine and seasonal guides for what to look out for when out and about. Details are on their website.)

[Apologies for how these poems are formatted. I do write them in stanzas, but WordPress rarely decides to keep them, no matter how much I argue with it.]

#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 1: Log House

These open wounds fill over time.

Spongy umbrellas held high, prospective tenants

look upon the cracked stump, climb it, reach inside

and settle.

Shelved cities spill out.                 

Sometimes

a family – two parents, one child –

stand ready at the mulchy base

while cousins look on

in rain caps.

Mummers

to treasure seekers, wanderers.

Those who scuttle, flit, crawl.

Proud of the dead bark

and the breath it still holds.

This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise funds for UK wildlife charity RSPB and to encourage an appreciation for nature. If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing it and/or donating to the RSPB via my Just Giving page here.

Help keep wildlife wild.

Poetry

Why gnomes wear diving helmets.

It was all going peacefully, life.

Or so the gnomes thought.

Then one day the gnome king announced

that gnomes were a fragile species,

and garden and ornamental, bearded and not,

should wear diving helmets for protection until further notice.

Gnome kind grumbled and groaned,

and some flatly refused to adapt their style –

why cover up their signature ruddy cheeks and bright caps that had remained unchanged throughout the ages?

Then the kids playing in the school field across the road

kicked their football too high,

which swiftly decapitated an unprotected gnome

in the final arc of its descent.

The other gnomes were sad, but it was a chance in…well, however many gnomes their were!

There was more probability that their paint would flake and smiles crack

before a tragedy like that would occur again.

But they didn’t account for the glorious sun,

which brought footballs raining down ten a day

leaving only those gnomes with helmets on

safe from the barrage.

 

Poetry

Robin Redbreast

The robin, whose beak

wild berry juice does adorn,

flits about merrily on this morn.

 

His curious bright eyes,

black as obsidian,

observe all life in the garden.

 

Stray too close and he won’t stay.

Up, up, but not far away.

 

His sweet chirps still will sound;

watch for his vibrant red breast

as he dances merrily around.

Poetry

Pruning practices

I can see the roots

growing in the corners

of your eyes,

under the ground

where you think no-one will find,

and in my veins.

Oh, you hope

to hide from me, but

you don’t know

I can look inside myself.

I can cut you out

if I want to,

like a weed.

I can leave you to wither.

Would you like that?

Poetry

A pensive hound

Snug and warm,

a mass of fluffy black fur

to rest my head against;

my bright-eyed, wet-nosed mentor

lounging in the shade

behind discarded tins of fence paint.

 

A lolling tongue

hangs from her mouth

as she looks up at the sky,

watching a flock of birds ark and swoop,

they dip their wings to her

as they pass by.

 

Poetry

A rainy afternoon

It begins as a light tapping

on glass,

a rhythmic patter

of ghostly fingers

that leave only tear streaks down the pane.

Wellies left outside the door

in a rush

soon begin to fill

and seeds cast on bird tables glisten

like small nuggets of gold.

The smell of the earth rises,

bringing forth a crowd of slugs and snails

who rummage through fallen leaves.

A tiny river courses along the path,

wetting moss and stone,

finally pooling in the dip that always stays

just a little bit damp.