When nature Screams.
This poem is based on a scientific discovery that grass and plants scream when they are plucked. it is a high frequency scream that is inaudible to human ears, but what if we could hear it.
blasts the green tractor,
as it revs up to go,
and all the gay blades of grass,
quiver in their roots,
whispering in Lilliputian voices,
"It's John Deer."
then soon enough
sliced and diced
like a Ron-co commercial,
the sweet smell of their decay
permeates the air.
Imagine her dismay
if she could hear them,
as you handed her
a dozen fresh cut roses
all screaming bloody murder,
she would fling them back,
leaving you with thorns
impaled in your face, left hanging....
like Jesus in a hurricane.
Perhaps even the act of walking
compresses tiny squeaks and screams
from each individual grass blade,
as I barefoot over my two acres
of little tortured souls
When I think of how many times
I popped the heads
off of dandelions
just to see them fly."Yikes!!"
Then there's those hedge clippers,
lawn edgers, weed whackers,
hoes, rakes, scythes, CHAIN SAWS!
My God, I'm a serial killer
of all the life God planted here.
I am leather-face running
amok in my own backyard.
Perhaps Hell is a
reincarnation of our souls
into blades of grass,
weeds, flowers and bushes,
which we become and remain
till we are painfully sliced or plucked,
then we become a dandelion fluff,
and sit mellow in our globular white,
till some juvenile blows our heads off
and makes a wish.
Then we become...daisies,
she loves me...owww, she loves me not..owwwww
She loves me...ouch ouch ouch.
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