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Perhaps his duality would always be
Irreconcilable,
For had he not been made this way
by genetic chance?
A hulking man with gardener's shirt
and biker's leather pants?
He might speed along a coastal highway,
Wind in his greasy hair,
Unchopped Harley shivering,
Eyes watering from the wind,
or was it because of sheer depth of soul?
As he peeled along, avoiding fatal curves,
Did his thoughts of roses blooming
keep him from launching himself
into the fog?
Were the droplets on his face,
full of salt from the sea,
the same as those he saw
in the morning dew on his flowers?
He was a not a Hunter Thompson,
who might return home to drink and write
reams of rage against the foul Effendi,
who beset him at night
after descending from their mansions.
Yet he too needed respite and beauty,
an Owl Farm in his mind,
Or a hotel on Sunset Boulevard,
Safe under the canopy, among the palms,
His security, not a typewriter
but a garden of perfect roses
that he would tend and breed,
Keeping beauty alive to feed
His hidden desire for peace and order.
Like an old man in the country,
The “rose rustler”he played
Lived in a little house,
His unassuming paradise,
with a cat, as secretive as him,
a lone goldfish in a bowl,
who looked out each day on
manicured paths and brick walls,
worthy of any English manor,
with acres of flowers,
dozens of colors...
but every single one a rose.
This whole thing sprang out of a title from a photo site, combined with an excellent book I read, "Freak Kingdom", by Timothy Denevi, about Hunter Thompson's "Ten years of fighting against American Fascism". If you read this, it would help to listen to Elvis Costello's "Brilliant Mistake" simultaneously!
She
wished
to write
the diary
of a flower,
unknowing
of how the
pages were
endless,
as the
song
of her
beautiful
mind the
garden
came
forth
from,
her
soft
angel
eyes
opened
for the
eyes of
a book
within
her private
perusal,
where her
being had
came to the
embrace,
and so
followed
her heart,
the rest
came
In waves
as her
hands
stroked her
gentle
features,
her skin
was the
winter
moon,
though
not fairer
than her
deeper
thoughts
as a blue
sea with
the softer
whispers
of clouds,
her home
lyed within
the deepest
part of the
library,
seldom
wandering
to the cafe,
her heart
wished to
sees beauty
In others
veiled to
the eyes,
wondrously,
she meditated
upon the light
waiting to be
sought, the
butterfly
to touch
her palms,
eventide
fell as
she walked
through the
garden by
the moon,
hidden
with the
roses
forever,
the poet
of love who
gazed upon
a symphony
of dew-beads
as stars,
appearing
as shrines
of memory,
as the night
lights of a
universe
for only
her,
as she
gazed
upon them,
with her
gentle
voice,
she sang,
“can I call
this love,
or the words
of falling rain?”
as she watched,
with the leaves,
and the gentle
dew, opening for
love letters
untold,
her lips
touched
the petals,
and tears
fell from
her eyes,
and upon
the white
petals,
the night
sleeps
forever,
the tears
became
the far
tides
of an
ocean,
love is
the rose
of suffering
and beauty,
and the one
whom has
known it
lives forever
as a home
for others,
the nightingale
sings as her
Ink flowed as
waves
upon her
papers,
where she
wandered, with
meditations upon
Monet arose
as lullabies
of a secret
world,
songs of
honeysuckle
and wisteria
brighter
than the
wings
of fairies,
the small gifts of
precious wonders
she held with all
the curiosity
in her hands,
as she
thought
to herself,
are these
lights, or
the few
thousands
teaching
her to
dance
from
within?
she reaches
the waters,
and the
delicate,
fair form
touched
the moonlit
mirrors,
where she
witnessed
the truth
beyond
words,
amongst
the tear
painted
petals, the
moon sings
the symphony
for her, “are you
the one I have
been seeking?”
as it’s light
touches her
wandering
steps, she
returns to
her home,
and in her
blankets,
she writes,
“to my lover,
I will remember
how we met
each other
as waves,
from the
lost, far
away
parts
of the
ocean,
we found
the shores
becoming
eyes, they had
sought themselves
to be lost in legions
of constellations
in the galaxies
of hearts,
with the stars
that waited
to be born,
the flecked
specks of light in
divinations of the
midnight hours,
and reminisced
the dappled
dreams of
colors and
witnessed
beauteous
musing, in
the cafe,
where our
conversations
poured
the seas
into cups
of tea, and
explored
the question
of metamorphosis
through words,
shifting time
through the
touching of
marble cups
and the colloquy
of our eyes, the
artistry in the
miracle of the
gentle, I walked
In flight with you,
as we shared the
unspoken stories
of our hearts
woven through
the rain,
under the
umbrellas
leading
to your
home,
where we
watched
the paintings
of the night
skies as the
memories
of us, the
lights
touched
by the
secret
garden,
where I
wandered”.
her hands
then closed
the pages,
and her eyes
rested upon
the pillow,
and the
moon
chants,
“O fair
maiden,
you are
the one
whose
existence
Is loved, the
nightingale
has sung to
you upon
It’s branch
near your
window,
though
fairer is
your
voice,
you are
the gentle
one who
turns all
of what
you have
seen to
artistry,
when
you love,
all is in
bloom,
la fleur
de lune.
Kelci 4d
When I split myself open
You reached a steady hand
Into a garden overgrown
With briars and stillborn blooms,
Plucking them away
With loving fingers,
Ignoring the wounds
That came from tending to me

Once every wilted vine
Had been cleared
From a trellis made of bones
You began plucking
Even the smallest of thorns
From my punctured heart,
Planting new seeds
In the holes left behind

Then you took my trembling hands
Into your bloodied palms
And showed me how to  
Make a garden grow

©FaerieFoxPoetry
Laine Viv Aug 2014
I've told people not to let others
plant flowers inside them,
for they will leave,
and all the loveliness inside them
will wither and die

I've said it as if
it's the simplest thing in the world.

But clearly, it isn't.

And you don't get to choose
who will do it,
when they will,
or whether they will.
You won't feel it when they finally do.

One day you'll wake up
with a garden blooming inside you

until they leave,
and you've got nothing
but tears to water what they've left.
Like flowers of different colours decorate a garden
So we through our differences adorn the earth
For there is beauty in difference
Written by Sean Achilleos 13 January 2019©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms:
Amazon, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Play, Pandora, Saavn, SoundCloud, Spotify, Tidal, YouTube, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China) and YOUKU (China)

Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is obtainable from the following platforms:
Smashwords, Amazon, Wordery, Kobo, Exclusive Books, Takealot, HelloPoetry, Loot, Overdrive, Bokus, Barnes and Noble
amelia Jan 12
walking past fountains of roses,
she caressed them with her hands.
soft petals kissed her fingers and
thorns, piercing the pads of her fingertips.

wandering to the golden pond, lying
down.
letting her hands play in the fronds of the grass,
flicking up glistening emeralds of water that
glimmered
in the sun.
flickering moons,
fresh diamonds,
new life so quickly taken.
written whilst listening to your song by elton john
amelia Jan 11
roses
spurted as if from fountains atop messy beds
of lilies and lilacs,
jumbled together in a rush of colour that
seemed to have more and more detail
the more you gazed at it.

the sun shone
over the garden like liquid honey
melting over the peeling paint
of the white trellis that held
twining ivy
and heavily scented jasmine in its grasp.

and there, glazing the morning garden,
lay an aureate, flaxen
glow.
written while listening to i'd like to walk around in your mind someday by vashti bunyan
Fingertip
dipped
in white
powder,

My visage
drawn
with black
grease paint,

Who am I now?
Have I been the same?
What validity is there
to your lover's claims?

I've become the goblin king,
so who am I to want to heal myself,
when my self and its persistent sick
continue to do their poisoning?

Buck *****,
drenched
with sweat,
dancing.

My brain
quenched
by my
purpose.

Move and move.
Strike, tow, bend,
twist, and snake the lines.

There's a truth beneath the truth
that first surfaces, the truth as it exists
without a spin from prying minds.

To obscure the err to serve the ego
splits your merger with heavy veils.

Have you no shame?
I must know shame,
and accept shame's
innate dark side,

where shame is fruitless.
Ofelia Jan 9
Some flowers for you
To make you bloom,
Bring you peace,
Make you think of me.
Let it be serenity.
A garden where you can be free,
Grow with love,
Sprinkled by joy.
Let it be nirvana.
A place where there's no trauma,
To concentrate on the good,
Where feelings can be savoured.
Think of my flowers
When times are hard.
They're strong and prospered
Just like your heart.
Sarah Foster Jan 8
Untouched places. I cannot keep happiness for myself. I have to share it with everyone. A pure place becomes poisoned by their footprints. Memories of them cover the ground in the form of weeds. I could try to tear them from the dirt but what is the use? I bring someone new to **** them for me but no! Their roots are tangled. How will I rip them out now? I try again. If these weeds were flowers this garden would be beautiful. My once safe place is safe no longer. The weeds, they will grow. I will lie down and disappear within them. They were good memories once. When I was young I never understood why my mother plucked them from the ground. When I was young I thought everything beautiful. My mother is still beautiful. When I was fourteen I started hurting myself. When I was fourteen I knelt next to my mother. We compared our ***** hands. Mine look more like hers with every year. Her weeds grew at home. Home was never a pure place. I let the weeds grow and when I left I set them on fire. She envied me for this. She does not know all the places I must pick the weeds from. She does not know I find safety anywhere but there. She does not know I plant the poison. She does not know I invite them there. I do not want the false image of safety. I bring the danger so it comes at no surprise. Imagine your beautiful garden, cared for for years and there! Where did it come from? No. I hate surprises. I know where my weeds grow from. Those **** footprints. But whatever. I'll find another pure place. Maybe this time only my footprints will cover the ground, flowers growing from each one.
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