One time it was gourds

that surfaced like Montgolfier submarines

in her pea and spud patch.


Bright lumps and dumplings,

they were too-much as fondant, or nougat.

Too good to be true.


Hollow to knock on, as if containing corridors,

when they toughened

into chilly cocks and succulent truncheons

she cupped them in turn and twisted

each from a bristling stalk.


Then came years of hardening atop tellies,

wondering nowhere in fruit bowls.

You didn’t know what to think

until she stabbed one with a dinner knife:

out spewed a jackpot of dry, half-pence seeds

none of which would work.


◄ The (very) end

On the dispersal of water ►


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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 14th Mar 2012 16:45

I like the wryness of this, 'collections' being of broad interest of us all, however odd individual choices may be, and to what personal satisfaction God only knows. The poem is funny and very well-crafted.

<Deleted User> (10123)

Wed 7th Mar 2012 12:22

Graham, you naughty boy, how dare you make me go back to enjoying the garden place again. Smashing word use: 'chilly cocks and succulent truncheons' is my favourite in this instance. Does your cadence come naturally? Or, where can I buy/grow some? Liked it. Ta much.

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Laura Taylor

Mon 5th Mar 2012 12:46

Really interesting piece this - I like how it's written as well :)

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