I Hate Gladioli

In brown tillings they oddly lean
in angled tangents, an undisciplined lot
they seem, large plots matted
like pelted fraidy-cat-hair spiked
in multicoloured alarm and desperate,
without grace unable to follow
sun-sprinkles with their overblown blooms
when ascending lumpy spires,
unbalanced and ranging on one side only.
They flaunt no elegance at passing breezes,
nor bow to evening nor tilt at suns
nor proffer perfumes to folded butterflies
too confused to groom plumose antennae.

My father revelled in their keep,
kept sister bulbs brown bagged and labelled,
shelved row and row through the barren of winter.
In the heat of summer when sidewalks shimmer
he tickled their privates with a mohair brush
to cultivate blood-spills from their throats
hoping for a new bulb named for posterity.
He gathered them in when their flowers were opulent.
Sliced them off with a great knife and
stood them in wicker, heads fanned to the handle,
tied for discipline and regimented by colour
held at attention facing forward.
If the basket be turned there is nothing in back.

Betty Ponder