When He saw famine,
He fed them
When He saw plague
He healed them
When He was reviled, persecuted
betrayed, scourged, broken,
impaled and crucified.
He blessed them.
When He bled,
He sanctified them
When He embraced the sins of a wicked world,
He redeemed them

I am counting things
at night numbers, dreams
hum of a hundred bells
soft harps to soothe
sweet with birds colored blue
in the tiger grass, big eyed cats
twitchy whiskers and paws
they sleep beneath tree limbs
branches wild and gnawed.

Do not wake me
while the garden is glowing
a thousand flowers in rows
I am fixed on violets
hydrangeas indigo blue
with fingers I paint thick
brick in red rose variants
on the lawn peacocks in resplendence
with monde blue-green iridescence
and a million gypsophila clouds pass by.

where do you go
when you shrink yourself
so small?

sometimes i imagine
when you shrink
into this fragile thing,
in some far away place
the pieces of your self you hid
are growing exponentially,
a garden in full bloom.

someday i’ll be too busy to notice the vampires
the sun wakes me up and i know who i am
maybe the chaos will always be there but
i’ll find a way to break it down into mulch and grow
pears and herbs and gardenias from what’s left of me
it takes a while to accept that the shadows matter
and i can’t pretend to know the watermelon lollipop
without the tongue that exists only to melt it away
to turn it into nothing until all that’s left is a paper stick
it might feel like freedom now but it can’t forever
i’ll pull down the curtains and never snooze an alarm again
the worst thing i can think of is writing the same poem
each day for the rest of my life and everyone knowing it
but me

Colors so bright I swear I could smell them,
     a perfect kaleidoscope of hues.
Blinding me with excitement,
deafening me with their awe and beauty.

Roses curled up in a lovely kiss,
in shades of pink, white and red.
Tempting me with their ****** ambiguity,
waving like a stranger
in the wind.

Daisies giving me a friendly smile,
with their innocent, white petals.
Inviting me to sit and chat,
and perhaps share a cup of tea
to discuss our days over.

Lilies sprawling about,
with their elegant, flamingo pink flavor.
Drooping like a chandelier,
and revealing the secrets hidden within.

Tulips as purple as the plums
I picked from my grandmother's tree.
Mocking me with their vibrant personalities,
yet contained and uptight all the same

Their identities shine
through their wordless expressions.
I find more comfort here
than among the loud and thoughtless.

My birds,
a winsome kaleidoscope of colour and sound
I stand within myself in my clearing, a tiny, circular garden
filled simply with encroaching trees and
a circle of pale concrete underfoot

Marred only
with snaring daisies, quiet
allure, and I take the time to romance the colours I behold so dearly
as they swim through my blurred, jarring vision and as I
melt wholly into the river beside me.

My garden is the only good left in this world
especially now that I have left it.