THE BORN LESAR

So many seeds, then you get all the weeds

Weeds are wicked, they grow in your soil, In your garden, they make your blood boil. So I pull them out rudely, I grab them and twist, I kill their green souls, with a flick of my wrist.

Somebody once told me that allowing hatred to build in your mind can lead to stress, mental instability and a desire to watch C-Span just in case there's a filibuster, and that it is far better to find a healthy release for one's loathing rather than to let it fester. Alas, I hate weeds. So I write beauteous poetry about them. Yeah, I know, your idea of beauteous ain't the same as mine. Oh, crabgrass, oh, crabgrass, You grow so damn fast, How thickly you prosper, it makes me aghast.

I see you in my veggies, like a green carpet below, But you will be scared, When you meet my new hoe.

You'd think working a common garden implement into award-winning poetry might be hard, but you probably had no idea I was such a clever bard (see, I do it without even trying). Be patient, please, as I find something that rhymes with 'rototiller.'

In row after row, there is green evil gone wild, The weeds grow in weather That is cold, hot and mild.

I crawl on my knees and I pull them by hand, Spending summer this way Is not what I planned.

Lounging on a hammock in the shade with rum-spiced lemonade is more what I had in mind, instead I've got dirt-stained jeans and enough earth under my fingernails to start a strawberry patch. You know, I love to garden, I'm in awe of the wonder of an inert seed sprouting and growing into a healthy, fibrous source of food, but I'm so sick of ragweed in my rutabaga rows and curly dock in my cucumbers (I know, sounds like a personal problem, don't it?), that I sometimes think I ought to douse the whole garden plot with gas and set it ablaze.

Pigweed will not die. No matter how much Round-up.

Pigweed will not die.

That's a haiku, for those of you who didn't slip your college writing professor $50 so you could pass the poetry section (What? He wanted $75, but I talked him down by promising not to ask his daughter out on a date). It's not necessary by haiku rules to repeat the first and third lines, but I did it for dramatic effect. You knows, if guys like Shakespeare and Frost would have been as daring, maybe they'd have gotten somewhere.

There once was a patch of plantain So thick it was hard to contain. I ripped and I tore It was such a hard chore And I wonder why I'm insane.

That, dear friends, was a limerick, an original, no less, and was penned while under the influence of bromacil, glyphosate and Diet Mountain Dew (not recommended for humans or bull thistles with long life spans). These poems sometimes come to me when all the blood has leaked from my head while I'm bending down pulling the tiny weed shoots from between the carrot seedlings. Sometimes me fall down.

Chickweed Persistent, flowered Spreading, invading, trespassing Never giving up, infecting people's souls Grinning, violating, unyielding Dark, pervasive Satan That's a diamante poem, so named because it resembles a diamond shape. Note how the second and third lines refer to the first subject, the fourth line relates to both the first and last words, and the fifth and sixth line describe the last, all the while comparing Chickweed to Satan. Neat, huh? Sorry, but it's copyrighted. Wouldn't want you to enter it in a contest under your name and win the $1 million top prize. Yeah, it's that good.

Pickles, pumpkins, beets and beans, Please tell me what all this means. Carrots, peppers, squash and peas, The muscles in my back, they seize. Asparagus, broccoli, spuds, and corn, I think my spinal column might be torn.

Tomatoes, onions, lettuce and then, I may never stand up straight again.

Gardening is work, no doubt about it, but so is devising iambic pentameter while using the word 'cauliflower.' Some people don't believe in mechanical methods of keeping a garden weedfree, and instead resort to using all sorts of noxious chemicals to control their green pests. Me? I'm more organic, at least I smell that way.

Oh, sure, I could use poison, I could splash my plot with gallons of bile. But taking the easy way out of things, well, that just isn't my style. I'd rather pull weeds with my fingers, and not threaten to pollute the good earth, Or we can put it another way, I've just been this stubborn since the day of my birth. Believe it or not, I enjoy weeding my garden. To me, it's refreshing quiet time, the smell of the soil in my nostrils, the grit of soil in my ears, the sting of soil in my eyes, and if I'm really into it, the abrasiveness of soil in my underwear. Laugh if you want, but I rarely get jock itch.

Ouch, I feel the sores. I ought to be more careful. Burr dock in my drawers.

C'mon, admit it now, you've never before read such fine poetry about weeds. Keep your eyes open at the book store, I might write a few more and put 'em together in an anthology, tentatively titled 'An Ode to Muck Thistle.' Catchy, huh?

Because I weed you know I ain't lazy, Tho' on my motives you are a bit hazy, Don't worry too long You will never be wrong.

If you just assume that I'm crazy.