a fire started in her rose garden
there were no hearts to find them red
no love left in the floral scent hidden in smoke.

there's a birthday party on the other side of the fence
the sound of water and the wind pushing leaves.

Ardor or Orphic
What wheat has become
A blanket for a beating heart?
Not rushed but suddenly
Sewn in this

Sweet cacophony of impertinent rhythm

What roses, mad and pure,
In mid-efflorescence hide playfully
Amongst flax-strung tongue figurines such as these?
Effort wrought brought stars to skin
A celestial proposition in Morse Code
Blinking with summer’s language
Batting eyelashes light up saccharine
Skies of humid veneration

And the gardens before us,
In all their fervor
Cast heat deep into Evening’s cerulean ocean
And the gardens before us,
In all their fervor
Cast heat deep into Evening’s cerulean ocean,

And our bodies reflexive
Rippled and dissipated in a breeze
Of delicate liqueur almost as if
We were nothing at all all along

My mind is an ocean,
with no waves to surf,
no water to swim,
it is only a place to think of death.

My mind is a garden,
with no space to bloom,
though it has time to chase butterflies,
it is only a place to burry the truth.

My mind is the forest,
with no place to rest,
no enchanted story or a crazy tale,
it is only a place where other minds protest.

My mind is earth,
where countless people die,
it has no mornings and nights,
it is only a place to think of death.

peace of mind.
Zani 2d

Beautiful garden guide
These beds wherein thoughts collide
Fetch syllables and rhyme to hymn
'Twix scented spore cloud of distorted sage
Smudge caramel blend energy
Begin cleansing ceremony
Mend this friend matter for me

As spade digs to save unwanted flowering
Excavation stage psychic
Makes towering tracks on my consciousness
Mid-trance face met deep purple mess
All the while quandary sprout on my face
Where the universe has me meet solid stone
Thereupon I will sit
Admire the timing of it

Watch the wet rise fall
I have seen the seed grow
Ebbing lunar sheen flow into
Subterranean particles
Swallowing water into their memory
Symphonic seasonal sermon
With an allegory at heart
To be judged by mere mortals
Then consumed at its prime

So is my love
Watch it regrow
I sow seeds wherever I go
Busying my light body
Gathering buzzing energy where I can
Serve the flowering minds at hand
That forget me not
For I do not forget
Although stubborn attitude hardens my heart yet
Into sacred solitude where hard work can off sweat
This stoic smirk I have left that pleads gratitude for life

In doing so I derange my surroundings
Be it fork, trowel or bare handed
My own primal, tactile re-alignment
Proper communion with environment
To prove that we are all divine
In face of all we negate ourselves
For reasons I’m yet to know

Until then In this mud
I kneel stubborn as stone
Long time wont moving
For the mana that runs through me
Lights ablaze solar mane
Beacon for the like mind magnetic pact
We all made
Before samsara

Perhaps then you will join me
And grab a shovel

Inspired by work in a housing coop (Chicken Shack) in West Wales.Summer 2016
Rose L 4d

The sex of a rose is fluid, and pertains to no one.
It curls, and pulls lucid around thorns and dark mahogany bark,
You may be blessed, and see her red face turned to face the sun -
or she may crawl in the undergrowth, shrugging off the pot you gave her and show her floral palms to the dark.
We all desire her velvet powder petals.
We all wish to do as we did as children, and take a hip
between our fingertips -
And crush the sweet, sticky sap from its vessel.
But leave her be, and let her petals rot where they fall
or next year she will not show her face at all.

this is actually one of my favourite poems i've written. I tried to use old fashioned imagery - the idea of a rose - to put across a feminist statement about my own sexuality, and how people seek to control it. The poem intends to encourage my, and other womens, own autonomy in sex. The imagery of the child crushing the rose hip is an observation of mens brutish, childish, careless sexuality in the way they treat female bodies.

the bumble bee
finds me
a ribald joke

hell bound
to poke
into me

an ancient song
of its folk

Where is Peter Rabbit?

There was a patisserie I loved,
everything was shaded with pastel colors.

Awnings carved in gold,
flourishes coming up because it's my favorite garden.
He used to be in that garden, but not anymore.

You had three sweet sisters,
We drink raspberry-flavored tea,
the air was soft and graceful.
We wore dresses with thin lace at the edges,
matching hats with the dresses.
Transparent colors, like our hearts.
We perfumed with violets and art.

Flopsy was kind and generous,
Mopsy was attentive and virtuous,
Cottontail was imaginative and talented,
I was a mix of all.

One day Peter Rabbit came through the door,
touched and disheveled for breaking the code
in the garden.
We look at each other like a second and now I live in that second.
The times you showed up at the door and we never said a word,
that game I liked to ►

Then you disappeared because You wanted to evolve.
I stood there without knowing anything about Peter Rabbit.
Little reality was lost, Peter.
(You wanted that?)

Now we are the greyhound and March hare, playing the one who runs the most.

Why did Peter Rabbit leave?

-Codelandandmore // 0:36 ©

Miss Beatrix Potter little tribute.

Kale greens. Beets grow fat and wine-dark.
Carrots spin sun into fibrous orange.
Someone carried soil up these stairs.

Onions open long fingers into the morning fog.
Small herbs and winter squash keep quiet company
here on the rooftop while sirens pass below.

In the afternoon one or two leave their e-mail
and ascend to this improbable place.
“Put your hands into the dirt,” a doctor advised,

and you’ll feel better.”  There is a time to plant
and a time to reap.  A time when nature, nearly
spent, needs tending in small places.

Boat-weary immigrants lay bok choy along
the sidewalk’s edge.  Geraniums bloom
in window boxes.  Here and there

insistent chilis dangle on a bush in a half-
barrel.  A rooftop is world enough for now.
You don’t need forty acres or a mule.

A few square yards, drip line, a couple
of spades and willing hands suffice.
The rest is blessing.

ScorpioPoems Jun 18

If only the Roses in me would not wither,
slowly losing all their leaves,
how crumbled they look - like old leather,
longing for their Gardener

Star BG Jun 17

I shall tend to my garden.
My word of thoughts that are seeded,
to blossom at any time of day.

I shall tend to my field.
My plot of ideas that grow well,
that need to be harvested.

I shall take hoe to heart ,
and prune what doesn't serve
then a poem will be displayed
on window cil of my writers heart.

Inspiried by Sirita
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