Words can emerge from the fertile ground of contemplation. Often their arrangement into poetry gives greater opportunity for creative expression. This has been the case for me. Wander, if you will, in my poetry garden.
In the garden of my mind…
A seed was planted.
I pressed it firmly into the rich soil of my imagination where it lay for some time—inchoate; fecund with possibilities.
I offered for your inspection the potential it held,
And was surprised and encouraged by the expectation that it could not fail to grow—even thrive.
Through the long years of its gestation, you nurtured it, liberally fertilising with love and regard.
When storm clouds gathered, you turned its face towards the sun.
When the deluge of doubt threatened to erode the roots of its resolve
You gathered in support—you propped it up
When worms of despair attacked tender shoots of endeavour,
You defended it and struck them down.
And as those tiny tendrils of growth reached out to grasp that illusive trellis of fruition,
You nourished them with interest and concern ‘til they blossomed with thought.
Regardless of thorns you fearlessly pruned back superfluous vanities to better define their worth.
Like bees on which the blossom depends, you offered intellectual cross-pollination,
Passing over the weak vines of argument, to light on stronger ones on which reason could flourish.
Like gentle rain on soft green shoots you intensified my aspiration to grow longer, stronger, larger, further.
And now, as this once tiny seed reaches maturity, its label will surely read:
‘Hybrid variety, standard stock grafted with rare and improbable dreams, but given the right soil and optimum conditions, will reward growers with vigorous blooms year round, and will bear fruit of unusual sweetness’.
If my garden blooms, it is because my friends have green thumbs.
Time in Flight
I have this sense of hurry,
That time is running short;
Nothing I can pin down,
Just a vague, elusive thought.
I think I have it nailed,
Glimpsed from the corner of my eye,
But it disappears down alleys
In the backstreets of my mind.
I try to live the moment,
To appreciate each gift:
The warmth of my husband’s skin,
My grandson’s fragrant breath.
So I pursue this edgy feeling,
Try to fathom its strange face.
I follow its dark spoor
Into a dim and shadowy place.
Across vast inner voids,
To a subconscious rarely known,
This creature of uneasiness
Again, has surely flown.
Is it fear of my mortality?
Desire to fully live my days?
Or some creature of dark portent
Whose reveal fulfills a fear,
Of my bit part in life’s play?