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Olena Y Sep 28
Barn swallows swarm in the nests near the ridge of the roof – they never fly away for the winter because summer in that garden is not ruled by the calendar.

Pears always ripen there, sweet purple grapevines are covered with wasps and apples fall right on to the table…
Here I will always cut flowers into bouquets and make wreaths of dainty mummy’s dahlias and cosmos…

I’ll always collect my herbs and press them to dry in an old book. I just want to preserve my memories…

…how our kitten caught the lizard and how I plucked her to safety. How I held her small body in the palm of my hand and studied the patterns on her skin. How still she was…resigned to her fate. This time you’re in luck, babe. I let you go to the warm cover of the well… you disappeared just like that…will you survive the winter?

I can already feel the coolness of autumn and wrap myself in a blanket to sit down on the porch to sip my tea.

I do the same things I have done so many times in my life…
...ever since you showed me how at midnight Ursa Major and her baby bear walk around our roof, how a salty, starry road leads south and drops its stars in our garden…over and over again in a circle…

The only thing I am sure of now is that shooting stars pay no heed at all to our wishes – they just burn up in the atmosphere and leave no trace behind.
A Dedication.
to My Father
in the maze of your soul I discovered the center was a beautiful garden, wild, unrulely and begging to bloom in the light of another. I have fallen in love with it and am happily lost there for eternity.
Jodie Davies Sep 24
There's a grey sky
over our magic garden,
the one I slept in as a child.
I remember when your voice
would bring my room to life
like the way we made
a pink butterfly in a book
when we coloured
between the lines.
My white pillow
sprouted red roses.
The shadows of the branches
on the wall swayed to
'you are my sunshine'
like the silhouettes of fairies
in the books we read
before we came here.
You said what blooms here never dies.
We coloured this world in so well
that there's no room
between the lines for worries.
There's a grey sky
over our magic garden.
When you left,
it took my sunshine away.  

Now I lay alone  
in a storm.
I try to sleep
to the sound of rain
that I made up
to mask the sound of silence.
Dead flowers balance on the edge
of your unmarked grave,
like time worrying about
all the bad things that haven't happened yet.  
Our garden is a dead land.
I grab hold of its only sturdy root
to stop me being
swept away by the storm.
Wrinkles form
where your hands should be and
my only friends are birds. They too,
silent as they wait
for you to come home
and colour them in once again.
Reminiscing on my childhood and those who got me here.
A secret buried
Blooms lies, and in time, they turn
Themselves, to secrets.
Ackerrman Sep 20
Happy, drooping, yellow blossom over-
Hangs and peers drearily toward the dirt.
Leering with might, towering poor clover
Who trembles and asks, “How was one so hurt?”

Daffodil smiles a wry smile and chuckles,
“Young one, the tides of time meander, break,
Thrash the fearful boat until it buckles,
Naivety led me to this glum state”.

Clover sat in quiet contemplation
Until, “Daffodil, you are a victim
Of turning time’s sad manipulation,
Revere the present- make it your kingdom.

Startled, the proud, tall flower spoke no words,
Craned neck to the sun, drank plentifully.
At length, listened to the sound of the birds,
Saw beauty in the garden, presently.

“Colour, the wealth enriching this garden
Feels to me, a small boat in the ocean
Beating on against the tide- a burden,
An ill-fated, cumbersome devotion”.

A blue Jay sensed the trouble from the trees,
Made a detour from its usual way,
Beseeched the flower, hopped down to her knees,
“Not everything in this world fades to grey.

This life can be free and beautiful, Daf!
Grow so tall but you rarely see the sky,
Take a look in the endless blue and laugh,
The bright yellow orb will never need die”.

Languid flower feels the sun on his neck,
The rays passing through his delicate hands,
He cranes his head toward the ground to check
The answer does not lie in the brown lands.

Eyes as feelers pointed toward the ground,
A wriggling worm wraps around the words,
“Dear flower, you make a terrible sound,
Being so down, I have come to be heard.

The dirt that nourishes you so freely
Has God’s plan in every grain of soil,
The world is connected in every
Facet, in every beautiful smile”.

We are your friends, the life that cares for you,
So if you can’t be alive for yourself,
If you can’t find a reason to live too,
Keep spreading magic for your friends, get through.
One of three poems I have written concerning the life of garden flowers
Mia Sep 18
A garden in the backyard,
The garden of our dreams
The garden of our childhood,
Do you see how odd it feels?

Our hands no longer touching
The softness of the mud,
No longer flowers blooming
Does it scare you that I'm mad?

Our mom still swims in tulips
Father withered years ago,
Maybe if we close our eyes now
We won't have to see him go.

That's the garden of our childhood
The garden of our dreams,
We can never face adulthood
For its poison still exists.
Th­is poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled " कौन है वह" published in Hindi Literary Magazine 'Himprastha' in July 2010

­Who stitched the moon and the stars on the sky sheet?
Who filled the *** of the earth with such a huge ocean?

Who grew the colorful flowers in the courtyard garden?
Who brought different kinds of creatures in the forest?

From where the butterfly hovering on the flowers came?
From where the beetle flying around the roses came from?

Who taught the birds to twitter such sweet sound notes?
Who made the cuckoo sung a melodious song from neck?

Where the force of gravity in the earth did came from?
Where the water in the flowing rivers did came from?

Who inhabited so many living creatures in the deep sea?
Who made the birds flew even at the height of the sky?

Who gave the cuckoo a sweet and the crow a husky tone?
Who gave heat to the sun and a cold shade to the full moon?

Who gave light body to the ant and a heavy body to an elephant?
Who gave wisdom to the wise and much wealth to the greedy?

Who plated the mountain peaks with multiple layers of snow?
Who made the diamond mines in so much depths of the earth?

Who filled the clear waters in the chest of hard rocks?
Who induced the innocence in the small little children?

Who is he? How is he? who made such a beautiful world
He is GOD, self-proclaimed, who made the whole world

He has no end and has no beginning, he is omnipresent
All this is God's Illusion. This is Illusion of the Almighty

कौन है वह ?

अम्बर की चादर पर किसने टाँके चाँद सितारे
धरती की गागर में किसने भर डाला सागर

उपवन के आँगन में किसने रंग बिरंगे फूल उगाये
जंगल  के प्रांगण में किसने भांति भांति के प्राणी लाये

पुष्पों पर मंडराती तितली भला कहाँ से आयी
फूलों पर मंडराते भौरें भला कहाँ से आये

पक्षियों को कलरव गीत किसने है सिखलाया
कोयल के मधुर कंठ से किसने गीत गवाया

पृथ्वी में गुरुत्वाकर्षण का बल कहाँ से आया
नदियों की बहती धारा में जल कहाँ से आया

सागर की गहरायी में भी किसने जीव बसाये
अम्बर की ऊँचाई में भी किसने पंछी उड़ाये

किसने दी कोयल को मीठी, कौए को कर्कश वाणी
किसने दी सूरज को गर्मी और चन्दा को शीतल छाया

किसने दी चींटी को हल्की और हाथी को भारी काया
किसने दी ज्ञानी को बुद्धि और लोभी को भारी माया

पर्वत के शिखरों पर किसने हिम कि परत चढ़ाई
पृथ्वी कि गहराई में किसने हीरे कि खान बनाई

चट्टानों के सीने में किसने भर दिया निर्मल पानी
छोटे-प्यारे बच्चों में किसने भर दी नादानी

कौन है वह? कैसा है वह? जिसने सुन्दर जगत बनाया
वह तो प्रभु है, स्वयंभू है, जिसने सारा जगत बनाया

आदि न उसका, अंत न है, सर्वत्र वही तो छाया है
यह  तो  माया  है प्रभु की,  प्रभु  की   है यह सब माया

Let's Find Out, Who is HE?????
Watching the archetypal parable filler sealing his fate with a seed,
and see the walls of the story blossoming off to the sky.

It seems to offer impossibility bottled and wreathed,
a leaf in season to whittle through to the blossom in time.

The time he took to fear it, board windows, ignoring the means,
and flailing crops are not to halt the work ,and question the why.

He finds a seed to bury deep within the walls of his dreams,
a kind of thief to be policing the light.

The hubris in a few ferocious branches,
accruing the subtle stances required, refusing visitor glances at the shrine
The thorns swallow a rich canopy buried beneath
and keep a perilous gift hanging for traveler thigh

Time echoes in hope of lending vestige's light, crying out
to see the breadth of the line.
To see the tangential nature of the leaf,
and know the grief elucidated and reaped
for a return on what we sow in the vine

Another garden enclosed.
A partial view of the sky.
A further longing for truth.
Assume a gruesome divide.
Aloof and hardened to bone.
A carving suited for pine.
A starving forest in use.
Abuse is moving inside.

Confusing and dried.

He's choosing his pride.

Refusing a guide.

Losing his mind.
a small
millennium house
much younger than it looks

a worn brick frame
skirted by a quaint, welcoming
red mulch garden

lace and fine gilt bone china
tucked away in
innumerable glass-fronted
cherry cabinets
bathed in the peachy florida light
streaming in through
clustered windows
framed by luscious,
flowing cloth drapery

pears soap,
soft, satin water,
and ceramic figurines
of angels and saints,
hares and doves

biblical verse, hung on the walls
and photos of relatives
i’ve never met

cushy, paisley-patterned sofas,
always something on the stove

flower arrangements on the mantle
aside a baldwin upright

no, this is not home.
but regardless, i know that here,
i will
always be welcome
a quick bus-ride write... not my best but i still think it’s something ;)
Strung Sep 3
Slowly slowly creeping up the vine
How many ants will die in my lifetime?
How many crave the sun deep below the earth
And care nothing for the vine the mind is telling them to search?
Grapes grown over
Over over over
Crushing wooden posts and stealing sun from most
My watermelon plants.
How many questions circling uselessly...
And how many ants never get the chance
To see the end
Of a daunting, pointless task.
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