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Allyssa Black Jan 2021
The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters

It was the quietest party
It was the constant friend
The portable magic
Which can be tragic
The flying vowels

A white garden of black flowers
Gazing at creatures
Which are teachers
The delicate pages
And colorful covers
The falling words

The suspense of a mystery
The tense thriller
The love in a romance
The fun in a fantasy

The white garden of black flowers
A storehouse of letters
Lane O Aug 2020
Bushels of apples
Picked from the orchard this fall
Ripe, crimson, and sweet

I see everyday of my life spread
Before me like an orchard in bloom.
Each branch of tree, every bush and leaf,
A memory for me to consume.

In summer, when fruit is rich,
I tread the path for fruit to pick,
Indulging in the springful life:
The ripened fruit bringing delight.

But with each bite I enjoy
Something is destroyed.

Soon the spoils will reach their end.


I feel her touch,
Hands soft from love,
Stroking me,
Providing ease,

Like sliding through
Horizon’s stretch—
To a place where we
Would meet again.

But these moments fade
In solstice’s blaze,
Where the summers past
are lost.

Flowers wilt, their colours dampen,
Trees break on the orchard path.
What remains from winter’s wrath,
Where one has used so much land?


The sodden marsh engulfs.
The land itself falls.
The somme-like pit pulls
Into its hefty haul.

But past the glint of glossy eyes,
Lies a world where seeds survive.
We fail to see past lives once lead,
The growth thickening within our heads:

The weeds unkempt, vines in droves,
The bushes tangled with roses, broke,
So concerned for orchards gone;
We never made another one.

‘Cause the trees will grow in due time.
The fruit will ripen with more life.
An Eden will grow to replace
An age, to show, that we can change.
Lily Oct 2018
Every day after school I ran through it,
Skirting around the trunks,
Ducking under the leaves,
My laughter echoing through the trees.
My cherry orchard.
My friends used to walk through it,
And when they got to my house,
They would always have red stains
On the bottoms of their shoes from
My cherry orchard.
Every year when the blossoms came out
In early May, I would take pictures for
Hours, enjoying the peace,
Playing with the symmetry when you looked down a row in
My cherry orchard.
And even though the trees were
Stripped from the ground and burned
I still visit it,
My friends still walk through it,
And every year I will look back at
My pictures and remember
My cherry orchard.
The cherry orchard across the street I've always thought of as mine was destroyed, but I'll never forget it.
Isaac Sep 2018
If poems were seeds,
How many could you plant
If you lived a full life,
And worked like an ant?
It would be amazing to have
Your own poetry forest,
Observing your thought life
Through poems clear and honest.
As this world is changing
And you are moving forward,
Don't forget to keep planting
Seeds to become your new orchard.
Written 13 September 2018
Mary-Eliz Aug 2018
gently interrupted by velvet mountains
burnt sienna soil stretches through olive trees
that lift their limbs toward blue expanse
where pillowy clouds drift with ease

shadows lengthen as the sun spreads
a warmth perceptible to the view
energy and life pouring into ripening fruit
soon harvest gathering will be due

tracks of vehicles between the rows
show signs of tending that's been done
through summer's growing season
and years before when they were begun

saplings planted there with care
by tanned, robust yet gentle hands
have grown taller year by year
where now a stately orchard stands
A picture prompt - reminiscent of van Gogh's paintings of olive tree groves.
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