Best Plantings Poems
"The forest is a sanctuary where you can grow to be you," ... by the Poet.
The passing of a torch, when Spring was announced,
was noted in the melting quarter of winter memories, as a sun climbs in
its forgiving rays; hoping its extent will favor the many listless foliage
that shy away the hours and that will soon purify vividly.
A forest is a sanctuary of admirable heights,
indelible spreads in the reach of golden beams.
The nurturing glow is a blessed welcoming, as glimmerings of first light,
and in its duration;
at the lower regions,
are duly usual reliance on root's deep hold of the earth
will stabilize their stature.
The lesser herbage of lowly pinnacles beneath shades of tree boughs
whereby the sun's light skips and winks a trace of them, is nevertheless
enriched with nutrients that will foster its growth.
These passionate plantings in harsh spotty sites amid forested trees are all
functions of the grand scheme of nature at its finest. Two, of the three
sanctuaries, the Flora, is known as the greater of the living greeneries.
The Funga is the lesser of the verdancy of the woods' life.
Then there are the incidentals of nature, and their animated interactions known as the third sanctuary; the Fauna. They soar, stride, slide, and swim.
Most move free of incidents, and others, not quite so. It's the
beast of the jungle that rules. They set them, and when broken,
there will be consequences. It is the pattern set by nature for the cycle of life.
One life dies as a gift for another to live. These are the rigid realities of the
woodlands, though not limited here,
but relevant beyond this sanctuary's realm.
The entrance of Spring seasons well the vibrancy of greens evolving greener.
Anticipative varieties of colorful flowers can survive the thick overhangs
of a forest.
Fauna, or animal life forms, infest these regions generously.
Spring here in the forested jungles is no different from the expressed lands
beyond its perimeters.
The Wicket of Spring has opened its forest sanctuary.
Our inner parts have begun to yearn,
For the blowing of the trumpet’s sound.
The plantings, for which we did mourn,
Will soon give bounty from the ground.
Filled to the full with Jerusalem’s flock,
The temple energizes with exaltation.
Satisfied with honey out of the rock,
Judea enjoys the finest wheat to satisfaction.
Paul’s stay at Ephesus had been at length,
So a trip to Jerusalem he did make up.
He had to “Sing aloud unto God our strength,
Make a joyful noise unto the God of Jacob.”*
So Paul set sail back across the sea,
For, at the City of David, his heart must be.
* ref: Ps. 81:1
Hauling manure
From the neighbor's horse stall
Raking and tilling
And that isn't all
A small wooden fence
To make a surround
So our dog won't go in
And dig up the ground
Seeds and small plantings
Laid neatly in rows
Sprinkle with water
And pray that things grow
Some sunshine is added
Weeds carefully plucked
The first sprouts appear
Perhaps we're in luck!
Our garden is thriving!
The corn getting high!
Tomato plants blossom
A scarecrow stands by
This morning I rise
With anticipated cheer
Not knowing that the fence
Didn't keep out the deer
Our bountiful garden
No longer brings glee
With deer tracks all over
Our crops history!!
I get in the car
And I'm soon on my way
I'm lucky the market
Is open today!!
Strolling along looking out for new nature
Bluebirds nest along the way
Orange mushrooms have sprung to life
Smoke bomb mushrooms have shed their spores
Anticipation is the thrill and surprise
The marigolds have reseeded to new life
My late plantings of dill have sprouted
Now if the frost doesn't kill them too soon
Oh yes the post box, a new sample package
A Country magazine, and a bill yuck!
Tomorrow again anticipation
As I age
I hope to become increasingly difficult
to extract from flow of Presence
apprehending EarthMother focus
through holistic reflections
within Now
Without targeting Others
over There
lacking CoPresence.
I hope ego-awareness shrinks
within aging
cranial carrying
mindbodies
To swell without
toward ecstatic soul
comprehensive understanding,
co-infested stand-and-grabbing
To more easily let go
of my now eldering past events
yellowing oranged brown falling away leaves
of absent grace
To grab ahold
of bold winter's regenerations
of green-full hope,.
Prehensive linking
syncing resonant peace
engaging Earth JustUs
rooted ancient systems
Free-flowing through boundaried paradigms
dividing seasons
into tipping pointed reasons
for circling
deepening peak
yet widening spectral valleys
echoing Other's resounding exclamations
Fading
failing bipolarized dissonance
becoming dipolar co-arising
resonance
Confident this curious TaoWay
through resiliently polycultured Midway
seasons and surfs
at last expounding
plantings and pullings
rebirthing our final say
Fusing octaves of sight and sound
fizzing fractal note conduction
musing slow-grown co-redeemers
Risking final opportunity
to refill treasured seeds
sown and reaped
Cherished bodymind's rich pot
ential,
outial
post-axial cross
Over space
and under time's harvest
reimagining memory's branching place
for rooted earnest fortune
Racing thoughts
increasingly aged difficult
To extract from co-presents
of EarthJustUs time
sufficient for grace
repurposed peaceful space.
Riotous warblings of a very vivacious swan is often evenly placed in a bread basket. Behaviour of classical clams can be seen to be barbaric and dotting a chair is not patented. Ok. Interested in bat caves then. How quite far is it to the caverns of the large melting chocolate ice cream dishes. Cast iron rocket slaters then. People plantings picklings pinnings. Cavernous cauldrons of Lilly pads on a marble field. Trunks of glue faced leopards on a journey to spaghetti lettuce farms. Planning meetings then. Wibbly wobbly hair bobs. Wow how not very gracious. Callous acts of a missionary queue in a trough or in fields of many metric metres. Volumetric vehicular vases. *** hahahah xx the crow that eats the pickled tree sap will gain much wisdom. But the crocodile with candyfloss teeth will play devils advocate whilst spinning on an umbrella.*** hahaha simultaneous equations xxxx 1 2 3 4 clap clap clap clap xxxxx ha
My plantings of bleeding hearts are finally in bloom
There's a hint of sweet scent in their delicate perfume
On multiple stems of fragile heart-shaped flowers
they are thriving in the shade of my arbors and bowers
Gently, they sway when a willowy breeze blows by
Do I hear a soft whisper of sadness when they sigh?
Beauties, they are, but a tear dangles from each eye
It's as if they are filled with sorrow, and now they cry.
Is their sad weeping because they're in a garden?
If they wish to be wild again, I must beg their pardon
for wanting to enjoy the hue of their purple color.
Forgive me, tiny flowers. I'm not a botanist or scholar.
I've been selfish by keeping you confined like a child
when you'd rather be in the meadow, growing wild.
I've dug your roots and transplanted them near me,
removed you from your home. I've acted shamefully.
No wonder your heads droop and your hearts bleed.
No longer are you where you wish to drop your seed.
I'll collect your seedlings. In the meadow they'll be sown,
sprouting your lineage where gentle winds have blown.
I'll pray for their growth on lands where you once grew,
hoping this gesture will somehow be pleasing to you.
May your offspring flourish under nourishing Spring rain.
I promise I'll never tread through your meadow again.
June 5, 2022
Purple Flower Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron Flores
opening inside a chrysalis
a downpour of thoughts
drenched with meaning
beyond what washes
the topsoil away,
you and I
are furtive plantings
at best,
mixing with the elements
the grandeur of life and death
in newborn fingers
grasp
at air
an insect melodrama
returns
spilling catharsis and benediction
with every struggling breath
copied and pasted
to load-bearing beams
of starlight
plastered like sweat
skin to skin,
we are lovers
reining in the night
with bliss
empty of dreams
that come not between,
we were parched with anger
once
thirsted and hungered
alone
blossoms erupted with the scent
of us
jealous Gods
following in the love
of our making
a consuming fire
my heart catches with
breath.
Studying history
tries to be objectively subjective,
at its best
when also a comparative study of Sacred Plantings and Harvests.
Not a coincidence,
unfortunately,
that when I studied Christian Church history,
we discovered a not-so-very-catholic co-arising GreatMen picture story
of historic and theological harvest,
but not necessarily ecological
because more anthropocentric objectives of Earth's history.
Yet studying historic development of SkyWoman-resourced Turtle Island
is still largely confined to specialists
in EcoFeminist EcoPolitical Ancient History Compartments
of WhoCares Sacred Plantings and Harvests,
still RightBrain Yin-nurture oppression,
suppression,
within this objective-subjective
How to best deep learn ecopolitical history
of Earth's sciences
and cultural GreatMen and SacredGoddess religions
and all things patriarchal-matriarchal enculturing
Left with Right
Yang with Yin, and not so much Yang v poor little dualdark Yin,
counter-balancing in-between
Tipping Points of Sacred Plantings and Harvest Networks,
CoOperative Investments and EarthTribe's ReInvestments
in (0)-Sum/Soul Sacred Seven ReGenerations
of MatriarchalEarth
historically studying objective-subjective
CoOperative BiCameral Tao-Networks.
In this alternative Left with Right ecofeminist universe,
it is immediately transparent
to all five co-empathic senses
why Donald Trump
would be much more GreatMen entertaining,
rather than PathologicalMan alarming,
as a Public CrossDresser,
trying to walk in his wife's stilettos,
right behind her,
neither too left nor right,
where he belongs
if he knows what's best for him
tonight.
And,
while I totally get it about not drinking alcohol,
I really do think Medical Marijuana
should be deeply and widely prescribed
within the District of Columbia
in response to our current epidemic
of Yang v Yin Oppositional Disorder.
Maybe we could at least cooperatively agree
on a health and climate care budget for
Balancing Sacred EgoPlantings with EcoHarvests.
And maybe think about
how our melting icecap and glacier harvesting issues
may be both related and unrelated to
planting 12 foot reptiles
hunting vulnerable prey on MainStreet Texas and Florida,
which seems not so good for national health care
or defense
or security,
or even anything resembling GreatMen global rationality.
Geraniums have always been my favorite flowering plant,
with their vibrant burst of colors with warm spicy fragrant scents.
Nostalgic memories of going to my Grandmother’s house in Spring.
Sitting on her sunny porch, her smile as bright as her crimson flowers.
Her house greeted me with scents of fresh brewed coffee and banana bread.
It was our secret that I could have big cups with cinnamon and whipped cream.
She loved to plant flowers and I often helped with her Spring plantings,
enjoying the feeling of my hands and fingers touching the moist, cool soil.
Years passed and my grandmother was buried in our family plot at the cemetery.
I would go there every Spring and plant a variety of red and pink geraniums,
with variegated green leaves, growing upward like hands reaching to the sky.
I admired their red and fuchsia blooms as spring birds sang their melodies.
Over the years I carried on the tradition of planting geraniums in antique urns.
I would plant fuchsia, crimson, and coral colors with variegated leaves,
a peaceful escape from my horrible marriage and world falling apart around me.
I was soon left alone, life felt depressing, I felt lonely and drowning in despair.
I remember that Spring day, it was cold, crisp and windy, I decided to go out.
I admired the trees swaying, their resilient branches strong with tiny buds.
I went to the greenhouse, as I entered, I was greeted with warm, fragrant air.
I followed nostalgic scents to a greenhouse full of fresh geraniums in bloom.
Bright geraniums greeted me in reds, pinks and whites, with variegated leaves.
I felt my Grandmother’s presence, imagining her smiling at me, feeling happy.
I left with a car full of fresh geraniums and with a purpose, to start over.
It’s now time for new beginnings, my spirit feeling lighter, hopeful.
3/12/2021
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Contest: Flower or Flowers in Imagism Form
Tourists here to visit
In their multilingual voices
Have so many things to see
Including lots of newer choices.
The High Line, great for walking,
Built on railroad tracks forsaken,
Now endowed with gorgeous plantings,
Is a route most often taken.
The Oculus, a shopping mall
And transportation center
Is an architect’s fulfillment
Of a dream we all can enter.
And the latest new addition,
Hudson Yards, with room for climbing
On its famous Vessel sculpture
Is well worth a little rhyming.
Years ago when people traveled
To New York, if they’d a listing
Of the sights to see, it wasn’t these
‘Cause they were not existing.
Autumn has crept up on summer,
Much as age has crept on me.
Without announcement, without fan-fare,
All the evidence I see.
The sunrise is a little later,
Sunset is earlier each day.
Geese are arriving from the Northlands,
Settling in as if to stay.
They are coming for the leavings
After harvesting is done.
Before long we’ll see the hunters
Camouflaged to have some fun.
I hang up my gardening hoe,
I have put garden to bed.
I’ll rest and read seed catalogs
As new plantings fill my head.
Goodbye to the heat of summer.
Milder days have come to please.
Now that the harvest is all finished.
Farmer and gardener take their ease.
I wonder if THC
and our Holy Cooperative Spirit
could be cousins
like Grandmother Moon
and Grandmother Tree.
Why do you want to wonder
about something as curious as that,
dear?
Oh, I don't recall, really.
It just came up in conversation a few minutes ago.
Honey,
your breakfast is still a figment of your hopeful imagination,
so who on Earth were you conversing with a few minutes ago?
I was in the backyard
talking with the trees,
and the extended family question just came up
and down
and in
and out.
Honey,
when you take your morning meds,
and then go out to your sit spot
and talk to the trees...
Yes?
Would you do me a favor?
What's that?
Would you listen more,
and invoke curses against climate hate-mongerers
and malingerers
less?
You scare our more pedestrian neighbors.
But I was listening.
The trees were talking
in their windblown surfing voices
of autumn colored breeze
swaying like Green Fairy SkyWoman
Blessing each falling leaf
spinning tales
revolving moral compasses
drifting from win to lose
coming to rest where they first gave birth,
Blessed by Grandmother Moon's ultra-violet rhythms
lights
and dual dark dilemmas,
mystery,
everyday awe
expecting sacred wonder.
Oh, well then,
I was wondering why you were so quiet out there...
So, what's your plan for today?
I thought I might plant more trees.
Want some company?
If we both listen more,
and ask impatient questions less.
Planting already faithful saplings
or merely hopeful seeds
of co-relationship?
Depends on how long we care to be remembered
for our civil kindness,
green cooperative intent,
revolutionary winning trees and winning people values
norms
voices natural and spiritual
bilaterally democratic spinning energy,
healthy merits and unhealthy demerits,
regenerative plantings more than degenerate uprootings,
climate health supplanting wealth of disease,
unease,
dissonant disassociating trees.
Dearest,
I'm having trouble following some of your connections.
Do you think that's the THC
or Holy Cooperative Spirit whispering?
Yes, love.
I stopped in front of a decaying house
That takes up some space on a busy road
I stepped up on the porch - it's not my house
It was not my house - never my abode
Those are ferns in the garden doing well
I would have planted those if it were mine
So that I could see them through the window
And smile that the plantings are doing fine
I see the rosette hung above the door
It needs a little sanding and some stain
One of those chores that I would have put off -
I would have promised again and again
A wobbly staircase leads uncertainly
Toward what seems to be a roof with a hole
In the center- a patchable problem -
And then I heard the whispers, bless my soul
Children I never had whispered nearby
In a decaying house I never owned
With a garden that I never planted
And a staircase of wood that moaned and groaned
I leaned on my cane headed for the door
It had been the right choice to stop and see
The decaying old house close by the road
Just two of a kind, the old house and me
7-15-20
Contest: The Decaying House
Sponsor: Constance La France
Evening sun dipping beneath yonder horizon
Casts surreal pirouetting hazy shadows across my face,
My mind wandering trancelike into an ethereal
Vision, escaping time and unreal space while I dozed
Dreamlike into an imaginary world where I saw
Exquisite gardens of multi-colored daisies waving,
And among them I saw shadowy creatures gliding
Which I knew were angels from fleeting ages past
Tending plantings of the Lord’s exquisite spring.
Though strangely familiar to me, I could not see their faces
Or discern their names; they were surely ancestors
Who loved the sweet smells of flowers--just as I do.
THIRD PLACE WINNER
written May 23, 2021
for "Dreamlike" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Constance La France