Mothers Poems: 493 / 500

Of Radishes And Psychiatry

Rating: 1.8

A radish popped out of the ground
it had red cheeks, his face was round
the leafy hair he had was green
and little else could then be seen
he waited patiently for me
to pull him up so he could see.
It was a Sunday in July
I'd gone to Oregon to fly
my cousin's brand new ultralight
as I enjoyed the splendid sight
of valleys and of mountaintops
and, on the freeways, traffic cops
I thought that I had missed my chance
not even thrown a fleeting glance
at all my veggies when I left
thus of their energy bereft
the veggies and myself would wait
'til in the evening, when late
I would return from my long trip
arrive at home, prepare a nip
and suddenly, it comes to me
I wander out to check and see
if it is time to pick and choose
and as I stand there, with my booze
a sadness overcomes my being
my eyes get moist as they are seeing
the little radish, so admired
has shrivelled greatly, looks expired
his hair, so leafy and so green
his reddened cheeks, so clearly seen
a face, so loving, big and round
a veggie from the underground.
It is too late now, you were brave
to wait for me, I'll dig a grave
say radish to radish, and dust to dust
and raise my glass because I must
go back inside, prepare for bed
just think, that little fellow's dead.
That night I dream that I am mental
that radishes are incidental
to modern living, they are food
to nourish and enhance the mood
and if they die they go to ground
where they, next season can be found
recovering from hibernation
like people from an operation
so all those tears were overkill
of the old geezer on the hill
it's just that veggies are my friends
which in itself shakes me and tends
to make me think of them as kiddos
and when they die they leave their widows
The shrink said radishes are hot
if you don't eat them they will rot
he gave me pills then to arrange
some of my thinking, which is strange
and one small box of funny seeds
he said 'They are exotic weeds,
truly immortal and won't die
when I grew radishes I'd cry
today my garden is my joy
but you are schizophrenic, boy
you cannot look at simple plants
and overlook that they wear pants
it all is pretty much confusing
so take these pills, you won't be losing
your mind, which really is a vulture
all due respect for horticulture.'

Next season I went out to look
there was the radish, and I took
him in the house without delay
and sliced him up, he looked okay.
Then ate the fellow, hair and skin
and nothing ended in the bin
I told the doc about it later
he said, he would no longer cater
to health and welfare of my mind
but that he was just being kind.
He said that he had now retired
to do what he and I admired
he stitched together shirts and hats
for radishes, (he called them brats)
and cared for them and for the others
because no veggies know their mothers
and I do think that in the end
the doc and I went 'round the bend.

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
allan james saywell 28 June 2005

WELL HERBERT I LOVE A MAN WHO CARES ABOUT HIS VEGIES THEY ARE AN IMPORTANT PART OF OUR BACKYARD AND TO HONOUR THEM WITH A POEM IS TRULY BRILLIANT LIAM

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Gina Onyemaechi 13 March 2006

Yes, I have to agree with the conclusion suggested. LOLOLOL! ! Where to next, H? Fondly, G.

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Herbert Nehrlich1 28 June 2005

Hi Celine, how very nice to hear from you! I agree it must be sad for you to be in this position where you don't understand things. However, I would encourage you to keep writing, and writing, and writing.....perhaps some day, when you least expect it some (other) fruitcake may think that you wrote a poem. These things happen. Best wishes from Your Poet

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celine charcoal 28 June 2005

I took the effort to read all ur poem, and i really don't understand why u insist on writing poetry, or what satisfaction you get out of it..

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Scarborough Gypsy 28 June 2005

Herbert, this is most definately you at your best. I just loved it! It's funny and happy and clever. It is just the kind of work I look forward to reading on this site. Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous! ! Bravo Gyp's

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Herbert Nehrlich1 28 June 2005

Vodka would have to be potato vodka but if you read my poem about Sundays you would know that my visitors usually are Gentleman Jack and Mrs. Finsbury. Occasionally, Mr. Glen Fittock drops in as well. All radishes are doing well, they are upstanding little citizens. Chardonnay is a bit too mild for me, the more robust Italian Valpolicella will do fine however. Actually, this poem was inspired by a patient with a mental illness who had been suffering at the hands of modern psychiatry. Thanks also Liam, for your kind words. Gruezi! H

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