there’s a garden in my chest – I pulled out a couple of
weeds, buried a handful of thorns, choked a sunflower
seed that was trying to grow. growing sick of watered-down
versions of love, my soul sneezed; cheeks squeezed to utter
those emotionless words from my lips,
                                      
                                                       “hey, it’s okay, I’m okay.”

In the garden of emotions, love may bloom wild, a vibrant flower, tender, meek, or mild.
But deeper still, beneath the surface lies, the soil of respect, where true love’s root abides.
For love without respect, a fleeting flame, may rise in passion, but wanes the same.
Yet when respect in love’s foundation dwells, It forms a bond that time nor trial quells.

Greater than love, respect does stand, a silent guardian, a steady hand. It nurtures love, allows it space to grow, In the warm light of acceptance, it glows.
So let us plant respect first in our heart, for where it lives, true Love shall never part.

a rose garden
filled with beautiful flowers
on the surface
but inside is a tangled web of thorns
every petal another lie, another
"i'm fine, i'm ok"

topiaries in twisting, beautiful shapes
all of roses
lovely on the surface
a fairy tale come true
but that's just what it is

a story

but when the flowers wilt,
when the topiaries grow wild,
the thorns grow larger until they start to stab themselves
millions of tiny punctures
as the music plays
and the petals fall
and the thorns strike the heart
and the vines grow over the corpse

The dead woman’s cat in the furrows of the garden
does not let herself be picked up
although hungry and thin after five days
with the dead woman and a night in the rain.
It has gone to join the other feral cats
among the junk behind the house. To be outrageously
******. On my way to work I try to entice it
with false friendship, guilt that the dead woman is dead.

On my way home I buy a can of cat food
but can’t find the cat. I let her go
to her fate. Later that night I try again
but there’s a tom waiting in her place.

Maybe I could have saved her if I’d known
her husband overdosed last week. Just maybe,
no more.
I ask the neighbors what happened to the kid.
The kid lives with her grandparents, they just used her for welfare.

I used to say
Somebody dies every day, it’s normal.
Finding and being found
by a woman, enjoying some romance, having children
and in that context earning a living
which becomes what you say when someone asks
what you do.
Doing something that proves you are alive
since the outcome will so easily be the opposite.
Stay near the earth people
that’s the way to grow old.

golden rays of sun, kiss Your soft cheeks.
and clovers sprout in the path You followed.
Your pomegranate lips softly hum, melodic a
as a nightingale's song. I ache for a taste.
Oh my persephone, bring on the season,
where hyacinth blooms and morning dew
sleeps soundly on fields. Your lovely soul,
as pure as springs beauty. for star-shine
sparkles in your eyes. lighting up all of
earth, all of My life along with it. gentle
hand, intertwined. bless me with Your
glace. baptize me, pomegranate kiss.
planting seeds inside, My heart. budding,
growing. my Love for You, flourishes like a
garden. forever abundant.

You with your Rosmarin laugh
and Sunflower eyes
with your Dandalin smile
and angellike mind
The garden within you
it blooms with your growth
It smells like the wets
of a fresh summer rain
Where the Clouds they pass by
Soft winds in your hair
You outshine it all, the sun in your soul

Prettiest boy,
reincarnated sun
You shine to bright
To keep eyes on you for long
You burned in my mind
I see you asleep
My indsides defind
everytime you breath

You're warm to each touch
Your mind is beyond
The reach of my love
Your garden it blooms
It grows with each tear
A lover has lost
On your lonely love

Prettiest boy
No sundown compares
No sunrise alights
When you're by my side
My beeing it arches
To get youre attention
But ever song listend to often
Gets gladly forgotten

So when youre leaves start falling
When your clouds get gray
When your wind is harsh
Remember me every day
The music once was alive
But there'll be new songs in your live
February it's still not time
For new flowers to bloom
For tulpits and roses
For lilies and iris
For me to forget you

You made my trees so alive
Your made my garden green
And my apples red
My oranges soft
And my insids burn
'Caus fruit and flowers are gardens the same
But one cannot go on
In the cold winters embrace

The writer of songs wishes to compose for his lover yet to come,
he asks the night if she will come as a floret in the wind
to caress him as a candle’s light, the lyrical harmony of
his beloved is clearer than the shower of the spheres
upon the deep violet petals, he rests into slumber
as a dreamlike vision appears of her hands softer
than velvet in motion upon the strings of the mandolin,
the gazes of him and her rivet as the one, gentle hymn of their souls,
he harrowly arouses then walks to his thistly rose garden, revelation
arrives to him so he returns home to begin the inking of the symbols
on the music sheet papers, through his symphonies, he
resolves to tell the endless fables of love and tragedy.