The Grass it Grows

Thomas H Forthe
The mower sits, its color rust

The once lush lawn ere long is dust

Thy gnarly vines they run amok

errant fauna could fill a truck

A lawn chair's call, its urgence sent

A tall cool glass, toward this I'm bent

Should i feel a need to work?

Alas, laziness has raised an evil smirk

I smile and type more useless wit

I think I'll sit and think a bit

To wonder how the yard it shows

Just how bad, the grass it grows

Published by Thomas H Forthe

A life long passion for reading the written word, a longing to contribute a few of my own, and the agony of being held at arms length by life in all its varying dependencies that refused to allow it for so m...  View profile

5 Comments

Post a Comment
  • Randy Inman7/11/2009

    LOL nice one

  • Angel Sharum7/11/2009

    LOL, been there!

  • Jaipi Sixbear7/11/2009

    That's great, goes to show a poem is not about the subject but the feelings and the mood. Nice work!

  • Ceetee Sheckels10/8/2008

    cool! I like that!! :)

  • Lucky M. Diaz9/29/2008

    This flows very well.

Displaying Comments

To comment, please sign in to your Yahoo! account, or sign up for a new account.