we are myth

we are legend,

behind fences we are found

bred and sacrificed on all hallows eve,

generations past

gutted and carved in celebration,

so misunderstood seen only as decoration

as human skulls on poles once where,

unlike my wild cousins in mexico

scattered over landscape and mountain,

they do not suffer the tampering

of our genetics

79 loci,

phenotypic slides for frankenstein,s scientist

altered , inbred,

not realizing our beauty

in shape and color

palmate leaves , long tendrils

unisexual flowers touched by gentle bee

curling about stamen

stroking with long legs

collecting pollen my yellow stain

peponapis body thrumming

resonant on my petals,

10,000 years of domestication

treated worse than dogs

compliant in nature as man knows best

our flesh substance forgotten

as gourd display incised and flensed

to amuse and terrify

projects of another’s nature

that is more disturbing and cruel

poetry, poem , fall

  1. Your pumpkins aren’t very happy, are they?! A fabulous and eloquent rant, I must say!

  2. shanyns says:

    Well! Smiles. That was quite the pumpkin lesson/rant. Well done!

  3. This is excellent. You really stretched the pumpkin metaphor and made a powerful statement. Great imagery. Smiles 🙂

  4. brian miller says:

    ha. the frankenPumpkin….yes, bred to perfection—round and orange…and if you dont measure up—well, off to the pie factory for you….smiles.

  5. Indeed the pumpkins are really inbred and have lost something along the way… like tomatoes or potatoes…

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