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Tommy Randell Mar 20
Most urgent, it seems to me
Is to live by the simple questions
In the face of difficult facts -
That Life is an Absolute
Never just an Act.

To be seen from afar
One has to be obvious,
To pass unnoticed
One has to be in the herd -
Even so, from afar a shout for help
Is just one leaf in a forest, falling.

I think of Words as I read them,
Not just their meaning but their sound -
Over time words are seeds
For furrowed minds. You never know
Which ones have it in them
To become a pasture.

My best work are little plantings.
Poems of hardy stock
That can stand the drought
Of not being read by nourishing eyes.
How does your garden grow?

Tommy Randell - 20th March 2021
Spring. In Lockdown.
daphne Jan 1
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.
gracie Jun 2020
You never knew the garden
I grew from within
or the ripe honeysuckles
intertwined with my ribs
you never pressed your mouth
to my pink primrose lips
or felt your hands laced
between my fern fingertips
you never saw the buttercups
brim behind my eyes
or the soft blue forget-me-nots
speckling my thighs
you never heard my voice
not a laugh, not a word
so don’t tell me I’m missing
what you found in her.
Eloisa May 2020
And he believed
and found the magic in me
Then flew me into his floral wonderland
He held my hand
and lit the torch
The hope I’d use to light
the darkness of my thoughts
A bright beacon to tame my beast
A gardener unafraid to touch my heart of thorns
I have laid lilies at your door, close your eyes and smell them; there is nothing pretentious about them.

There is no bill enclosed in the greeting card nor needle tucked between  the stems. It has been a gesture of love, simple things that grow
like moss on rocks and pearls in oysters

I have laid them gently, made a horticulturist of myself

I have worn big hats and ventured into my own fields
to snip the loviest of the bunch –and in my basket I always gather for two.

One for my kitchen table and the other one for you
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least . . .

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .

Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?

Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You.

NOTE: I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive “god” who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making through a ghoulish "atonement." But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it. Keywords/Tags: Jesus, Christ, cave, grave, tomb, gardener, roses, angels, resurrection, Mary, Magdalene, love, heaven
CasiDia Dec 2019
The gardener from thee-
a meager seed and humble need
a leaf within his reach
The spell enclosed,
apricot and peach.
Pineapple in bloom
No rose
No jessamine
Symbols of all interposed
With a flower so sweet,
like a blue eye
the gardener sighs.

"this Plant, is not mine."
Mark Toney Oct 2019
focused praying mantis still as a stick
clueless prey three times its size-
best friend of gardeners
10/13/2019 - Poetry form: Kimo - An Israeli form of haiku that has three lines with a 10-7-6 syllable format and which does not rhyme. Also, the Kimo is focused on a single frozen image (kind of like a snapshot). So it's uncommon to have any movement happening in kimo poems. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
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