Step by gradual step,
finger tips on handrail,
beam on countenance,
I countenance a beam,
day in urban green park,
with bosom shadows,
red blazing sunshine,
that watchful radiance,
mock orange hedge,
that aromatic flourish,
hint from my instinct,
watch each rung,
don’t slip or stumble,
with wistful wallow,
silken counsel I heed,
yet further episodes,
vivid dream intrusion,
a sea of blue asters,
butterfly kaleidoscope,
on nimble nectar quest,
but now I stand astride,
on landing at the top,
casting hazel eyed,
downward glance,
on another golden,
snapshot on earth
I wish I could plant happiness in your heart and heal you of your despondency. I'd place affirmations of loving peace and contentment in your mind. I'd say things like this and that hoping it's not for naught. What would you say if all your sadness disappeared overnight?
You'd no longer have nightmares. Just think, peaceful slumber with compassion wandering throughout your dreams. All you need to do is reach out and grab onto the love then hold on tight. Its purpose being to protect and preserve your soul for the future. Look inside, too, I know it’s there!
I'd also be sure to include some sweet grass and mock orange blossoms to fragrance the center of your hope with confidence. So be sure to touch them and feel their softness and take a deep reassuring breath when you do. It will set you free.
I'll exchange the darkness with love and life to comfort the place in your memory where your way was lost. I'll take your hand in mine and read you psalms 'til you fall asleep. There I'd leave you in God's loving affection until morning light where you're never to broken to begin again.
You are the soup and the spoon.
You are the moist, warm vapor of
tarragon rising from the bowl,
you are the wooden bowl.
You are that same vapor morphed
into the morning mist that flags across
the tops of hemlock and pine on its
journey toward an evening sky so
perfectly clouded and colored it
could be a painting. You are that sky
at dusk. You are the canvas that
caught the silhouette of a tardy
mourning dove racing home.
And I am that mourning dove lost in
reverie while foraging beneath a Mock Orange.
I am the Mock Orange. I am the perfume lifting
out of the center of its creamy, white petals—
pursed like a pouting mouth. I am the hunger.
I am the mouth that will not hesitate to open
for the offered spoon of soup.
By: Evelyn Augusto
I AM Walking Smelling the Fragrant Flowers
I WALK THROUGH GARDENS
FILLED WITH LILAC, JAZMINE ROSE
LAVEN HYACINTH
HONEYSUCK LILIES
SMELLS SO FRAGANT THE BLOSSUMS
MOCK-ORANGE FREESAS
MORN GLORY YLANGS
TUBEROSE HELOTROPE AND
LOB MARITIMAN
1/26/18
by James Edward Lee Sr.
The leaves on the silver birch flutter
in the gentle breeze first silver then green
all around the fruit trees slowly growing
heavy as fruits swell and start to ripen
The flower buds break open in glorious colour
white scented flowers of mock orange rife
honey blossom cascading down walls
while sweet peas climb ever higher
Summer hot and sultry shows her face
to the earth's stunning painted canvas
and life once more renewed and vital
as all around us everything flourishes
Early summer flowering deciduous shrubs,
And I among them came and went with
Philadelphus virginalis,
Their brightening solar ships.
Its natural tendency is to grow vase-shaped,
Clipping encourages the plant to fill out
And become dense, and in my final spring
It performed beautifully, flowering prolifically.
Mock orange is not a heavy feeder.
It loves sun and reads memories
On cactus leaves with sideways glares,
Though on an "established" plant,
One should prune out about one-third
Of the old growth (the trivialities of life's Agur),
Allowing the gloried lightness of day
To seize upon bright green leaves.
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