Gardened Poems

The Early Morning Bloom Has Opened Up

Death has ushered me into a new Home—
The Bloom has opened—wide—
No Chamber here for sorrow—
But endless Rooms—inside—

A quiet hush of Petals—
Unfurl upon the Air—
As if the Soul were Gardened—
By Hands divinely fair.

The Walls are made of Silence—
Yet Music drifts between—
An unseen Choir attending—
What once the Grave had seen.

I lay my old attire—
Upon the Dust below—
And walk into the Meadow—
Where the everlasting—grows.

The Bloom has opened—fully—
And bids me—enter so—
Goodnight to all my family --
I can now release my soul.

GLORIOUS HAPPY HAIR AND THEE

Lovely, happy hair,
Rowed, and growing in beauty;
God’s sweet locks I bear:-

Hued as is the night,
Moonlight beauty reflecting
Ebony delight:-

Locks admired so much,
Gardened rowed short or shouldered,
Just got to be touched.

God makes no mistakes;
Creating natured beauty,
Whatever hue takes:-

Mirror check and see,
The blooming beauty of thee,
And gracefully be:-

Quite Simply Put

Just what have I done with my life
                A man put that question to me
I started to think and I gave him a wink
   But my mind drew a blank, well, let’s see

I’ve not built a bridge made of steel
                  I’ve not a photographer’s eye
I’d not fit the bill of a fireman’s will
                 I’ve not flown a plane, no, not I

No land have I gardened or farmed
                      Machinery baffles my mind
Accountants are great, that wasn’t my fate
An autograph, never I’ve signed  

Yet I knew I found what I sought
                   Without a degree and its pay
The bonds of the heart, right from the start
Yes, that’s what I wanted to say

And I’ve been the happiest man
          I’ve done more than all else above
 For all that I needed, I’ve surely exceeded
Quite simply put, I have known love

she gardened herself happy

Marta decided to garden herself happy
It was the thing she used to love to do
with her grandparents, Big Pappy
and her grandmother, Nora Sue.

They had spent many hours planting their seeds
Hoeing, tilling, raking, and getting rid of weeds
their bounty came in July, and sometimes in June
They were still working, singing a communal tune.

Big pappy would whistle, Nora Sue would hum.
Marta planted her garden, chewing her gum
Putting seed packages on stakes so she would remember
what she had planted; what she would can in September

As she made these new memories, she remembered her roots.
Her apple trees were generous, they provided her fruits.
Carrots, cabbages, corn and pumpkins came along this July.
She smiled at the heavens, feeling her grandparents in the sky.

little Petey

when she looked up she knew he could not be her blind date
He was knock-out handsome, a joy to look at, so she looked down.
At the novel in her lap, which was boring, but it made her feel less self-conscious.
“are you Ladonna?” The voice startled her. She looked up.
It was the gorgeous man she had seen looking around from the doorway.
Her voice stuck; she could only nod. What is wrong with him? She wondered.
They had a lovely dinner, and a marvelous conversation. She wanted another date.
Maybe another hundred dates with this man. She tried to not look too eager.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” he said. She was glad because it was an amazing date.
She rang up her Aunt and thanked her for forcing her into doing this.
Best date I have ever had, she told her, and he was handsome too!
His aunt asked his name. Then she laughed. “I know him!”
“You do?”
“You know him too.”
“I do?”
“Little Petey who used to follow me around when I gardened.”
“That is little Petey!”
“Sure is!”
In a year they were married, and they both helped her Aunt garden.

eyes barely keep open

I gardened all day
so exhaustion would set in
It worked too, but fast....
Do I have time to post my poems on a website?
I doubt that I have the capability.
My eyes are barely keeping open.

Summers Ending Nocturne

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.

Trixie Belden Books

Trixie Belden was a marvelous book find for me.
She was a blonde dynamo with Encyclopedia Brown’s talent
For finding, following, and solving mysteries
delightfully female with Honey, her sidekick best friend.

Encyclopedia Brown had not been penned yet anyway.
I remember paying three dollars for each Trixie Belden book.
It was my allowance for the week if I ironed, dusted, gardened,
watched my brother, swept, cleaned the pantry, etcetera

we were not handed things for free in the sixties
We had to earn them.
Trixie Belden was worth every penny
I think I appreciated her more because I had to earn her

The Little Bridges

Stubbs Park is decorously rampant,
its paths scamper here and there
                            like unruly children.

The original landscapers ran riot,
for they planted arching spans
            between and over
many of its grassy hillocks,
            its trickling brooks.

If you are in meditative mood,
these diminutive bridges
can lead you away and home again
in the compact unwinding
                    of a few gardened acres.

Catwalks may connect you
              to gaps in your life
ones yet uncrossed for want of a bridge’
They can lead you astray also
until you figure out the right questions
                to ask of yourself.

Perhaps more to the point
folks can leisurely pass over
      some idle hours
between breakfast and lunch.

On a summer evening
      your long shadow
can walk over the park
              in a few strides.

You may recall then that all your steps
have been
                  bridges over time,
a landscaping of a life -
      and just a walk in the park.

Mare Does Things Her Way

Mare will harvest her pumpkins one of these years
Cheers to you all, she says, for she is unorthodox and crazy.
Lazy is her middle name, for the pumpkins all rot.
Not that she cares, for she is unconcerned about such stuff.

Rough hands look like they have gardened, but she has not.
Rot is what you find in her pumpkin patch this year again.
Kin roll their eyes at her sloth-like ways, but she does not care.
Mare does things in her own way, in her own time. She is strange.

Range rover in her driveway has not been driven for a long time.
Mime her sister tries to get her to be more normal of course.
Hoarse laugh from Mare now. She is independent to a fault.
Malt their brother thinks this is hilarious, but he loves her.

Pure thinking keeps her in the family, for she is kind.
Mind you, she does her best, they say, making excuses.

Hope I Do This Too

My mother went door to door on a daily basis
Collecting money for Mr. Sim’s wife’s funeral flowers
or for a present for Tad and Betty’s newborn baby girl
When I am older, I hope I do this too

My mother hung her clothes out on a line
Where they turned stiff as a desktop in the wind
The other neighbor ladies ran out at the same time to talk to her
When I am older, I hope I do this too

My mother baked pies, cakes and cookies in the morning.
In summer she gardened– snapping peas and shucking corn.
In winter she brought out the watermelon jelly she made in summer
When I am older, I hope I do this too

My mother gave her time to the church on Wednesdays and Sundays
She was one of four ladies in charge of all of the funeral dinners
Because no one else would step up and do it like they would
When I am older, I hope I do this too

My mother was the quintessential volunteer.
She was our room mother every year at school.
Because if I did not volunteer her, my identical twin would.
I hope I will volunteer time and talents like my mother always did.

A Wonderous Virtue

I have had my heart torn to pieces
From inexplicable pain and devotion,
Sown seeds of trust and reaped distrust,
I have gardened it, in dry stormy deserts and in green plains,
And garnered nixes as deserved and underserved,
I have grown fonder in loneliness, yet attached,
Earned pain and immortal reminiscence,
I have had mine broken, as I may have broken others,
Reaped a share of emotional intoxication,
I have let my passion flow, into bottomless pits,
Yet, in all this madness, I find no wondrous virtue,
Than to love, be it in the rains or in the suns,
Inconsiderate of its start or its end.

Twentythird Seedbearer Psalm

Holy EarthSpirit
is our seed bearer.

Our blue celestial universe 
could lack nothing
In meadows of green sweetgrass
She enlightens repose.

Into living waters of recomposure
She bears then leads us;
There S/He revives Earth's compassioned soul.

She guides me
by polypaths of virtue
not forsaking Her sense-rooted story.

Though we pass through this gloom
doom river valley,
I fear no mountainous trauma;

Within me
your rooted integrity
and your well-seeded womb are here,
to hearten and enlighten us.

You prepare a wealth gardened table
between us
under the eyes of my predative
and hoarding enemies;

You anoint our capital driven values
with multicultural oil,
my catholic creolizing communion cup
brims cooperatively over.

Ah, how active hope enlightenment
and empowering love pursue us,
every day and night of Earth's living systems;

My home,
the recreation of ecowomanist
re-imaged Yahweh,
As long as Earth light power
revolves around Sun's well-blessed 
EarthTribe Womb.

Mother Was My Friend

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

The Bridges of Stubbs Park

Stubbs Park is decorously rampant,
its paths scamper here and there
like unruly children.

Perhaps its topographical language
once spoke of bridges 
for the landscapers have run riot
planting arching spans
between and over 
many of its hillocks and humps.

If you are in meditative mood,
these diminutive bridges
can lead you away and home again
in the compact unwinding 
of a few gardened acres.

The catwalks of Stubbs park
can connect you to gaps in your life
as yet uncrossed for want of a bridge,
they can lead you astray also
until you figure out the right questions
to ask of yourself,

or perhaps more to the point
they can leisurely pass over
some idle hours
between breakfast and lunch.

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