a poem in my pocket

The Farmer plants seeds in his field

and from the dust grow living vines

which, with time and tender care,

produce a lovely patch of pumpkins.

But the locals, jealous of his bounty,

declare the neighborhood is overrun

with too many pumpkins already and

decide to selectively smash and destroy.

“Let’s pull little ones off the vines!”

they yell, and pluck the smallest orbs,

prematurely; throwing them on the

refuse pile, unripe and unwanted.

Then they notice some fully grown

pumpkins that didn’t develop into

perfect specimens – a little lopsided,

warty, or sporting misshapen ridges.

“We cannot stand to look at them!”

Those deemed imperfect pumpkins

are next to be ripped from the vines

and carelessly heaved into the ditch.

Obviously, all worthy pumpkins

must be a rich shade of true orange;

so pumpkins of different shades or

mottled skin must also be tossed out.

By now, pumpkin-smashing fever has

caught the mob in a frenzy of destruction

until they leave only busted bits of shells,

slimy orange guts and the Farmer’s tears.

(Photo and poetry prompt from brian  at d’Verse Poets.)