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Louis Espina Nov 26
I'll comb your hair gently and braid it neatly.
The dark silky strands—streaks like how the milky way shines.

Like an astronaut preparing ahead of time, I'll settle for the stars that begin to align in your eyes.

Like an gardener loving his elderly wife, I'll plant flowers to bloom in your hair.

When the time feels  finally right—like the spring that begins to flow by, I'd only have wished our love in this lifetime.
[Gardener]
/ ˈɡɑɹd.n̩.ɚ/, /ˈɡɑɹd.nɚ /
One who gardens; one who grows plants
or cultivates a garden

I had the sight to foreshadow the coming rain…
the saturated drink of bottled-up sadness
—while longing to touch with eyes
Magnetized and mesmerized; smitten by
the coming storm of love… Oh how one does look
forward to the rain, as the cool of day- as droplets
dance on the shoulders of a raincoat

Perhaps in this long and overachieved drought
these feelings are like desert rains divine
precious liquor of life, upon my eyes parched sands
Growing out beautiful violets, from once violent gales
still in my eyes fruitless lands- I glance at you, my
delicate flower. For the yearn and crave— a heart
able, available, and willing to water your garden with
the words of raindrops gossiping about us,
“pitter and chatter”

Is it not a comforting sound?
Zywa Mar 13
Owners own the land,

but the gardens will belong --


to the gardeners.
Novel "Two Years Eight Months & Twenty-Eight Nights" (which is 1001 nights, 2015, Salman Rushdie), chapter 2, Mr Geronimo

Collection "Low gear"
Hugo Pierce Jan 30
I Don't Want To Be A Warrior In The Garden
Nor A Gardener In A War
Yet I Shall Rise To My Position
Of This, I Can Be Sure

As Steel Touches Steel
And Seed Touches Soil
Peasant In The Field
And King With The Royal

I Shall Grace The Gardens
Be The Gardener It Needs
Storm The Battlefields
Be The Warrior That Bleeds

I Hold It All Inside Of Me
Everything I Am And More
But The Garden Needs It's Gardener
And The Warrior Needs His War
Man Jun 2023
Suppose I was a gardener,
In a field of dreams.
I would **** the earth
And plant innumerable seeds.
Of passion, of faith, hope and belief
To sow happiness, to offer relief.
The corporeal, and the intangible
Working in tandem, coupled together.
The offer of body and soul
With the goal of a
Brighter tomorrow
daphne Jan 2021
oh, silly gardener
when will you concede?
azaleas will simply never grow
from mere old papaya seeds

you blame it on the soil
you blame it on the weather
now it's drowning in excess water
can't you see how much it suffers?

i know you love azaleas
but please just stop and ponder
what you sowed were papaya seeds
and they are too a wonder

it's not how you tried to prune them
or because of your undevotion
but what you sowed were papaya seeds
growing beautifully in your garden
The acorn is threatened and desired
A delightsome delicacy for predators- big and small.
The lucky ones emerge as oak seedlings.
As each taproot burrows to the heart of the earth,
the sapling doth heavenward shoot.

At the mercy of the elements,
The tender sapling’s survival seems
like a fanciful daydream,
one that slumbers in the womb of time.

In the acorn is hidden immense energy
to sustain the sapling until self-sufficiency it attains.
But will the sapling survive the forces of nature-
The floods, fires, and fall foes?

The Tender steps forth to prune in hope
with fired imagination and starry eyes,
He beholds, not a sapling, but a majestic oak.
From sunrise, He draws from his creative aliveness
as He nurtures and nourishes it
to pave the way for a coveted dream.

He is ever lost in ruminations
about the strength of the future Ancient
to provide soccur and solace
to generations yet unborn,
long after his final bow.
He is comforted that
underneath its soothing shade,
Youngsters will find
private escape from the drudgery of life.
Jay M Sep 2020
I was found
A flower of purple bloom
Alone, in a gloom
Until petals of yellow
Scent soothing
Took root not far away

After time
And months of rhyme
She whispered
To the yellow bloom
Said that there was no room
For the two of us

"Wild violet"
I was branded
Called a ****,
Said to be slowly
Choking out the yellow bloom
That in that garden
There was no room
For a vile ****

Alas, a **** I was not
Am not
For I am a flower
Nothing more

But
Call me what you want
Drop venom where you please
My voice perhaps stolen
My leaves torn by your
Shaking hands
Fists in the air
But I hold in
A thousand words
To battle your chaos
Cast away
With every attack
Like leaves to a blower

I won't lie
That's your job
Cruel gardener
Pick all of my petals
Shred my leaves
Pull me by the roots

Still I shall stand
No matter the swinging
Of your crazed trimmers
Snipping away

Though far away
I shall stay
Just a memory
Fueling your chaos
Growing a wall of thorns
Dripping with blood
Around your proud bloom
Of yellow light.

- Jay M
September 18th, 2020
Read it with a mind and heart as open as the sky, and step out of the confines of your own perspective. See it, and feel it.
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