The Gardener tends to his Plants.
The Plants are unaware of him.
You're so beautiful in my mind this morning
I will send you a new poem
Because I never tire of telling you I love you
Maybe you're tending the garden at home
And you're enjoying some relaxing exercise
I will send you a new poem
You're so wise and uncompromised,
Handsome, sweet, intelligent, and generous
And you're enjoying some relaxing exercise
On this beautiful day,
You can water plants and flowers that are so gorgeous
For all that you do blossoms like a radiant flower
Handsome, sweet, intelligent, and generous
I think of you each and every hour
Since you make me feel showered
With life-giving raindrops, as I become a flower
A flower that never tires of loving you
And who sees you in her mind each morning.
Once well-intended
morning sun alarmed my rise
voices stirred the field
tasks like steady watering —
enlisted day's living work
Then the old gates closed
the pathway seldom walked choked —
soil forgot the spade
plants shrank back for want of care
petals curled back deep within
Left unattended
the garden grows weeds of woe
memory withers —
branches sag beneath own weight
the reek of neglect lingers
Yet the ground still sighs
waiting for hand to return —
the soil lies furrowed
awaiting seeds cast resown
to sprout green in silent spring
Time to grasp the rake
kneel again between the rows
weed the listless out —
let gardening be mind's cure
for hiatus after frost
True love got blend,
Where a heart lives.
Livin trend is trending,
All about talking self!
Breathe is breathless,
Please is a tribute.
Happiness is happy less,
Kindness at the brute.
Can't survive here...
Living life of morality.
God make it fair,
Else to let me within...
The farmer stands with weathered hands,
Tending soils, nurturing the lands.
His heart beats with the Earth's own song,
Though seasons shift and days grow long.
Through drought and storm, he does not break,
For in the soil, his dreams awake.
A quiet strength, both firm and kind,
A bond with nature is intertwined.
Unexpected blooms
leap to the gardener's eyes.
Planned ones wait their turn.
A Rose that’s planted in the rocky earth
that, from the summer sun, is parched and dry,
will seldom bloom to its full beauty’s worth
and soon will sadly whither up and die.
A Rose that’s planted ‘mongst the common weeds
and left untended, sad and on her own,
neglected in a garden full of needs,
will never have her gentle beauty known.
To realize the beauty of the Rose,
a garden must be tended with great care,
and too in life, this thought I now propose,
that like the plot, our lives we must prepare.
For Rose to thrive, our garden we must hoe;
in life, the same is true for Love to grow.
February 14, 2022
Poem of the Week - February 20, 2022
th'oughts...such as
if's and's or maybe's
are the...yes/no's bull
buts that fertilize growth
in/of...concepts soil
gardens in/from which
realities grow...as internal
reflections within the temporary spinnings
of...times space-current eddy-effects
of the unseen natural 'mechanics' of cause
that is known to us only as the...probability
of change consistency with respect our blindness
to that potential...of/for a/some
commonality to/between all differences
stan sand
Mother's
Day
Roses
I
gave
Who
tends
your
grave
but
I
Just by amassing
a plethora of material goods in life
without tending his spiritual needs
one
can never succeed in enriching his
soul !
© Demetrios Trifiatis
15 February 2014
I tend the flowers I keep
even in winter's chilly sleep
bulbs well protected from the winds of the north
anxious to burst and blossom forth
and bloom radiant displays
thru winter ice and cold arrays.
A tiny crocus, a thick hyacinth, young snowdrops
stretch their green blades up to pop
shoots rising in anticipation of the sunlight
warm and gentle rays stretching in the window
enticing their growth to continue.
Just beyond the holidays that slow
inched up despite December snows
breathing anew in January throws
a flower appears and scents
the birthing of a usual springtime event.
It is life, so precious and real
that makes us smile in gratitude of its appeal
and like a babe about to be born
we hold it cherished flowers with thorns
indescribable and unimaginable divine forms.
Sparks white-hot nestled in embers
Your eyes curtain-off the flames
Ice cold as late-December
Turn up the heat to play your games
Push me harder for rent, honey
Your heart, I thought a home
To a skeleton, everywhere is sunny
And today I mean to pick a bone
Fury tempered towards open grievance
Flaws obscured brought into light
What you took we're not close to even
Look into mirrors for a sorry sight
As I stand, bucket in hand,
The flames of our home spurred by wind
Tending Tapestry’s Tenter
Resilience reticent reverberations receding revelations roaming
Resolving residual revolutions resentment reset reposing rest
Puzzling perceptions poet’s perspective Peace
Agency anticipation an arrays’ arrangement alive assorted aims
Antipode’s adjoining assiduous adaptations anchoured attached
Wily words wildly withheld with watchman’s wake
Contingency contextual concussion colluding caressing carefully
Confused contusion collaborating consequential contra-points
Meaningless meaning meandering my murky mind
Hence hidden host hones hopeful honest harvest
08th June 2018
Foregone is my freedom
My future and it's conclusion
My most detached relationship
To myself now subject
To scathing privately
In installments with you.
Now I confided
“He tends a garden”
How was I to express
Without existential anguish
This irrational leap of faith?
Subjugated or subsidized
It bankrupted my reason
So far-gone was my longing
I was invited to a task.
My lesson was to refute life.
Something I had
Already accomplished.
So I confided.
“He tends a flower”
Half-witless or absent minded
I felt no connection
To your thankless doctrines
And I waited patiently at the end
Of whatever road I had taken
For my choice attendant.
And I confided
“He tends to Petunia”
ON TENDING THE GREAT ANCESTRAL FIRES
Here lies the residue
Of an old fire
Long gone
Dry—Ashes
Left to the whelms
Of raindrops to dampen
Into a useless mush—
Or for the wind to blow
Aimlessly to nowhere;
Wet and immobile
Or blowing dry in the wind,
Useless are cold ashes.
Here, scattered among the warm ashes,
Lay hot remnants of a once great fire
Gone untended—abandoned as.
Often, tenders of great fires are released
From their duties by the thirst of death;
Others are just scared away.
Be whichever it may, great fires
Cocoon themselves in charcoal hued embers.
Charcoal hued embers—steamers of raindrops
And lovers of re-birthing winds of ignition.
Come chilled children;
Movements are like unsettled ashes
Of social interchange; revolution,
Like volcanic embers of transformation.
Come cocooned children;
Let us gather and stoke volcanic embers
That we may metamorphose in the presence
Of the Great Fire spirit of our ancestors—
Least we devolve into the staled mush of ashes.
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