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Nigdaw Oct 7
Never allowed to grow
Beyond ornamental,
Small perfect leaves
On small well pruned branches;
To please the eye
Of miniature torturers.

Cramped in a micro life,
Roots restrained
Within un-natural boundaries.
The promise of a tree
Never really fulfilled,
Beyond a whisper.

Fussed over relentlessly,
Like an O.C.D.
Perfect shape and form,
Trained from natural beauty,
To sit on a shelf
Hidden from reality.
It starts with a peach
It was a good peach
Not spectacular but
Still pretty good
It was free stone
So the flesh fell away
And I was left
With a pit
And an idea

Then the planting
Had to wait
For my mother
To get off the phone
To show a ***
Where my peach pit
Could grow
Bury it deep underneath
Fresh bagged dirt
I'm hoping it will grow
I'm still not really sure

If my peach does grow
I'll have more peaches
Or a tree at least
With fruit to come
I read up online
About how to take care
Of a baby peach tree
When to water and prune
When to let flowers
Blossoms and when to
Pluck away the stems

Now I get to wait
Through long winter days
Watch my peach pit
Grow or not grow
It isn't up to me
I'll hope it'll sprout
Into a lovely tree
But right now
It's just a peach pit
A tiny rock
Full of promise
Peaches don't even grow here. Will that stop me? Hell no.
Äŧül Jul 28
Come, Jenny, let us turn gardeners for life
And let us cultivate love in our garden,
Full & supple and steaming & pure.

Let us shatter the shackles of belief,
Hearts thump aloud if you will listen,
Come, Jenny, come let us unite as one...

Come, Jenny, hold this watering cannister,
Come help my hand already holding it,
It is very light that you would hold...

Filled with love for our kind of horticulture,
We hold it happily as our love will not end,
Yes, the one I just named Heart-i-Culture.

This will give us more happiness and love,
We shall be together through every trough,
Now our chaste love will blossom & bloom.
My HP Poem #1755
©Atul Kaushal
Larry Kotch Jul 21
Your careful hands levelled out the budding bloom, and set the staging pots aside the heat of noon, thoughtful timing shifted them from watery sheltered vase to rough garden ensembles, like that you shaped the ravenous growths again and again.

With careful fingers you massaged around the banks, no garden book to guide such terrifying specimens, you could not bring the scythes to taper off the exploding flanks, so you watched from further every night.

And so with time you peer with awe at the new garden features, puzzled by a wilting stem, delighted by a fanning brush, sometimes tracing natures path, other times your gaze will be lost. Your garden bright and overgrowing.

Open the door dear gardener for life has been unleashed, when the toil of daily demands has reached its peaks, remember your creation. Know that all the blooms that cheer the neighbours, would, with your hand - the Nation.
This poem is an ode to my mother, creator of the garden that is my life. This poem thanks her for her perfect gardeners touch, helping to help me bloom, knowing when to shelter me from the scorching sun and when I'd overgrown the staging pots. But like all children, I grew in wierd and unpredictable ways, as if the garden was itself now out of control and the gardener had to watch from further every night. But though my developing personality and interests sometimes delighted her I know parts of my thinking and philosophies frighten her. To her I imagine it to look like a bright (in that her creation will always be rose tinted) but overgrowing (out of her control + out of control in general). The last stanza is an invitation to her to not shy from lending a hand back in the overgrowth. Despite what I hope to be myself now manifesting in some small way (i.e delighting some of the neighbours) I rely very much still on her to consolidate this mass of energy for a higher purpose still.
The Queen revels beyond the realm of summer’s lurid light
To scorn the damp recess of shade where moss has laid its lawn.
Her pale and powdered faces flaunt the earth by starry night;
Though falling, faint and faded, by the cawing crow of dawn.
Her slender, waxen limbs are draped upon her chosen sire  
Who cradles her, consumed amid the scent of her perfumes.
Wherever out her branches bend; is loveliness admired
By fleeting bat and beating moth; by men and sailing moons.
Magnificent she flourishes; dry, dappled shade her nest
Where wild and unrestrained, resplendent flowers ever grow
So fair, and verdant framed, and scarlet tipped, and golden tressed;
With flames of bronze and ivory her lighted candles glow.
The chills of night cannot befall: the hallowed earth is blessed
Wherever blooms the Queen of Night; Selenicereus.
Selenicereus is an epiphitic cactus native to South and Central America. The scientific name is derived from Selene, the Greek Goddess of the moon. They are sometimes referred to as the 'queen of the night' because the flowers open at night.
Supernal shades of blue,
Best approached in early hours,
Lend the blooms a heavenly hue
Where the Morning Glory flowers.

The leaves are trident shaped, or hearts,
With rambling stems and coiling tips;
Every searching tendril starts
As the glowing sun uplifts.

Growing swiftly as a ****
Morning Glory onward climbs
Over shrubs and over trees -
All are smothered in the vines.

A blemish mars the leaf
Where a caterpillar chewed,
Though beauty is best perceived
With imperfections viewed.

Morning Glory I revere -
Of that there is no doubt
But my passions are austere
For today I pull you out.
From the earth a kingdom rose;  
Not of bricks nor made of mortar
But of seed, and soil and sun
And of sweat and stone and water.
The garden waits within my hand;
A future paradise concealed.
All I need is time and land
Until my heaven be revealed.
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