Fences enclose sweaty trees
of palms, apricots and figs,
while dried-up roses suffer
heat, next to stubborn hortensia
striving, to blossom despite
anomalous murderous drought.
An infant baobab travelled
all the way from Dakar to be
planted in a pot in Rome, while
the fragile bonsai changes
place everyday victim,
of my indecision fearing
a premature death.
Parsley, basil, oregano and thyme
On rosemary’s opposite side,
Emanate odours of culinary
Makings, as a lonely herb grows
In a corner, unfolding potential
Of future rewards, paid in smoke.
Aloe and cactuses evergreen
Surrounded, by dead leaves
Stranded, along the hedge covering
Fertile soil suffocating, possibilities
For emerald grass to raise as I mow
The lawn picking them up to set
From the garden of my heart,
I seed in breath colorful visions.
They medamophis into
a pens dance.
In my garden of words,
blossom into sentences.
shadowed by moon like punctuation.
In my garden of life,
I expand in moments grand.
A field of poetic song takes hold
to invite a visiting eye.
who may buy
my bouquet of prose,
with payment of a smile.
Each of us has a secret garden.
Someone's is big enough, someone's is small.
Well, it's clear all gardens differ,
And, undoubtedly, they bring us joy.
Hide and seek. Don't reveal it easy.
Swing back-forwards, fall into vain.
Nothing matters and nothing happens.
Heartbeat sounds like a music box.
Singing, soaring with hands in the air.
Sometimes silence is the best workmate.
Closing eyes I can see all better.
Now the time when mine gathers yours.
The memory of your lips, stained in a stubborn
shade of November is my favorite affliction.
Frosted absinthe dripped from your tongue,
spilling from those November lips, forming the words
which fertilized the garden of my anxieties.
In the nocturne of my imagination, past the perennials
of blue memory, I still nurture an orchid of deep
reverence for the irreparable manner in which
we damaged each other.
I endeavor to tend to this garden, to finally take care
of it. Of me. But all I manage to do is weed out my confidence,
settling for the deeply rooted progress of paralysis.
I regret letting you drink from my cup.
Absinthe did not mix well with the curve of your complexity.
When it spilled, I watched it drip from your mouth,
knowing, with no uncertainty, that you would slither into my mind.
to me love is like a rose garden
you walk down each row
admiring the individuality of each
every rose is beautiful
they say not to pick the roses
what is everyone picked them
meant to be admired not touched
i am guilty of picking the roses
they sit in a vase in my room
i seem to pick the roses that remind me much of myself
usually delicate and light
you used to give me light pink
you knew who i was
not fulled bloomed
but exotic and beautiful
love is a rose garden
i want my own.
In my mind I have created a garden
populated with insects who don't bite
and birds who don't shit on my paper when I write
there is a lily pond, with frogs who know Bach
However, they keep quiet. This is my refuge
where nothing pierces through the surface
every ripple is merely the smile of an admirer
every distortion the promise of a silence
I sit at a table, turning all that I see
into bold and brazen words; forever
in love with language, forever beholden
to her blossoms, that lie rotting at my feet
O' Maiden of the Garden, still thy flowery swing.
Inhale dawns fresh dew, as birds take to wing.
Glide casual across the grass and dainty moss,
pause quaint, gently pick a white rose for thy hair.
Shed a tear and cry for thy saddest love lost,
walk through the mist and float away in the air.
And seated 'pon thy flowery swing,
in quiet and soft repose,
draped so nonchalant until Spring,
the silent ghost of a rose.
© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)