We are all a garden
of sorts.
We all spring up
from a single seed.
And like a flourishing tree
or an expanding bush
we can branch out
and multiply
in number and in strength
surrounded by tender loving care,
being watered by others,
paid close attention to
as the gardener nurtures us
to maturity.

We bloom.
We blossum.
Beauty abounds.
Our colors come forth
in a harmony of hues
upon every petal
and every leaf.

But then come the weeds
that choke out our foliage
and wrap around our roots,
our foundations.
The weeds of hatred,
the weeds of bitterness
the weeds of loneliness,
the weeds of shame,
the weeds of fear,
and depression
invade.

Bugs infest our garden
and eat away at us,
tormenting us,
picking away at us,
and the beauty
and produce
that once was the glory
of our garden
has gone away.

Did we do this to ourselves?
We often wonder.
Did the gardener get too passive,
get too neglectul and uncaring
and forget to tend the garden?
Maybe we were not strong enough
to take up the fight,
wilting, fading in the sun.

Yet even a dying flower
produces seeds of growth,
and of renewal,
as a rebirth will come from
its entrance into the earth.
Even the most tragic looking
of sickly plant life
will have a comeback,
a resurrection
of sorts
when golden raindrops
do fall again
like prayers from the sky.

And so it is the gardener
was never asleep on the job,
did not neglect the duties.
And like all healthy ones do
abundant food
shall grow once again
in our garden,
fragrant flowers,
and branches
for the birds to perch upon
when at one time
all seemed dead
and hopeless
and lost.

Worm,
cant't you stand a little rain?
A puddle here,
a puddle there
You squirm so helplessly,
desperately seeking out higher ground,
hurriedly scurrying for shelter,
but stuck in a rut
for want of dry land

Some lay before you,
fully defeated,
a mass exodus of worm refugees
The blazing sun
shall work against you,
to parch the ground below
How cruel does this world
seem towards you
when all you want is to stay alive?
To survive,
to thrive,
for one more day

I will seek Your face
I will run the race
Weary and tired,
but awe inspired,
I will seek Your face

Snake prowls
Preying owls
Welcome to the jungle

Night things emerge
Carnivores get the urge
Welcome to the jungle

Rainforest mammal
Dry desert camel
All know the law of the land

Swinging monkey on a tree
Or the flower-loving bumble bee
Know a jungle when they see one

Creatures with hungry jaws
Tear flesh with razor claws
For that's how a jungle should be

Man so set apart
Just because he has a human heart?
The joke's on me

So bask in the fantasy
That life comes so easily
Then welcome to the jungle

I lit
the wick,
a slow start,
barely a fire...
almost smoldering...
but
just the same,
there's a flame
rising above
a flicker.
And I can see
no doubt
it's gonna shine.

If I embrace it
it sifts through my hands
like sand in an hourglass
It has been about as obtainable to gather
as carrying water within my fingers

Time has not been my friend
It has mocked me for all the countless
swings of the pendulum
that I did not heed.
One day I was a child,
but then I blinked
and I was grown

Only when I wanted time
to hurry itself along
did it trick me again
as if to tell me
it would take its time
Only then did its busy hands
seem to stand still

It rudely invades my dreams
when it is not welcome
sounding the alarm
to call me to attention,
and I must answer its dictates
as the world does not wait
for slackers such as me

I wear it on my wrist
like I am bound to it,
a symbol of my mortality
Its ticking away
I cannot escape
Its two hands
I'd like to break
and smash its face
against a wall

At times

Child, woman.
Wise, innocent.
Stained from the past
with blood of the ages,
generations make their nations
out of common DNA.

Slipping slowly
is my memory of youth.
Not forever forgotten,
but the little girl inside
is like an apparition,
who has tried to go away
for good.
I yearn for the newness she once had,
and I wonder if I'll ever
know her again.

Paradoxical chimes
on the ticking clock
fog my yesterday
and alarm my tomorrow.
Memories are like a sun-setting dusk,
some at peace, some not.
The future and I never met
But I want to race there to meet it
and not in foolishness pass by today.

Not underaged,
not a wise, old sage,
I'm a half-breed to both
Thirtysomething.
Stuck in the middle.
Wading waist deep in exasperation
waiting to fly,
to fly higher and higher,
regretting that I did not fly that far.
But I cannot turn this watch inside out,
I cannot turn back time.
Can I accept that?

I'm half brave,
half afraid.
I'm part greedy,
part giving.
I want to be part
of the whole picture
of the puzzle...
but I'm holding back
the missing piece.

Child, woman.
I'm a tree splintered in two directions,
and after much inspection,
I wonder...

Which one will I be?