Gardeners of the world unite!
Let’s slip out in the full moonlight
with seeds in hands
and watering cans
And garden spades stashed out of sight!
For our first organic plot,
lets sneak into a parking lot
and plant fruit seeds
so folks won’t need
To go indoors for apricots.
Street medians we will reclaim,
This public land won’t look the same,
We’ll line each route
with herbs and fruit
Overflowing into the lanes.
Three sisters: corn and squash and beans,
Are now sprouting outside Dairy Queen,
They have no clue,
that it was you,
And nice touch with those collard greens.
And if we have any luck,
Children will soon learn to pluck
free string beens,
climbing the swings,
And extend recess and save a buck.
Once we’ve pulled out all the stops,
Who’ll want those corporate monocrops?
No genetics here,
And we’ve got beer-
Once we harvest that creekside hops.
We’ll pry concrete with fig tree roots,
We’ll enlist scrubjays as recruits
to plant an oak
at every stroke,
And give new meaning to “grassroots.”
Let’s plant city parks and vacant land,
With a living, humming garden stand,
Let’s teach the youth
with food and truth,
That what sustains them is in their hands.
Let “Compost! Compost!” be our cry,
It’s a freedom none can be denied,
To love the ground,
and help it rebound,
Gardeners of the world, unite!
Cul de Sac
Here you see a fifth acre of desert scrub.
A black plastic weed barrier buried under decomposed granite
with soggy cactus,
overwatered mesquite, and
Mojave natives poking their heads
through circular holes.
A tall century bloom swarms with hummingbirds.
Next door, you find a formal lot imported from colonial England,
with gingerbread epoxied to the stucco.
A trimmed lawn with an ornamental plum
sprouts bushes and hedges trimmed like lollipops.
A red-brick walkway sways pleasantly to the red front door.
Apparently, a fifth acre chunk of Hawaii has been excavated
shipped overseas,
and dropped into the plot next door...
Plop!
Bermuda grass,
palm trees,
ginger flowers and
trailing bamboo...
(the curse of colonial England next door)
all flank a pink mailbox in a pad of black lava rock.
Down the street, an awkward crispy orange pine tree
and some ceramic squirrels
create the high mountain ambiance of a Swiss glen.
The Dutch annuals explode along the sidewalk like
red, yellow, blue and green fireworks
(miracle-y growing so far from their Nordic relatives)
with their plastic name and care tags
sprouting from the salt-and-pepper soil like fuses.
The Hawaiians, Mexicans, English and Swiss
gossip in their driveways, rolling eyes and cursing the house at
the end of the block, so flagrantly violating the HOA...
Just look at its weedy, unwatered yard going to seed:
an unpruned wild oak planted by jays,
dandelions,
chickweed,
lambs quarters,
Red Maids and
coastal sage overflowing the mowing strip...
No gardeners here but the wild birds.
Look at them
munching wild seeds,
checking their migration maps,
and wondering
“where on earth are we, anyway?”
Kevin Gleason Art 