Beyond the window, the radiant holly has withered.
The weary evening is losing its face;
I slice it into thin slivers like Mom’s cake—
so it might last a little longer.
When, as a boy in springtime, I pruned the vines
in silence alongside my father, a startled little owl flew out
through the skylight near the chimney.
A wistful ache still lingers in my heart.
a leafless branch with me
but that's not what God did see
God spoke over me
of me He poured into
God spoke over me
now restored and renewed
for I'm a branch on His tree
a limb poised for prosperity
God spoke over me
of me He poured into
God spoke over me
now restored and renewed
fruitful purposeful
I longed to be
saturated with godly abundancy
pruned fine-tuned
precise in Christ
ready to be filled
In this new life
A leafless branch was me
but that's not what God did see
God spoke over me
of me He poured into
God spoke over me
now restored and renewed
a new creation in Christ
living an abundant Life
God spoke over me
of me He poured into
God spoke over me
now restored and renewed
God spoke over me
of me He poured into
God spoke over me
I'm now restored and renewed
With blistered hands we reach for the things that are sweet,
And gather the ashes that fall at our feet.
We barter for things that decay,
And cry when it all gets swept away.
We hide from the heat,
Believing every sting is our defeat.
Yet, these earthen vessels are broken before being filled,
The stone must be struck before the waters are spilled.
Our small comforts we guard and we run from the rod,
We mistake our wounds for the absence of God.
We forget that oil is pressed,
And the soul must be emptied before it finds rest.
The branch must be pruned before blossoms appear,
And joy that we seek is bought through the tear.
So open these hands that have clung to the clay,
And shatter the jar for the dawn of the day.
I didn’t plant that garden tree
But thinking, I just let it be
I knew I should have cut it out
But felt within to let it sprout
And so, as seasons came and went
I pruned this tree, its bole I bent
Around the gable of my shed
But left the limbs above my head
The years passed by and I grew old
I hated heat and shunned the cold
My garden work became a chore
As summer days my patience wore
But resting underneath that tree
Allowed me time to watch and see
The beauty of my garden wrought
And all the neighbored friends it brought
A bunny comes to taste my beets
While shaded so, I rest my feet
A bumble-bee’s contralto thrum;
A promise of much more to come
Badgers, robins, the house finch red
All come with hopes of being fed
And I, too tired to wield my hoe,
Am glad I let that elm tree grow.
What is hope, ask a bee in cold winter days,
she hangs around the pruned rose bushes,
with the hope that someday the spring will come,
and the flowers will bloom again in the garden.
What is hope, ask the blue bird pair in early spring,
they work diligently to bring every twig and grass,
to build their nest in the corner nook of my house,
I see the hope in the eyes of this lovely pair,
They are dreaming of a happy home for their family.
What is hope, ask a lonesome soul,
When the uncertainties linger around in mind,
hope is the only refuge to calm our fears,
When the loneliness sends one in depression,
the hope of a companionship overshadows the despair.
What is hope, ask a human being,
our life is a sand castle of hope on a sandy beach,
with the lingering fear of drowning in occasional high tide,
our destiny, our future, and our own survival,
hangs around the magical hope, the hope that is the eternal inspiration.
I memorized your metaphors
As you laid me down
And beheld my beauty,
Studying every contour of my leaf.
With gentle urgent hands
you pruned
the cherry-colors of my bounty.
You pressed your face against my petals
Aromatic and entrancing,
I shivered when the warm air
Escaped your lips,
Delighted to taste my nectar
And the dew upon my trembling petals
Showed the efficacy of your masculine touch.
That visit to my garden where you
Plucked me,
From the land of exotic floral,
Like the scent of a fragrant flower
It remains celestial.
When a flower doesn't sprout, it's easy to want to dig it up and start over.
It might be dead, or maybe it's too weak to grow, but it is important to remember:
growth takes time.
Some flowers are late bloomers,
Some need to be cut and pruned to thrive.
Not all flowers grow in the same conditions, but that doesn't make one flower better than another.
Because at some point, they all bloom,
and they are beautiful if you have the patience.
Care for your flowers.
Let them grow.
Watch their beauty bloom, as yours will too.
We are like rose bushes pruned by various things
Some, cause and effect, like the death of a dream
Defining moments in how or if we move on
Do we live despite defeat and become art
Something beautifully flawed yet uniquely inspiring
Like a rainbow after a dark violent storm
Will we choose to reflect the light or the onyx cloud
Both have a purpose and a violet value
For what is light without darkness to compare
Even in failure one can be victorious
A hero who sacrifices self that others may live
Can reflect light despite the darkness of death
The womb to his body is as a thorn from life’s rose
The demise of his dream gives rise to others
Light enters you and your soul is transformed
You become part of the fertile grounds
For a larger dream to become reality
From a seed to a bud and perhaps a tree of life
Light which will enter you, facilitating your victory
For in tribulations your soul lives on cheating death
I am called 'the ancient one' among my peers,
known for my sweeping limbs, as if they weep.
I was taken from the bank of the River Sugen
when my tender roots were still quite young.
From Nature's arms, I was carefully replanted,
nurtured and shaped by the one who cares for me.
He's gently pruned my limbs to keep me healthy
and taken me outside to absorb morning sunlight.
I am proud to be a specimen of Japanese culture,
a miniature version of my Asian flora ancestors.
Her winsome smile belied her secret essence
A temptress and siren
Given to saturnine quintessence
And I a man of placid and calm complexion
Became ever more umbrageous
With each stranger she offered affection
Ciara Cybelle chose to take her chances
Unconcerned by my mood
Continued her frenzied romances
She swooned at my charm
And laughed at my wit
And yet held to another man’s arm
Ciara Cybelle a nymph out of hell
Twisting a man
With her temptress spell
I had to make her understand
She simply had to see
I must be her only man
But Ciara Cybelle laughed instead
Eyes flashing fire
She brazenly said
The likes of me would never know
The deliciousness
Of the charms she would bestow
On other men she found fairer
Then in a rage
I struck in blind error
And carefree Ciara Cybelle
Lay shattered and still
At my feet where she fell
To the dark waters I fed
The alabaster body
Of Ciara Cybelle dead
Now benthic stillness of cimmerian depths
Disturbed by the pale lifeless limbs
Of Ciara Cybelle
Now tumescent and water pruned
The once sempiternal beauty
Forever ruined
TO THE VINING CHILDREN…VIBING…
(Apropos Of A Scriptural Inspiration)
Let us be as the Vines
Of The Gardener;
Let us who have been pruned
With love and awareness,
Have branches sharing fruits
Of Truth, Peace, and Love:-
Indeed, may our branches
Never ever be void
Of His divine wisdom’s guidance;
For we are poets of the tree of life:
Rooted, trunked, branched, leaved,
And fruited with the liberated word:-
As chosen vines of His love,
Let us continue vibing,
Fruiting awareness, inspiration,
Guidance, peace, and love,
Through the seeds germinating
In the creative fertile soil
Of our gardening poetic mind;
And its onederful oneness,
In its onement of labors of love;
In our blessed poetic gardening
Of divine liberating inspiration.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
¤¤¤ ¤¤¤ ¤¤¤ ¤¤¤
¤¤ ¤¤ ~~ ¤¤ ¤¤
¤ ¤ ¤¤¤ ¤ ¤
¤¤
¤
I find I thirst more day by day
for the True Vine, oh, sweet bouquet
with one drop on tongue, love immersed
more day by day, I find I thirst
the fruit is pressed through trials unsung
love immersed, with one drop on tongue
yet in the vine we find sweet rest
through trials unsung the fruit is pressed
we’re pruned and purged by design
we find sweet rest, yet in the vine
into the vine the branch is merged
by design we’re pruned and purged
one body, one heart, all entwine
the branch is merged into the vine
warmth of Spirit like wine impart
all entwine, one body, one heart
Wilted flowers
Wilted flowers lie in empty fields
Days pass as flies scour,
Leaving the decomposing ideas to be eaten.
The sun flickers as each minute weans by
An empty shell of you left in bloody waters.
A quiet silence crowding the space your words claimed.
The once blooming pedals, scorned by your nectar.
Craving the burn you bring into my veins; no longer able to be muzzled
A type of silent desire for chaos and destruction.
A desire for deforestation.
What started as weeds being plucked,
Turned to mowing down rose bushes.
Muddy boots left on waxed floors,
Destruction on the original wood grain that was once admired by generations.
Floors handcrafted from trees outside of what I wanted to call home.
Someplace silence was peace and peace was expected rather than craved.
Pruned roses left puddles of milkweed
Each droplet going sour the second it fell,
The bitter taste of cyanide leaked out of your pores into its water supply.
Empty plots. Pesticides. Ripped roots.
I didn’t plant that garden tree
But thinking, I just let it be
I knew I should have cut it out
But felt within to let it sprout
And so, as seasons came and went
I pruned this tree, its bole I bent
Around the gable of my shed
But left the limbs above my head
The years passed by and I grew old
I hated heat and shunned the cold
My garden work became a chore
As summer days my patience wore
But resting underneath that tree
Allowed me time to watch and see
The beauty of my garden wrought
And all the neighbored friends it brought
A bunny comes to taste my beets
While shaded so, I rest my feet
A bumble-bee’s contralto thrum;
A promise of much more to come
Badgers, robins, the house finch red
All come with hopes of being fed
And I, too tired to wield my hoe,
Am glad I let that elm tree grow.
Dark red, luscious apples felled from her own tree long ago
Under the beaming sun plummeted with a soft, aching blow
The sweat drips and plops, scruple over a furrowed brow
Upon the discovery of rot that blackened her plow
“Has the wind gone mad–or am I the one insane?
Dirt and grime, high dry–surely the only way to explain”
Denial among hatred, she could not face–but under the murk, bits
Beneath, the snakes–surly and shabby—placed high their bids
The heat danced faster as the days passed far less paced
Her blonde hair bleached and pruned, but left one space
The temple on her right seemed blank and bruised
As a failed blow far too long past was nearly used
The magazine fell as she begins filtering the rot past her mind
She screams, shouts, yelps and cries, sobs of an animal forgotten by time
“I never meant for this to go–go and blow up like this!
I never meant. . . I never meant for me to hurt our kids.”
Too far from gone she was, behind silken white bars and drenched in ammonia
“I know, my love, but I must leave and forget you—may heaven forbid us, Aurora”
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