Bored Poetry (II)

Boredom, not necessity, is the mother of invention (maybe, but probably not). Here’s some poems to make that case.

Little Garden

I have a garden,
small as it may be,
I find it quite charming,
a nice place to be.

The royals delight
in their long, stately rows.
And the businessman too admires,
the one solitary rose,
his twigs seem to grow.

I find it quite intriguing,
that with all their wealth and all their power,
their gardens cannot yield,
one wild and unbridled flower.

Their gilded rows are fine, I’m sure,
yet they lack the untamed charm,
of petals grown by the wild alone,
safe to unfurl, unpicked by hands of harm.

So I shall keep my garden,
neither prized nor possession,
all its weeds and critters,
touch-me-nots and forget-me-nots,
rose bushes and jasmine shrubs,
odds and tangled tendril ends,
and me.

Napkin Poem

Spilled coffee spreads,
like the fleeting thoughts in my head,
as a face in a car outside the window,
whirrs past, leaving behind,
a scribbled heart, a paper scar.