Helena Tibocha

No Mercy, Lilioceris Lilii

My domain, unwelcoming,
you handsome, post-box-red-and-shiny adversary,
rebelliously perched on defenceless
Fritillaria , Lilium, Cardiocrinum.

Susceptible green points spiralling around stalks
require my stealth patrol reconnaissance
overhead and underside constant surveillance,
enabling ruthless beetle --busting
in sfp (special forces posture).

I remember my annus horribilis, powerlessly
watching slime and troops multiplying.
Now, I am mighty. You stand no chance.
With vengeance, I pick nemesis off.
Pinching pest heads, crushing
hard bodies with bare hands,
and I don’t care if you’re mating:
All the better, you’ll go in the act.

GREENBACKS

Greenbacks flood spring markets each year, plump and protein rich,
long before toughening days, depletions, drier times of austerity.

Ease the squeeze, go to print, precedence for new tender abounds. Phyto-ink,
leaf-paper reams; stocks are needed for bailing out [photo]synthetic economies.

A no-risk investment for banks gone empty with lending to winds prevailing, a
quantitative ease will stimulate activity on forest floors crawling with traders.

These green skins wrap it all up, do a good job of keeping it all in. With zero per cent
interest, tax exempt and no history of bankruptcy, they remain un[ac]countable.

I have a name

I have a name too, you know,
and it’s not “Buttercup” or “Nettle!”
You look past me, as if I don’t exist,
as though I don’t matter and you couldn’t care
less if I were here or not.
“Cluttering the roadsides like gypsies,”
“best mown down,” I hear or worse,
“spray once or twice per year.”
But if I weren’t growing “out of place,”
what would your world look like?
We’re not just filler, you know,
and don’t need to be weeded, either.
You have to admit, our colours
are a contribution to society, we provide
important services, useful remedies.
“Collection of hoodies, gangs of thugs,”
us commoner annuals and perennials
have a voice too you know, and by the way,
my name’s Papaver dubium to you,
(“Blindeyes” to my mates).

Queen of the Arrow

Damp with endurance, I come to this quiet season
opening court of hope along River Arrow. Parting heavy soil
I enter humble queen: The noble Allium Ursinum.

Aromatically cloaked, I step forth confidently.
Stately carpets distinguish family regalia
in the pungent drama of broad lanceolate leaves.

With elegant sceptres extending towards heaven, I proffer starry white
diamonds to Tilia. Her permanently outstretched limbs above expect
bejewelled alms to feed heart-shaped cordatas by the thousands.

I am no daughter of Ramses, famed Queen of the Nile, holding
royal blue empiric status. Nor the imitateur mortel of cousin
Queen Lily of the Valley, seductively ringing enticing, colonising bells.

I am humble Ramson, the Comestible, (Wild Garlic to my lover)
the Amaryllidaceae in the House of Avon,
crested artery of British heartland.