Best Gardened Poems
Of all the things that I have lost
Perhaps what hurts the most
Is that I can no longer go
to where I once called home...
I cannot roam with childish glee
Down through the leafy grove
Nor play with snowballs, dance in snow
Then thaw beside the stove
I cannot use pink muhlberries
To paint my childish lips
I cannot eat the greens I've picked
Right down to soily tip
I cannot brown my little legs
Beneath the blazing sun
Or slpash in cold and icy pool
Until the day is done
I cannot play my hide and seek
With gateman's little kids
Nor drink the flavored Persian tea
Chase dreams through drooping lids
I cannot rub the walnut skins
And stain my fingers black
I cannot gorge on cherries sweet
I can't bring one day back
I cannot pick blubell flowers
Or swing from walnut tree
I cannot gorge on luscious fruit
Those mountains, I can't see
I cannot run through fresh green grass
Nor bask on asphlat walk
I cannot run through classroom halls
Or relish childish talk
I cannot show off gardened home
To foreigners and say,
"This place is really paradise
That none can steal away"...
I had a dream last night that I was back in my childhood home in Tehran, Iran. We lived in a walled, gated compoud that was the property of our church. My father was a school principal and the administration building and dorms were on our campus. We were situated in Shemran, at the foot of the ELBRUS mountain range. The compund was green.....beautiful. We'd swim in the icy cold pool then lie on asphalted walks to warm up. We had a cherry orchard, walnut, apple, apricot, plum, muhlberry, and almond trees. It would snow in winter, and My brothers would jump off the roof of our house into the snow. I can't describe the ache in my heart at not being able to go back. It was an enchanting childhood and no one can steal my memories. After the revolution in 1979, the government took over the property....but they can't take My dreams. I've shared this....painstakingly written on my phone because my dream was so vivid. I needed to share...
Mother had me when she was just a young woman,
at birth I was her baby- then her girl;
but, things soon changed,
I became- friend.
We talked and shopped, gardened, laughed and we took short trips,
mother had an adventurous spirit;
we spent many long hours on country roads,
it was fun to get lost and find a special place.
I often ask God why he took
my mother, so young to Heaven?
But, still treasure
those sweet moments !
______________________
February 5, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Mother Was My Friend
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1326-344-05
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premiere contest, Fragmented Verse
sponsor, Emile Pinet, Judged 03/04/2021
Third Place
My hands look worn, marked by the passing of time,
Of sunlight, cold, heat and work.
They have baked, cooked, gardened and harvested,
They have held the hands of devastated people sitting in front of a casket,’
They have soothed fevered brows, wrapped gifts with a smile on my face.
They have held many pudgy little hands of toddlers learning to walk,
And now hold the hand of my older, stumbling friend.
They are covered with sunspots, but they are happy spots.
A legacy of many bright hours spend in my flourishing garden,
Of romantic walks, of picnics with friends, of games played with children,
And of time spend alone, out in nature, replenishing myself.
My hands, adorned with rings, showing my commitment to my Love,
Carrying my birthstone ring, a present of my Sweetheart,
And in rememberence of my Mom, her favorite ring.
My hands are a mirror of my life.
I've gardened and read
I wrote poetry in my head
I picked up all the clippings
And everything red.
Time now to nap
And dream dreams far away
Of my true love
My one love
And a light house....
Over the pond’s lilies’ leaves,
morning dew settles glistening sleeves —
a covering to compliment the green,
a translucent, hint-of-blue ~ from a quivering
mist hanging, hushing everything, so all the doing
of sunrise dances must in-stasis remain…
~ or transfer by essence to the understanding
intuiting within — to find birds preen, not taking wing;
and trees upswing drying branches, delighted by wet dew.
All breathe the notes of summer’s ending nocturne
composed throughout the woods and, now, day upon day,
repeat that lullaby, trickling the scales as in a piano’s play
to accompany the year’s passing time, turning into autumn
with her blazing, flaming, dazzling, bejewelling
before Mother Nature deeply exhales — weeping dew
over all her gardened Beauty blooms — beginning
their fated wilting, falling, final, felt arias’ murmuring
the refrains life plants within, holding a promise of re-birth
to come past winter’s dominance, all frozen still
with a quiet sleeping peace — prelude to renewal…
to dawn’s Spring dances and the refreshing touch of dew.
A symphonic silent moment in time
Swimming in the soul of your lover
A protective comfort of a salty warm cove
An experience never held by another
This spirited laughter to be shared within
Exchanged in untainted affections
Constant companion while the decades drift
Steadfast with their lifetime connection
As one they weep through mourning loss
Sweeping up those crystal tears shed
Rediscovering hope in shuddered embracing
With dark resolve they continue ahead
Silence expands on their life gardened landscape
Surviving a constant conquering of fears
A memorial kenned in the heat of sublime love
Of silence…laughter…and tears.
Daylight slips in and out
of yellowing curtains,
as the sun blinks.
At such times
her thoughts
appear and disappear
The old lady has planted
her mind in closets
where dreams wither,
in kitchen cupboards
where herbs and spices dust the dark.
She will leave what she can;
small packets once gardened
when she cared to cook.
It is coming -
a change of occupancy.
She senses strange feet
and slamming doors,
young laughter runs in and out
of her breathing space.
Until then, she is here
in her last chair
in a memory-seeded apartment,
listening to the history
of her tucked-away life.
I knew the hush of white verandas,
Where time lay soft as fading lace,
And magnolias bent like women dreaming
In their slow, untroubled grace.
The river held its silver rumor,
The fields wore gold without a sound,
And all the clocks of earth were gentle,
With no sorrow found.
Yet somewhere beyond the singing distance
A darker wind began to start—
A whisper moving through the cedars,
A fracture running through the heart.
I did not see the hands that labored,
Nor hear the breaking of the day;
Only the light, too calm, too perfect,
As truth was kept away.
Now memory is a haunted parlor,
Where portraits stare with patient eyes—
And every rose that once was gardened
Still learns too late what silence hides.
Walking along life’s crooked gardened paths
Becomes more meaningful with time;
First early steps to follow butterflies
In bright sun with cheers to make rhymes
Touching soft pink flowers feels heavenly
Pink shoes; pink ice cream; pink dresses;
Feeling “pink” is great along childhood’s path
Little girls with bows in tresses
Young boys prefer blue on pathway’s palette
Various shades on trucks and sky
While wild animals roam imaginations
This blue pathway soon passes by
Today, I think about these pathways of life—
The blacks and reds of self expression
Those paths wandered into bright new frontiers
Where friends shared deepest confessions
Now I am on a path of reality
One previously untraveled
Self-made dreams begin to fall all around
Health-related thoughts unraveled
Let pink Roses and blue Wisteria
Border this path with white Hyacinth;
As unfamiliar weeds crowd this pathway—
Meandering through new labyrinth
Long country roads reminds me of home.
Where Mother gardened in her yellow hat
and Dad watching her would smile and at
her laugh, then she would laugh along.
The smell of honeysuckle on the vines and
Sister reciting her nursery rhymes.
My brother playing alone would dream of
singing country songs, as he would with his
little hands, that ole guitar strum along.
Peaceful feelings this ole dirt road brings
and how I would love to go back home again.
So much has changed in the years that have
passed but when I close my eyes, yesterday
doesn't seem as long ago, as the sound of the
word, the past.
Running barefoot along the river banks, those
memories will always be a part of me and for
these memories, to my parents, I give thanks.
It has been the greatest gift of all, for now when
life gets to troubling my mind, I find a dirt road
and just drive and go to the river to relive the
loving times we shared and with my children
create our own special moment in time, in hopes
that someday, this with their children they will
share.
Back in my day we had the radio on at my house in early mornings.
We gardened in the summer and ate the food all year round.
It was so much more fresh and tasty than canned or frozen.
We shared the extra with the neighbors, and we knew their names.
Back in my day everyone could “mom” or “dad” you.
You were respectful of your elders, your youngers and everyone else.
The parents were in charge, not the kids. It was their rules.
No child would have bragged about telling their parents what to do.
Back in my day we had two pairs of shoes, not ten pairs.
Plain for school, fancy black patent leather shoe for Sunday School.
No computers or I-phones or I-pads to separate us from our family.
We talked to each other during lunch and supper.
Back in my day teenagers did not have cars. They walked everywhere.
They got a job and earned the money if they wanted to buy a car.
They saved their money until they could pay for the whole car.
I do not remember credit card debt in the 50's or 60's.
Back in my day grandparents lived with their children when they aged.
Very few were shipped off to old folks’ homes; most taught us things.
How to garden, knit, sew, fix a car’s engine. They were valuable.
We started out with black, white and grayscale TV back in my day
forgot to tell you
i gardened naked one day
gentle misting rain
thinned out salad greens
planted them where scotch bonnet
was on the end row
just me in rain boots
the chickens were embarrassed
dog just laughed out loud
I come from Dawn to Night's long mile
Whose boyhood heard the songs of brooks
And mourned the sparrow's falling,
And Hope, those days did lift my wings
As lone I strode the gardened fields
Of honied labyrinth...
Apart, apart! In Ever-Dream,
My bliss found full at giants feet-
Enthralled, bewitched at Sky's orations
Or what forests deep did tell...
And now the Day's long-bearded trek
But to endless shade proceeds...
My town is a floral one, known in French as
"La Ville des Fleurs," for, it is one so beautifully gardened
It is, in the island, the place where I roam about, fully at ease
For it is a town, which has been always, since its birth, so well governed!
A town it is, found in the middle of the island, nearly on the plateau
It fans chilly winds in winter, and cool freshness in summer
If I could, I would have built here my own chateau
For here, one gets to feel that living is as delicious as an appetizer!
I would leave it never, however strong may be the pulls of adventure
I would leave it never, for here I get to live as I want to
Giving my time equally to both duty and leisure
Why, in my town, I do even get to see and write of life through!
Pray, my island is well known as a tropical paradise, it gives the world a thrill,
Yet, my town is the place which bids my heart and breath to never stand still!
Written for Contest "Sonnet about where you live"
Sponsored by: Silent One
I live in Mauritius and my home town in called Quatre Bornes
28 Dec 2016
three flowers ...
of extraordinary bloom
seeds and earth, spun together in chaos
soil of arable value, some more or less ... firm,
but challenge not the care of the tenders - their loving ambitions
they gardened and provided with nurturing hands
far-from-perfect, the aliment entrusted ...
not always in accord, but consistently full hearts for the task
oh, those blossoms were, as any, pressed by the elements
for life is as much the storms, as it is the fair and fine
but the roots were strong and reaching
what they sprung, hearty and bright and graceful -
as imperfectly perfect as childhood dreams
now, I stand back and watch them gather light and wings
drink rain, bend in the wind, fold their petals in twilight ...
seeding new buds and blooms of their own
for that is the way of flowers ...
their beauty, blessing.
Submitted on June 3, 2020
To the "Brian's Select 3, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest
Brian Strand, Sponsor.