Jammed my head
into the mud, let
my mind root around,
thoughts coming up
roses or thistles or
rutabagas,
dirty minded sure,
but what price
glory and riot
of color, scent,
her wandering
in my garden, pluck,
bringing to her lips,
sips, like nectar.
For dVerse Quadrille
Sweetness indeed. Love that glory and riot of color, scent.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks!
LikeLike
couple of great puns in here. Jammed/root/rutabagas. gritty and sexy all at the same time. I can smell this poem. smells earthy .
LikeLiked by 1 person
LOL! Thanks! I’m a budding poet…
LikeLiked by 1 person
“I cannot delve him to the root”
LikeLiked by 2 people
Delving into that garden, you will strike Bardic bones.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Or coffee cans filled with ashes…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Rutabagas are dirty-minded?!? I’ll never make soup stock again without wondering what prurient flavors are being rubbed together!
Right to the tuber of the matter, Randall! Great take.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I always wanted to play the tuber.
LikeLiked by 1 person
In the elementary school Christmas pageant?
LikeLiked by 1 person
They told me not to be so root.
LikeLike
Root for the team… root for the beer….
LikeLiked by 1 person
The imagery in this poem is very in interesting…. nectarines, mud and that first sip… kiss!
LikeLiked by 1 person
very intimate poetry, a special moment between two. i like your word choices
LikeLiked by 1 person
I was out doing the first dig of the year yesterday, so this seems very apposite. I like the way beautiful things come out of that grubbing around. Lots of art is like that, I think.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks. It isn’t quite warm enough yet here to dig, but there must have been just enough hint of Spring in the near distance.
LikeLike
I love the lines:
‘…let
my mind root around,
thoughts coming up’
and I couldn’t suppress a smile at the dirty minded rutabagas. That word reminded me of a story I read when I was a child and didn’t have a clue what it meant! Over here they’re called swedes and we eat them boiled and mashed with butter and pepper.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like the mish-mash of this. Like a pig rootling in the muds, roses or thistles it’s all good. Especially rutabagas 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks!
LikeLiked by 1 person
I like the thought of the mind rooting around in the mud.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hahaha! Yes.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Hmmmm. I think I need to research rutabagas. I seem to be missing something. Loved the mind rooting in the mud, though!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Quite filthy, sensual, humorous and clever–and your form inflated the 44 words to be bigger on the inside; smile.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lol! Thanks. Glad you liked that quadrillion expansion
LikeLike
Fascinating perspective quit, on the wandering and wondering of one’s imagination…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Who would ever think of rutabagas in this context but you… love it really and now I’m pondering about if soil and gardens are quite as innocent as a gardener thinks.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ahahaha! Thanks.
LikeLike
I like the terseness and phrasing, but the rutabaga stole the show here.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ahahaha!
LikeLike
This was extremely fun, ready for spring, boy howdy aren’t we? 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yep!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Love “minds rooting around in the mud.”
LikeLiked by 1 person
better late than never because am back in the blogosphere and rooting around in your Quadrillion – reads like a dream – full of suggestion and allusion like most dreams too. Had to look up rutabagas but already knew about nectarines and how succulent they are – especially the white fleshed ones.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Welcome back! I hope too see more of your wonderful poems.
LikeLiked by 1 person