Turf War

 

This poem began when I noticed the roses budding up again, most aggressively.  And in unison.  Ready for all out war.  Hope you enjoy it!  

Thanks for coming by!

 

They come in gangs, the roses.

They claw, and bite, and scratch.

Their bolls, like bitten fingernails,

Will grab what they can catch.

 

The bush lies green and dormant

Through the soothing summer rains,

And sports a bit of blackish mold,

Like bruises, for its pains.

 

The sun is unrelenting.

The rose, its heat defies.

It blooms in gloomy weather,

With suspicious, blood-shot eyes.

 

Then bald again, a thorny mess,

It stretches past its class,

And pushes ‘gainst the garden fence,

To trespass on the grass.

 

This turf war is unceasing,

But the rose goes on, unspent.

And nothing is more pleasing, than

To be on this villain’s scent.

 

Copyright 2021 Andrea LeDew

 

For a poem on Empress Josephine, Napoleon’s wife, and her love of roses, read Of Roses.

For a poem on people behaving in an unruly–but justified–way, read Unruly.