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“I’m writing this somewhere secret, and green, and  beautiful..

Sparkling water and intoxicating seclusion
That I should be drinking in with relief.

But all I can think of is how badly I wish you were here with me to share in this solitude.

We could wander for hours amongst blossoming weeds, and forget what happened that left us bereft”
I have a beautiful and magical secret pond that I’ve found in my suburban neighborhood full of rules and watching eyes. For the first time since I moved here, I have somewhere I can sit and breathe.
It makes me miss my loved one, but pain can become beautiful.
nish Oct 2018
i'm not talking about
inter dimensional travel
between the planes of reality
with a final destination of the 8th world
no, just going back to the basics
we've all heard of these
"7 wonders of the world"

theres the pyramids and the gardens
a light house i believe

i'm sure zeus was mentioned
along with arthritis?
no, no artemis, that ol' chap

haliarnassus and colossus
thats about it
seven right, no detail
just brushing up on the facts

well after about 10 years of research
much endured suffering
many fallen tears
and lives given to the cause

I petition the 8th wonder

organic chemistry.
-dedicated to those we lost in the battle
You know me better than anyone.

Time holds onto my heart,
rests within my mind.

You are the silence around me.

Walking, my world is larger, as
details present themselves.

Hard, inedible berries redden
beautifully in that same garden.

Delicate stalks bow slightly,
preparing for their lavender
blossoms, a little smaller
than last year’s.

You, really listen, and that is
nearly everything to me.

Everything, would be you
trusting me, to listen too.
Copyrighted by Elisa Maria Argiro
Specs Sep 2018
People communicate too much.
Their arms, their feet, their eyes, their hands.
Each one tells a story.
Each one differs, interfering and weighing the air down.
Then the mouth opens and words fly out,
A whirlwind of ideas, opinions, tumbling, spinning, whipping out.
So much noise.
A message here, a message there.
The noise is blinding.

Outside the garden is buzzing.
Not the droning buzz of conversation,
But the peaceful hum and sigh of nature.
The leaves wave as you walk.
Flower petals whisper to you, succinct words that don't rattle.
Ladybirds, bumblebees, humming birds hurtle and whisk around,
And best of all, the garden listens.
Willow Aug 2018
I work in a field all day
To repair garden beds
And to grow new plants
With the destiny to be harvested
Whenever “our hearts desire”.

I work in a field all day
To repair a physical burden
And to grow new dreams
With the destiny to be reached
Whenever “our hearts are able”.

I work in a field all day
To mend a broken soul
And to grow new connections
With the destiny to be healed
Whenever “our hearts become stable”.

I work in a field all day
With the exception of a distraction
Then I look up to the clouds
And get lost in the wonder
Of when “I will find you”.

I work in a field all day
Yet find myself disoriented
Because my eyes have wandered
All over the sky
Making up for “lost time”.

I work in a field all day
Looking forward to heal
Hoping I’ll hear from you today
Knowing the sky is infinite
Just like “the space behind your eyes”.

I work in a field all day
I catch myself staring into the horizon
Remembering the time I saw your eyes
And how indefinite the ending was
Even though “the line seems so close”.
If “your eyes are like the stars”, as they say; then the sky will do well enough for now.
Shofi Ahmed Sep 2017
I am not a rose
in the gardens
of the dawn.

I still see the
stars in bloom
down the Moon.
schuyler Jun 2018
and so they sat there,
on the floor of his childhood room,
and sang of songs and strummed of strings.
while she was an ink-stained page,
he was an ice-melt river,
and she a bed of long-cooled coals.
and then out to the neighbor's yard,
where they found poetry in the gardens
as mist clung to their eyelashes—
to rohan and anusha, thank you for this whimsical afternoon. looking back it almost seems surreal
Sara Brummer Apr 2018
Maybe the bed lies about the garden,
Seeing it from a one-eyed supine pose.
The garden, ***** by winter, stands naked
Outside the window, looking in.
The bed is comfortable, complacent;
It doesn’t much care about ragged orphans
Or abused women.
Perhaps it should remember it’s made of wood,
Same as the trees, though it’s covered with
A springy mattress, happy sheets, cottony quilts.
The garden has known spring abundance
And will know it again. The bed has known
Nightmares, sickness and may even learn
About death. In summer the bed will be stripped,
The garden dressed in luscious fragments
Of leaf and petal, hung in perfect equilibrium.
The bed and the garden, like body and soul,
Each needs to remember their debt to the other.
Last night I sat lonely
Wishing for things that could never be
Out my window the moonlight bright on the garden stones
speaks to me

I putter to the gates
Perhaps among the rose bushes
And Lilly beds, I will find
nourishment in nature.

I sit in casted moonbeams
still wishing for things, that could never be
no solace in the garden green
just alone beneath
a midnight scene
Sometimes nature is magical and you think it will bring a peace. Sometime it does and other times not so much.
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