Chief Longwind Of The North
Certified/Certifiable
Simple Pleasures by G.W. North
I left my house by the back door
to peruse through my late garden.
I had noticed on an earlier day
a fallen ear of corn,
hacked from its stalk by some impatient pest
that had nibbled such a small section
a few tiny bites of too young kernels
and had ruined the promise of a perfect ear of corn.
I walked the corn rows, eyeing the ground,
and spied another would-be star
lying on the ground
with a few small nibbles of too young kernels
I sighed at the sight and shook my head
Turning my body completly opposite
my back to the corn,
I beheld the graceful sprawl of tomato plants
that grew at their peak, in the dusk of summer.
From the branches sprouted a myriad of yellow blossoms
each eagerly awaiting the touch of honey bees
that were few to be found,
most sleeping,
prepaired for a long winter.
And the fully grown, and half grown tomatoes
that hung from the sturdy green branches
or sat on the ground
called out to me, the late gardner
here I am, almost perfect
another frost-free night is all I need.
Pick me tommorow, or the next day.
For you I will be perfect.
I went out the next day,
and the next day again
and the tomatoes had fulfilled their promise.
The skins were blemished,
as all perfect tomato skins are,
and with a deep crimson blush
with only the tiniest hint of orange
kissing at the juncture between the stem and the fruit.
I carefully gathered these prizes
worth more than gold, or even gasolene.
Bacon fried to that just right state.
Lettuce torn by hand decorated grand bread slices
along with mayonaise and pepper.
The the tomato was washed and sliced
and carefully laid atop the green lettuce leaves
followed by the bacon.
Those tomatoes, late and rare, promised to me
a flavor worth the hours of weeding,
of preparing the soil,
of waiting and watching.
This experience was enjoyed by my wife
and by my daughter, but not enjoyed as much
as by the gardener who had planted the vines late
and cared for them,
and who waited patiently.
Oh tomatoes can be had by the bushel,
red and perfect in form and color
with nary a blemish.
And they can be sliced and made
into some semblance of the humble blt.
But they will never compare
with the bright and perfect flavor
of those blemished, late, and love tomatoes
that I picked yesterday, in September.
And there are more calling to me
just another week. Give me just another week.
And I will be perfect, with blemishes, and flavor,
and a kiss of orange where the fruit meets the stem.
And maybe a few ears of corn will be ripe, and perfect too.
Author: Robert J. Flowers (Goodweed of the North)
This is the first free-verse, non-rhyming poem I have ever written.
Don't know if it was written according to the rules of poetry. But every word of it describes my experience over the last few days with my late garden and is true.
I usualy write poetry with strong meter and rhyme. I like that kind of poetry. I like reading it. So this one, though I enjoyed writing it, well, it is what it is. Hope you enjoyed some of my experience, placed on paper.
Seeeeeeya; Goodweed of the North
I left my house by the back door
to peruse through my late garden.
I had noticed on an earlier day
a fallen ear of corn,
hacked from its stalk by some impatient pest
that had nibbled such a small section
a few tiny bites of too young kernels
and had ruined the promise of a perfect ear of corn.
I walked the corn rows, eyeing the ground,
and spied another would-be star
lying on the ground
with a few small nibbles of too young kernels
I sighed at the sight and shook my head
Turning my body completly opposite
my back to the corn,
I beheld the graceful sprawl of tomato plants
that grew at their peak, in the dusk of summer.
From the branches sprouted a myriad of yellow blossoms
each eagerly awaiting the touch of honey bees
that were few to be found,
most sleeping,
prepaired for a long winter.
And the fully grown, and half grown tomatoes
that hung from the sturdy green branches
or sat on the ground
called out to me, the late gardner
here I am, almost perfect
another frost-free night is all I need.
Pick me tommorow, or the next day.
For you I will be perfect.
I went out the next day,
and the next day again
and the tomatoes had fulfilled their promise.
The skins were blemished,
as all perfect tomato skins are,
and with a deep crimson blush
with only the tiniest hint of orange
kissing at the juncture between the stem and the fruit.
I carefully gathered these prizes
worth more than gold, or even gasolene.
Bacon fried to that just right state.
Lettuce torn by hand decorated grand bread slices
along with mayonaise and pepper.
The the tomato was washed and sliced
and carefully laid atop the green lettuce leaves
followed by the bacon.
Those tomatoes, late and rare, promised to me
a flavor worth the hours of weeding,
of preparing the soil,
of waiting and watching.
This experience was enjoyed by my wife
and by my daughter, but not enjoyed as much
as by the gardener who had planted the vines late
and cared for them,
and who waited patiently.
Oh tomatoes can be had by the bushel,
red and perfect in form and color
with nary a blemish.
And they can be sliced and made
into some semblance of the humble blt.
But they will never compare
with the bright and perfect flavor
of those blemished, late, and love tomatoes
that I picked yesterday, in September.
And there are more calling to me
just another week. Give me just another week.
And I will be perfect, with blemishes, and flavor,
and a kiss of orange where the fruit meets the stem.
And maybe a few ears of corn will be ripe, and perfect too.
Author: Robert J. Flowers (Goodweed of the North)
This is the first free-verse, non-rhyming poem I have ever written.
Don't know if it was written according to the rules of poetry. But every word of it describes my experience over the last few days with my late garden and is true.
I usualy write poetry with strong meter and rhyme. I like that kind of poetry. I like reading it. So this one, though I enjoyed writing it, well, it is what it is. Hope you enjoyed some of my experience, placed on paper.
Seeeeeeya; Goodweed of the North
