#greenhouse
Someone once said I was a fanatic of escapism
That I would never find peace if I never stopped moving
But let me ask you;
Can you name a creature that doesn't move?
Trees grow
They shake with the wind, and shower all below them with leaves
Further cementing their carved throne as the elders of our planet
Mushrooms, dogs, lizards, fish
I could name creatures and organisms that 'move' for days
I could give you a fact about each of them
And teach you why darwinism has blessed that specific species with its touch
They said I'm an escapist
Someone who runs from trouble and problems
Or maybe from life itself
Or maybe in circles
I say
When you're a pine tree in a green house there is no such thing as escapism
There's drive to live and acceptance of demise
The only two forms of black and white that's even remotely close to the chessboard you're picturing
My drive to live isn't escapism
So when my branches break your windows,
When my canopy and height topples this ceramic plated greenhouse,
Dont you dare say it was an escape attempt.
I didn't escape. I didn't even leave.
I did as a pine tree does
And I Grew.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
Snow piles up against the walls, but thin clothes are all they wear
As the boy gardens within the greenhouses behind the school,
Red, bright tomatoes slipping out of his fingers, and popping into his mouth
That grins at the bursts of sweetness.
Inches from him, the man by one month pretends not to glance his way
Instead shifting through the bristling leaves to claim breakfast’s zucchini.
He would complain at the theft if the tomatoes weren’t everywhere
Making bland meals of packaged rice and canned beans a savory impossibility.
It isn’t like little indulgence will take away all of the red little briberies,
The secret keys to a reluctant community spreading its arms wide months after the pair stumbled in.
The man scowls, and the boy glances up
Not hiding his interest like his companion.
The solution to anger is always tomatoes,
So the next slip of fingers is against the man’s lips
As he bites down, the sweetness pops away mild irritation in the flavor of surprise.
Neither gives in to smiles, but their shoulders brush more than once as the tension seeps out with the heat into the snow.
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 1:18 PM UTC
We are all green houses,
never let anyone throw
a rock though your widows..
As there just jealous that's growing
within.
Some may be infertile within,
cold and un-growing.
No seed of compassion sprouts within.
But you are a virtual rainforest of
creative imaginings..
So growth forth and no rock
shall ever come through your greenhouse...
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 10:37 AM UTC
If you look out your window-
Don't dare look up to my sky,
Cinders choked the sun to death,
It's a black and smokey night,
Our last trees: you set ablaze,
And the grass, your kindling,
The birds and bees are dwindling,
We're left in this steel maze,
Are the streets and city lights-
Enough to guide you home?
When you choke on cinder, too-
The sun won't be alone,
And when your last fire dies away,
And the ice makes it's return,
And my sun can't shine from the afterlife,
It'll be too late to learn.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
music soft like honey
notes drops of nectar on the skin of your wrist
the bass is your heartbeat
and the warmth of my hands on your cheeks
could we stay here forever?
you and me and the ferns
sunlight drifting in
you and me and our greenhouse
this moment is a thousand years
or, i wish it was
i can see us in my mind
dancing to music
that's been stuck in my head
for years
you are my daydreams
and i am the whispers
exchanged between us,
two souls in a glass house
my fingers find yours
you fill the negative space of my body
i reach up to touch your face
you smile gently, and i feel it
the melody of our song is
the rush of blood in my veins
when i hold your hand
you press my hands to your chest
and i feel the bass of your heart
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
Every misused glass of water,
Every slight at sons and daughters,
Every successful missile test,
Cars idling, cows lowing,
All the chemtrails we don't see blowing,
Every dent, every theft, every lie and mocking jest,
Can't be held tight to the chest.
Distended stomachs, cardboard boxes,
Soup kitchens and needy churches,
Gay slamming and alternate choices,
These and more need our voices.
Add the carbon in our air,
Two-headed frogs warning, Beware,
The paltry state of our bees,
The fires devouring our noble trees,
The motors on our inland lakes,
These and more will not wait.
All that crawls, swims or wings,
All of us and everything,
Is everything to all,
There's no time to hesitate,
For I am the aggregate.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 11:56 AM UTC
Greenhouse
Scaling flowers
A buzzing for pollen
Pinks and magentas stroke the space
Growing
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
Last night I told you that
maybe someday I'd like to
marry you if that was
ok with you
and then I said sorry
you told me not to apologize,
that the feeling was mutual
Since that moment my feet
have been at least an inch
off the ground,
maybe a foot
You described yourself as
Beaming
I could imagine light shining
from you, gleaming
glowing like through
the ceiling of a
greenhouse
Maybe one full of ferns
and black eyed susan's
for the colors
In your eyes
I think
Maybe
If it's ok with you
we could get married there
We could stand between the
rows of flowers and ferns
and the he light would
fall over us like a blanket
and everything would
smell fresh,
and new
and you would be
beaming
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 9:14 PM UTC
The house was big,
Too big for a divorced family of four.
It had sickly, pale yellow siding
With cracking paint and a long archway
That led to a round, asphalt-covered
Backyard.
Most days the trees
That rolled out into the little valley
Alongside it were barren and spiny,
And you could see through them, all
The way to the quiet road that cut
Through the growing houses
Below.
If you were lucky, you would have seen
A few kids shooting airsoft guns,
Running through the fallen leaves,
Leaping atop all the muddy mounds of dirt
Next to the creek, but they
Have lost contact
Recently.
If you were to climb up the little green hill
That rose just next to the mouth
Of the house’s driveway,
Cresting along the edge of the cul-de-sac,
You would see a greenhouse,
Brown, with splotches of dirt
On the windows.
If you opened its flimsy door,
Which was usually locked,
You would see all the uncut tomato plants,
All the sage and spices,
And you would probably wonder
Why they were not harvested
Yet.
But the people who owned it
Usually bought their groceries
Rather than grew them.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Enter the greenhouse.
I love it here. From the gritty soil
to the abundant moisture.
Yet my palms are sweaty,
my green thumb is sore.
Classical music is to growing,
as is a kid to a toy store.
For once, a life-size terrarium holds me,
instead of ants who see grass as the trees.
Constrained, but so free.
This world remains a prison, but it contains both you and me.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC
nicolette,
again! ****
I go left, again.
the saying...
I go left again.
the same -
I go left again.
then...
I'll go left,
a gain.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC