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Sofia Von Jul 2014
I climbed a tree to see the world....
Well that and get high where the world looks gardened
and glows brighter
as it is demolished and replenished
These elements in nature,
manipulated in a lab,
Can change our entire perspective
quick thoughts!
Meteo  May 2015
Gardened Languor
Meteo May 2015
No. 1

there is a pane of glass
which now occupies the air between us

an indifferent arrow has flown through it
leaving a web of cracks

for which I am trapped
reaching for you

No. 2

the light you bend reaches across room
the same distance travels your voice

it makes me a ghost not to touch you with all that I am
exhaling wanting in your direction

as stars are brought down over head
by the weight of unfulfilled wishes

No. 3

victim to a whisper
pious to an echo

tomorrow I'll be swallowed
I didn't even need a name

lost and unwanted things are entitled
to each other so long as they don't hide

no. 4

it's an open hand
it's a broken window

it's a perpetually naive sky
it's off beat but we're out of line

and I'm waiting for you
one hundred percent of the time

no. 5

out of context
misshapened in parallax

past my expiration date
but you looked at me in a way that dared both of us to exist

when all this is dust
the loudest we'll ever get to be is a secret
"It was not my intention to make such a production of the emptiness between us." - Buddy Wakefield, Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars
DJ Thomas  Jul 2010
Someone knew!
DJ Thomas Jul 2010
I departed Tripoli early on the Thursday
the chauffeur meeting me at Heathrow
Deciding a long weekend was owed
I started to arrange a little romance
pondered on the detail and the where

We sped on into the Cotswold's
thoughts of gardened desert oasis said here

A surprise, hidden across fields in sheltering copse
the entrancing beauty of floating water lilies
of the temple for two on it's spreading pond
within the splendid wonder of a secret garden
locked in by romantic beech leafed escarpments
of Waterly Bottom with a nearby New Inn

But beaten by discerning honeymooners
the hamper and a beach would have to suffice

Winding the slow road took us South
stopping to picnic within Corfe Castle
later beached curves splashed in the sea
rock pools were explored under high cliffs
dinner for two enjoyed at the Grand Hotel
the beautiful view off to France or Swanage

Finally a large curious and dated room
and soft delights sweetened by Sahara oasis

I woke ice cold next to her wrapped warmth
The unexpected unfamiliar presence sat
staring coldly from within it's armchair
lit and wrapped in aged coloured silks
the cob webbed spectre wore a skull cap
it's eyed dry head followed my sitting up
watched as I bit into the flesh of my arm
salty blood informing me of a new reality
poking her side so droplets stained sheets
languorously she commented "Again?"  
my mandarin robed Chinese departed
silently melting in untouchable darkness

Leaving teeth-a-chatter and a new spirituality
with a small hot hand moving touching

I reported on Sahara underground rivers
green gardened oasis and the part I had played
Congratulated, a secondment was mooted
to ensure payment of some outstanding loans
arrangements had already been put in hand
for me to take over some three businesses
based in Indonesia but firstly in Sumatra
later taking owner's responsibilities in Jakarta
They promised a principal Asian role to follow

I knew then their discussions already had result
in the visit of one parties honoured ancestor

Two years on in Indonesia and repayment made
Having helped make happen an increase in production
of archipelagos basic foods paddy and highland corn
through my work with the co-operative movement
My position as Senior Lloyd's Shipping Inspector
and the Lloyd's Shipping Agency given back
The diesel electric maintenance crew working
properly and for it's owners till my departure
I planned the move to Singapore and new challenge
then travel in Asia teamed with my romanced lady

Chopstick adept meetings and the gift of spirituality
had seen me never interfere with Chinese business
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010
Loxlei Blaire Aug 2011
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.
Then the world did pluck my petals away.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain

Further I fought against the worlds pained
Raze of roses: they won and crushed my stem.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.

The gardened battlefield was strewn and stained
With the sweet stench of broken, bullied roses.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.

The white rose ***** of virginity strained
Against hands calloused by the world’s black sin.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.

Despite valiant efforts that were in vain,
We allowed our petals to be torn away.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.

And you, my worldly gardener, did tame
We white roses out of our innocence.
I once was a white rose: pure, perfect, plain.
I became blackened by the world’s disdain.
Patrick N Jan 2015
The garden grows in all directions
Amidst the influence of interfering hands
The waterfall in motion is ceaseless,
Whether asked kindly or implored

Made powerless by that which cannot be changed
Yet, made powerful by knowing that which cannot be changed

The garden grows in all directions
Gardened by our hands
The water falls around us
In the spaces that we created
Heather Moon Jan 2014
Black crows fly above me in the sky. They fly like the wind on a whisper less winter day. They fly in the stream lights of sun, the crisp chill that makes people like chimneys, taking the heat of our internal being and freezing it into steam.

I recall Vancouver at this time, when flimsy white metal iron fences were too cold to touch; when I could see the ***** of frozen water on them, little ice drops. I remember that old Chinese lady, unusual to be a chain smoker but none the less. Outside in her plastic sandals from an Asian dollar store and her hands rubbing briskly as she smoked away. She was older, white haired even. She had some Chinese dolls, golden cats adorning the sides of her door and cement lions greeting faces at her gate.  Her house a “Vancouver special” with red shingled roofs and a flimsy little yard. The chilly morning smog of the city nestled in corners, lingered over sleepy buildings, settled into back doors of coffee shops or swept in a dance with a broom over the awakening shops doormats. Most ladies of the area gardened in their yards or I would catch them sweeping the water off of their back decks but she just sat all day, nothing more to do, just sat, smoking.

The Asian community in Vancouver is vast and big. Chinatown was a mystery to me when I was little. The dragons and fortune cookies, the rows of heads sloping down the hill into the city, the streetlights designed like black gum droplets, gazing at the passer-by’s. My little head opened wide as I held my father’s hand and got lost within the dizzying crowd of fantastic colour and pungent smells like fish or other scents of unknown origin. The unfamiliar language spitting off the tongues of faces I didn’t know. And finally the descent, the bus ride back, the warmth from the heater, warming my little hands that wrapped around a lychee fruit juice box and that golden sun gleaming through the city bus window and strutting on the sidewalks. I would watch the artsy people pass by on the streets, Mohawks, colours, art galleries, and also sophisticated gentlemen in suits or business woman in blazers and heels. Gazing out and seeing each person. Each house each building. Each human, living life so differently yet how similar they all were, we all are. I wonder if I was I just a crescent, a slip in the corners of these people’s eyes. Or perhaps they too recall a similar scene, and in that image within their minds there walks a little girl, ample with curiosity, lost in the wonder.

The crows laugh on electric lines, a time has passed and light drizzles begin to wash over, fogging lines of car windows, drizzling and spraying. The school bus home kind of rain, the one that stains cement and makes sing-song sounds as it drips down the gutters and drainpipes. The rain that makes the colour red pop out, the one that shivers hands and rests on pink cheeks. The crows laugh at my dreaming, as I sit in some old neighborhood leaning on a dumpy alleyways wooden garage door, stuck in some memory. Or rather they laugh because some woman is standing alone in the rain, getting drenched by nature’s eternal bath.
Ren  Jan 2015
Winter in Bloom
Ren Jan 2015
Winter was our season
With lavender in bloom
We gardened so well in darkness
And my love still transfixed
At the thought of your lips
tracing my name with your tongue

And when we loved

God

when we loved

how my mouth loved to echo your shape
I would gather your darkness with the cup of my hands
And drink from your smell and your taste

Burnt in my mouth is red wine and honey
I savor your pleasant and smooth
And still through the night
It’s your voice from behind
That warms my lavender mood
David Hall Sep 2014
my soul wanders when I sleep
where it wills to venture forth
mostly it tells my waking mind not

some nights on a rare occasion
the faintest flickering of a memory
will hold fast till morning sings

some would say it’s just a dream
but what dreams are alive as this
so vivid are these vague remembering’s

just this morning my soul watched the sun
rise over the most beautiful valley
my mortal life has ever seen

the first rays of newborn light
chasing the shadows fast across
valley fields of summer green

my soul has passed the gates of heaven
and walked it’s quiet gardened paths

my soul has peered into the future
and has revisited my past

every so often my soul will stop
to watch the warm summer wind
rustle a single maple leaf

the peace that I remember
from those midnight summer stops
leads my waking mind to weep

darkness draws it’s curtains once again
as I recount what little I recall
and record my pondering

my soul stirs within this mortal shell
anxious to once again be off
on it’s  midnight wandering
Nigel Morgan  Aug 2015
Mid August
Nigel Morgan Aug 2015
It is the tipping point
the harvest well begun
its end in sight
an early morning
retreated to past
five on the clock

mist lay on
the meadowed fields
observed the pond
held tight to the trees

walking the empty road
camera in hand
to catch the chill earliness
in the far fields then back
through the uncared-for orchard
past the forked-fingered ash
still quite still -
the night air collapsing
as the sun rose

Darjeeling
in the white bone-china cup
a kiss of milk
comforting this delicate tea

and light everywhere
between three windows
our table her gifts
from the shoreline
shadowed hard-edged
whilst the back-lit screen
blinks and waits for words

my story blended from fact
pestled into fiction
itself a background
to a further fiction
from a past in ancient time
where each image described
takes aim at the resonant heart
of every exquisite moment


Eight Sketches in a Notebook

I

into a western sky
the sun finds cloudspace
to enter and set
well above the sea’s horizon
and for a while its rays
glimmer upward onto shards
holding remnants of the day’s
unreflected light


II

not a hut of straw and rushes
on a far mountain fastness
this a walled stockade all but moated
gardened inside its bounds
a miniature railway said to surround
a six-cornered house facing seaward
and towards a lagoon on whose banks
little terns nest from April to June
a mirror of light upon which
the solitary soul might dwell


III

rock guardian
standing
mid-beach

its debris
spilled
to water’s edge

still as still as
no wind or wave
pools dark depths

further out
the sea shimmers
ablaze with reflections


IV

hiding an anxiety of hair
a headscarf blue
and spotted white
reveals an ear
and below a sturdy neck
on round shoulders
her bare arms fall to quiet hands
next to thighs trousered  
knee-length to gentle calves
falling further onto bare feet
stood standing on course sand
at the sea’s murmuring edge


V

here the rock opens
its lips to a kiss of light
but deep inside remains
a dark sheltering secret
blackness impenetrable
wide enough for a storm’s
intrusion of water and wind
but beyond such darkness
possibly nothing
- a closed door
of rock?


VI

from my canvas chair
on the flags outside
the white French doors
this drawing – from where
the garden gate once was
a gap between
the honey-suckled hedge
and the long low cottage
above an ash tree waving
its fingered branches
in the afternoon breeze
fresh over the hill
from the sea’s shore
hardly a mile away


VII

the land points seaward
to an island light
a mile off-shore

on a shingled beach
sliced by the sea’s knife
cattle wandered yesterday

in the mist-driven rain we
sleeked wet as dogs approached
on the headland’s path


VIII

littered the land lies
with interruptions
interventions of the built

past beside present
ends amongst beginnings

complex histories
to delve deeper into
on this northern shore

— The End —