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Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

The business of gardening

In gardening, life, poetry, survival on June 30, 2011 at 3:22 pm

The first notion you have to give up is that everything has a right to live.

It’s not practical in the garden.

Or if  you believe it has a right to live, you have to know not all, most even, won’t make it.

This will be at your own hand.

If you are not good with this, then being a gardener will be harder on you.

It’s mostly a business of death, funny enough.

the garden inside the gardener

In gardening, poetry, relationships on September 21, 2010 at 2:36 pm

The gardener thinks this way:

He is planting a garden inside of himself.

Resilience and patience surface through his hard shoulders.

Compassion’s roots reach down to feed from his lungs.

the gardener learns to see

In gardening, poetry, relationships, spirituality, Uncategorized on September 17, 2010 at 8:46 pm

“This flower.” The gardener pauses over his lesson. “This leaf.”

This is not another leaf which has fallen from another tree.

This not a symbol or an abstraction.

“Not a flower.”  He studies. “This flower.” 

Respect every, appreciate each.

“I am trying.” He breathes, “I am one gardener.”

The teachers in the garden cheer.

the gardener looks closer

In gardening, poetry, relationships, spirituality on September 16, 2010 at 2:25 pm

Not the weather but the ability to adapt to it.

Not the harvest but the acceptance of this offering.

Not the time but the experience.

The gardener measures

In gardening, poetry, Uncategorized on September 14, 2010 at 5:30 am

A flower cannot be measured. Only appreciated.

A journey cannot be measured. Only traveled.

A thought cannot be measured. Only conceived.

A life should not be measured. Only lived.

Virgin territory

In gardening, poetry on September 13, 2010 at 4:39 am

I am lost in the garden.

I wasn’t raised on vegetables, rarely saw them on my dinner plate. On occasions when they did crowd my meat I’d send them back to wherever the Green Giant’s valley was. In college, Lois and I would go to the cafeteria for food. This continued as our life style when we married. When I was away in Australia on business, Lois had the oven removed and put a closet in it’s place, we kept the dishwasher for a file cabinet.    

When we lived in Manhattan, we’d speed-dial the hundreds of restaurants on the Upper East Side.  Faster than you can say TV dinner, the doorbell would buzz, and the kids would sing out their Pavlovian chorus, “The food man is here!”

When we moved to California, we concentrated on neighborhoods with the best schools for the kids and knew we’d be happy on the West Coast when we found a house in a cul-de-sac near the beach, with white carpet, a pool and walking distance to Jack in the Box.

I admit I am a lover of fast food. The bright plastic environments are happy and energizing; they always have big windows, all-you-can-drink sodas and I can always count on liking the chicken, burgers and fries.

Today though I am fumbling in the garden with a clumsy lover’s desire to touch mysterious places. I have a need to plant seeds, I want to grow vegetables, I am excited to taste their strangeness. I just don’t know where to start. I am having performance anxiety.

I am new in the garden. I sit down by the dirt.  “Teach me.”

the gardener is sorry

In gardening, poetry on September 12, 2010 at 2:41 pm

“In the garden it’s easy to slip on your words.” This is how the gardener apologizes.

The trees, the flowers, the fruits, the vegetables, the birds, his wife, have heard this before.

They hope it is a long time before the next time.

surprise attack in the garden

In gardening, poetry on September 12, 2010 at 2:30 pm

The humming bird damaged my moment

stopped my heart

Beat my calm with its flutter

gardening is work

In gardening, poetry on September 11, 2010 at 8:20 pm

There’s no off season for the gardener, no slow times.

Late bloomers is for flowers.

the tender gardener

In gardening, poetry on September 11, 2010 at 12:49 pm

The gardener charms the flowers.

He sways his fleshy face, flapping his jowls.

“Again!” They beg, bending over themselves.

“First show me your best pose.”

Instantly they stand in unison, bright.

“Perfect little things.” He sighs.

This is the tender gardener. The one he wishes he could be always.

Impossible, of course, with shovel and shears and chemicals.

But in this patch of sun, on his knees, he is thankful.

“You!” they cry, “Now you!”