IV. Pesticides

*This poem is a part III, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence*

He was the fourth in the bloodline
of strength, his father’s pain
passed down from his before him,
lost in the vicious cycle of addiction.

An honorable man, planted and raised in
a broken home, grew above the tarnished
ground walked upon from birth, molded himself
into an expectation of his own.

But success does not detract the
demons living in a brain that forgets nothing
and forgives less, only forgets long enough
to accomplish what was once viewed as
impossible from the fourth in this bloodline.

An intelligent man, overfilling a mind
hungry to lose the memories clouding
his vision on days the past creeps in
like a fog over the trees.

An accomplished man, suffering in a
world unfair to him from the beginning,
drowning in the poison downed for
the silence in the numbness.

Convinced by the enticements of a
blank slate, he succumbed to a monster
that holds him by the throat, and blinds
him from everything he no longer wants
to see.

---

Check out my new book Penny Poetry, now available on Amazon!

III. Wildflower (I’m Sorry)

*This poem is a part III, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence
Check out the fourth part, IV. Pesticides*

He was a wildflower,
free in the meadows
of possibilities.

His petals stood golden,
a marigold in a field full
of daisies.

I’d never been much of a
flower person, but the
oddity drew me in.

I dug under his roots, and
planted him in the safety
of my home.

I whispered my secrets to
him on nights only the wind
would whisper back, and
mistook his silence for
understanding.

I worshipped his beauty on
my windowsill, but failed to
notice the petals drooping
in the dark.

I failed to notice the crisping
leaves turning brown and
curling in on themselves.

The plague was spreading
through his veins, and I was
the chemical that put it there.

I only wish I’d realized sooner,
you can not force a wildflower
to love the same as a potted
plant;

They’re just meant to remain unbound.

---

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

II. Greenhouse

*This poem is a part II, to a series I have started for events in my life, called To Plant the Memories Like Seeds. Check out the first part, Chain-Link Fence
Check out the third part Wildflower (I’m Sorry)* 

I remember her the way you
remember a cut; within the
scars it left behind.

She was a gardener; carrying
beauty in her pocket, and
teaching me how to tend the
flowers.

She showed me the ways a
rose’s thorns could paint its
petals red.

She became my mentor,
teaching me how to hate the
size of my leaves and dig for
the veins.

I remembered her the day
she quit, the day she taught
me not all addictions are
substance abuse.

I grasped the independence,
but carried her lessons with
me. 

The day the storm rolled in,
she’d evacuated long before,
but I remembered the way
she handed me the keys to
the shed.

The way the sharpness of
the tools glistened in the
light of the open doors.

The rain rubbed against the
aftermath, and the lightning
scratched at my flesh.

The wind screamed in my ears-

“This is what you wanted.”

The day the storm rolled in,
the thunder left threats in
the holes the tornadoes
created in my walls.

I remembered her in the
broken greenhouse, and
the way she opened my
eyes to the damage cutting
one stem could do to the
whole flower bed.

And I remember her every
time I paint my rose petals
with my thorns, and dig for
the veins.

---

Check out my book, The Four Stages of Poetry, available on amazon!

I. Chain-Link Fence

*This is part one to the collection, To Plant the Memories Like Seeds

Check out part two, Greenhouse*

The chain-link fence stands ten feet tall,
twice my height with barbed wire curled
between the thin metal links.

I stare at the fence-at my memories
keeping the dreams within perimeters,
the nightmares hidden in the spikes
protruding every other inch.

Everything inside, slightly out of focus,
my eyes drawn in by the shine of your
teeth reflecting on the barrier.

Your eyes held no shine at all,
a dull, lifeless pair of marbles,
leafy green like that of virgin
Mary’s fine rags. (What an irony)

I was before the fragmentary fence,
the construction carrying on as the
events played out.

I remained on the outside with the
wolf, his breath tickling my nostrils
with the snarls amplifying the weight
of his words-

How beautiful the flower had grown
to become, what a shame the stem
couldn’t live up to the petals.

You did not take the Mary from my
name, but only if we speak in
technicalities.

Just because the fence bares many
holes, does not mean it is fine to
claim one over others because you
like the way it looks in your possession.

Just because you steal one, does not
mean it will not affect the rest, they are
all still connected to one another.
It was of no surprise to me that
everyone liked you- a wolf in
sheeps clothing knows its disguise.

I knew you from when you were but
a florist, until it was decided that I
no longer needed your services.

You climbed your way into my garden
and ripped up the roots that would
have otherwise become the chain-
link of opportunities.

When planted in the flowerbed, I can
no longer take chances with adding
color to my monochromatic theme.

I almost miss the time I was too young
to realize the grower was becoming a
flesh-hungry animal, ready to pounce
on the dandelion who’d finally become
a rose.

I used my thorns like the barbed wire,
attempting to keep you out of my garth.

But the second time you tried to plant
seeds in soil that wasn’t yours, you
complimented my ability to maintain
the overgrowth.

I did not tell you it was prohibited, Instead
let you finish building the chain-link fence
connecting memories to anxiety.