A garden of gnomes & other things

A motionless colony.

Without ants.

Without ants.

Growing with gnomes.

And not with crops

And not with crops.

Of stalwart collectibles,

Extravagant castaways.

An old engine block,

A disconnected exit sign,

And counterfeit Easter island heads.


So many



Among  so many other intricacies.

Rescued from other piles of refuse,

Or  from faraway islands, in march.

Or from fairways,

Blown away by trade-winds…


Brought here to carry on their tradition.

Any tradition, for that matter.

But instead,

Bleached by the sun,

(A tradition of radiation)

Chipped by falling acorns.

Chipped by falling stars.

The noble gnomes,

Pushing ceramic wheelbarrows,

To ceramic marketplaces

Where insect  vendors sell dust by the dozen

…By the pound

Other artifacts,

Mobile or otherwise

Moving almost nowhere,

Collect more fallen acorns.

Collect more fallen stars.

And storing them right next to nowhere.

That sits directly  next to the old shed.

Where cats and rust are one in the same.

Where  firewood is stacked.

Where the coral snakes sleep.

Other gnomes, who have taken to the tops of stumps,

Some holding marbles,

While others beckon with pitchforks,

Attempting to cut down the butterflies as they swarm nearby flowers,

Thinking of building bridges,


Raising flags


Other autocratic possibilities.

Will, at the very least end up fractured, like the

Old, washed up dishes, that closely  resembles a graveyard

In appearance,

But not in standard.

These offerings,

Purchased by some old aristocrat,

(Who had  a penchant for practicality as well as glass)

From a store whose neon signs long ago flickered out,

Just to match the rest of the dusky plaza,

Which once smelled of pizza.

To match the supermarket whose shelves look now more like monuments then they ever did,

Even in   their heyday, when the air  still smelled of wax



But all the people still  moved,

The people even danced.

In busy parking lots,

Around unlocked cars.

 Where a pet store once stood,

From where the beasts sprang fourth! 

These dishes, who

Originally  were more clear then swimming pools

Originally more clear then surrounding clairvoyants.

 Who have quietly grown organically right along side the green moss,

(Even though it is much colder on that north side)

This population rings bells so faint,

Vexed by sounds they don’t yet understand.

A careful listener may mistake them for tiny wind-chimes,

(If there were any careful listeners left)

They have all gone to brunch.

They have all fallen below sea-level.

As night falls the gnomes do not close their eyes,

The dishes

& Easter island heads




The amino acids


Dominoes as well as

Exit signs,

Remain quiet.

Not because they are aware that Rome has fallen,

Not because some volcanoes remain dormant.

But because stationary eyes do not close.

They do not want to impress any emperors.

That task is for the bird- baths.

Where blue-birds;

Where geisha’s;

Splash in slow motion.

Washing away vinegar

As well as cold-medicine,

From their perplexed feathers.

Turning then into doves,



Burning like the phoenix.


They spin their heads along with the noble owls, and

Watch passing tires spin faster.

Disregarding the diamonds


Other loose change they so easily pulverize.


Hoping that  the resident  jack in the box,

Stays broken



Like the garden itself.

(The only difference being a tinge of fertility.)

This is land that is not only filled,

With rubbish


With relics

This is land that is  full.

Full with fresh water

Full with light that moves between branches and

Full with gregarious air that breaths





Cacti who don’t need deserts to grow.

Guests who don’t need dessert to know when dinner is over.

This is a garden of gnomes,


Other things

Peaceful things,

Caught in stasis,

Instead of  spiderwebs.




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