As raindrops drip from Hostas' long blossoms
The gentle breeze lightly its stem kisses
The clouds gather to give us rain, awesome
Moisture, on these thoughts, my mind reminisces
Lavender blooms show oregano's beauty
Harmonizing Mexican Petunia's shade
Flamboyant color purple dancing cutie
Artistic colorful scene seen in their glade
Spring and summer with colors that delight
Beauty comes to an end; fall offers its own
Pomegranate's red skin, fruit, chaotic bite
Harvest of apples, winter squash, pumpkins grown
Reveal to me, each stage has beauties' offering
Love each stage with joyful praise, life altering
finis'
At three, the garden writes itself in slime—
silver calligraphy across the flagstones
where I pace in my wool habit, sweating.
The moths are frantic priests
hurling their small bodies at the lamp’s false sun,
again, again, a liturgy of burning.
I used to call this Devil’s hour.
Now I know there is no Devil,
only the slug’s blind pull toward rot,
the cartography of appetite
mapped in mucus on the path
where saints once walked to Matins.
The hostas are being eaten.
Something is always eating.
I watch a moth singe its wing-dust on the bulb—
that powdery baptism, useless—
and drop stunned to the stones
where a slug begins its pilgrimage across the corpse.
This is the only honest prayer:
mandibles working in darkness,
the chemical shimmer of a slug’s foot
seeking the soft meat of decay.
No one is listening. No one was ever listening.
The garden teaches me its single lesson—
matter consuming matter,
the world folding into itself
like hands at vespers, purposeless,
perfect. The moths know
what I am only learning:
light is not love. Light is just light,
and we are who burn for.
a gorgeous Eiffel tower is in the background of Peachtree Boulevard
We know it is not THE Eiffel tower, but it is amazing to see anyway
Atlanta Georgia has a flair all her own, her desserts are legend.
Hostas, foxglove, azaleas and wisteria trees line this piece of heaven.
I am lured into a pretty café with crepe myrtle trees and daisies.
The greeting is straight from the south “how ya’ll do’n?”
Beignets are brought to my table before I order.
Just a little something to tide you over, honey.
Yes, they still call you honey here, and it feels okay.
Other customers begin arriving in twos and threes.
I get out my novel and pretend to read,
Missing nothing, but pretending to miss everything
plotting my next six poems around strangers’ conversations.
The Days Come, Warmer
Time has ammassed the many aspects of me,
Which I then collect, design and tatt
Into delicate lace edgings for my aging, and which I then
Lay out into rings around the bases of tree trunks
To become splendor again, anew across the landscape
— with the fragrance of lilies — orange, yellow, purple —
Bursting their blooms through the darkened earth
Beside the already growing roses, asters, peonies and hostas —
To celebrate meeting a new season of warmth in the forest;
Awaiting evensong, to grace this day’s ending work and memories
With the birds flocking, circling, singing out overhead
From here to the horison’s moonrise.
———————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 5/12/2023
That is the path I've chosen,
covered with soft blades of grass
hedged with variegated hostas,
and moonlight filtering
through hanging willow trees.
The winding path tilts slightly uphill,
towards a wooden pergola
that glimmers in the darkness,
a temple built in paradise
for my lovely Marguerite.
I have planned my life's purpose,
I know so clearly the urge to live,
my priceless gift from Cupid
cleansing the humdrum of this life.
The nightingale enlivens the silence,
full moon oozes limpid serenity,
the glow worms twinkle lovingly
like a myriad of faraway stars.
A lonely breeze caresses my face
but cannot quench the thirst
nor quell the boiling of my blood
nor the hunger I feel for her.
I gaze upon her lovely face
Chiaroscuro in the moonbeams
A painting mightier than any Madonna
that emanated from Fra Filippo Lippi
Or an intimate impression by Renoir.
Yet like these famous portraits of old
Our love forever will survive.
My circular corner garden
Is a somewhat crowded scene.
With hostas all around the edge
And day lilies in between.
But within the flowery circle
The grass is growing tall.
I’ve tried, but there’s no way
I can weed it out at all.
One day while on my porch
I glanced out at the flowers
And noticed feathery maidens
All dancing in the bowers
Dumbstruck, it just came to me!
Those uninvited lasses
Aren’t ugly weeds at all.
They’re ornamental grasses!
I wander the garden path that winds
among the colorful crepe myrtle trees
Its lined with ferns, hostas and flowering
coralbells eagerly sought by honey bees
Hidden within the lush greenery and rocks
lies a tiny fairy village thats filled with delight
Within, it has it's own little pathway and
cartwheeling fairies that are such a sight
The sun drenched beds of lilies are filled
with all the different colors of the rainbow
Swaying in the warm breeze while reaching
for the sun they are putting on quite a show
The peacefulness here in my little garden
washes away all the cares of the day
A place where it's very sights and sounds
help me hear all that my Creator has to say
mkt
2020
Porches,
attached decks,
patios,
intimate places for alfresco,
These make a difference
between a fortressed house
and a transparent home,
between an ego castle
and an eco-habitat.
We also spread rhododendron bushes
and hostas,
flowers and ferns
around our stone
and concrete bound foundations.
We want stable defenses
but prefer to camouflage houses
in organic color,
life giving and taking shapes.
These boundary vistas
speak of heart felt reminders
our habitat is rooted
in Earth's wilderness
In vulnerability
hidden from transparency
except with those who share our sacred space
inside
and upon,
within our co-passioned present time,
Presence bonding,
double-binding,
re-membering past wildness
anticipating future re-generative
re-storative
re-habituating
re-acclimating
re-bounding win/lose less
for more win/win paradise
Just barely 2020 visible
and silently audible
and fresco fragranced
and tasted,
felt
and so nearly touched
longing into belonging
on our cooperatively-owned front porch.
Nature's green dress sprawls lofty upon the earth,
bursting forth with life abiding foliage,
photosynthesizing perpetual birth
that carries a carpet of created knowledge.
Ivy hems climb to the collar of fir trees,
with moss detail, but not to upstage
frisky fern fringes, flower buttons with bees,
roving clover, shade hostas, and sun sown sage.
From fresh fruit to seed to nutrient soil,
plant life receives light sufficient for each day.
They neither spin their garments nor do they toil,
yet the good Lord clothes them in kingly array.*
Adorned within the fragrant, lush greenery
are creeping critters and miniscule beasts
making tasty tears upon the scenery
as they nibble upon ceaseless fresh feasts.
Through new leaf growth and seed germination,
the green dress prevails with flowing strides,
for our Lord gives hope and restoration,
replenishing her green even as He provides.
*Matthew 6:28-29 KJV
And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
12-4-19
~
gentle white daisies
waving petals toward sun
beckon birds to flight
~
bright purple pansies
celebrate the warm season
with radiant smiles
~
naïve pink roses
hasten to open petals
where butterflies land
~
joyful red lilies
spread sensitive foliage
awakening bees
~
lavender hostas
lifting high above the plant
embracing sunshine
~
spaces-SEPTEMBER I
empty slides in the park
chatter fills the school bus
spaces- SNUFFED OUT
Bad light stops play
The muscians retire
Note: Haydn's Farewell Symphony
spaces-CATARACT
The mist lifts slowly
A new vista is unveiled
spaces-CATCH-22
A window pane shatters
Nobody makes a home run
SPACES 2
HISPANIC REVERBERATIONS
Blue-bells
SPACES 1
SHADY LADIES
Hostas
spaces- REFRACTION
a rainbow on high
liquid to light
spaces-THEOPHANY
This is my beloved son
Hear Him?
spaces-PECKING ORDER
Sparrow on the bird table
the hawk has a feast
An Abstract spaces poem
Close your eyes
What did you see?
There is a certain comfort that comes to me
every spring, from perennials I planted years ago, that still pop up, beneath dark soil.
I often wonder how in the world they survived the harshness of winter and his unforgiving and relentless frozen lashings, year after year.
It makes me think about my own survival as a young girl. Buried beneath my tender exterior, I also found a way to comfort and warm myself beneath the unforgiving cold and darkness.
I was just a child bride when the harshness of winters
lashed into me, frozen punishments that were warrantless, relentless and unforgiving. But, like a perennial I always found the strength to survive and bloom bigger and stronger every spring.
Maybe that is why today, my garden is full of hostas, lavender, cora bells and black eyed susans. Yes, there is a certain wanting that comes to me every year, beneath dark clouds of winter.
The beautiful Spring is here with barely time left remaining,
but mother nature has decided Spring is only good for raining.
The Summer is arriving and you won’t see me complaining,
this year I planted lilies and peonies I’ll be maintaining.
From my wonderful mother chartreuse hostas I’ll be obtaining
from the lovely garden in her yard; her nurture I’m gaining.
I shall nourish fresh veggies and continue great sustaining.
We’ve decided this year the old picnic table we’re staining,
and with our level and sand paper we will be surface paning
so that we may have family and friends over for entertaining.
In my Church I will be doing some Summer vocational training
to help the homeless and needy who are weak and waning.
Yes, it sounds like my Summer will be tiresome and draining…
but like I said before you won’t ever see me complaining.
May 22, 2018
Up with the sun, put coffee to brew
Inside my mouth, some sticky night goo
Standing in housecoat with fuzzy house shoes
Starting my day, as always I do
Down with a cup, feeling like new
Stepped onto my porch, that first morning view
Something was odd, some weird bugaboo
There must have been paint in the heavy night dew
Next to my house, by my wandering jew
My once yellow daisies had all turned light blue
Even my houseplants, my once green bamboo
Was now a blue green of the ugliest hue
So I cut them all down, in a rage I flew
Hacking and chopping, like I'd lost a screw
Roses and hostas and yes, daisies too
But I saved a bouquet, Here! These are for you.
June 20 2017
by Daniel Turner
A Little Person's Garden View
As a wee person, my imagination runs free,
I peek through the window, many pixies I see,
Spreading dust, like the dew from the trees,
While fairies fly high and the flowers party!
The gnomes are standing so tall and still,
Between the Hostas, Iris, and the Daffodils,
With bright sunshine beaming, from hill to hill,
I would like to be outside, twirling like a windmill!
Written: 6/27/16 ©
Submitted for Contest: Little People
Sponsored By: Shadow Hamilton
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