The Privacy Of The Home
there is a party
but i am not going
i choose
staying inside the house
not watching tv
but just thinking and
lying low
listening to the silence
of the four walls, and then
i take the exit
outside i go
into the garden at night
under the trees
the scents of some
flowers pervading
and then i take a seat
on a big stone
and feel the hardness
of the earth
i am soft in the middle
of this garden
i like it
this private dwelling
just the trees and the
flowers
in the middle of the night
when everyone is
gone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Walls Around Us
there are so many
walls
in order not to
fully understand
a wall of rain
a forest of trees
a river up the floor
a cloud on our eyes
between us are
thick walls
inside us a garden
of flowers
we hear scents
we taste nothing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Flowers In The Rain
Woke up one morning half asleep
With all my blankets in a heap
And yellow roses gathered all around me;
The time was still approaching four
I couldnt stand it anymore
Saw marigolds upon my eider down.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.
So I lay upon my side with all the windows opened wide
Couldnt pressurize my head from speaking
Hoping not to make a sound I pushed my bed into the grounds
In time to catch the sight that I was seeking.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.
If this perfect pleasure has the key
Then this is how it has to be
If my pillows getting wet
I dont see that it matters much to me.
I heard the flowers in the breeze make conversation with the trees
Believed to leave reality behind me
With my commitments in a mess my sleep has gone away depressed
In a world of fantasy youll find me.
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain making the garden grow,
Im just sitting watching flowers in the rain
Feel the power of the rain keeping me cool.
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Garden of Life
A garden of life is again a garden that I desire,
It grows from a point and a line that I concoct,
The real line is here, the garden is upon us.
What can May bring towards the end of the day?
It is summer evening, gardener of the week is absent
To feel fellowship with flowers and with plants and with trees.
Why do the seasons give in? What do you do in the night?
The day felt a picture too bold for the night, which was kind,
I like it when heat has ridden past the day.
poem by Naveed Akram
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In The Winter Garden
Winter has visited our garden my love
Trees have been stripped bare and flowers wilt
A frost has been laid upon the ground
Even the birds have taken to flight, away
Amid the silence of the morning I walk
Through our garden which we nurtured
How solemn it now looks without colour
The summer seems but a distant memory
How beautiful it looked back then
How beautiful it will look once more
But now in the mornings drab light
With barren trees and wilted flowers
I walk upon the hardened earth
Which feels like stone beneath my feet
We talked of planting a fruit tree
For flavour and shade in years to come
Now that is an idea in waiting
Till winter has passed, and spring returns
Winter is here in our garden my love
As I watch the vapour of my breath rise
I say your name, a love for all time
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Do Not Go To The Garden Of Flowers
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O Friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,
and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.
What Is There In The Night?
What is there in the night?
only darkness...
the flowers, the trees are the same...
only not lightened
and the people...
only tired.
What is there in the night?
not a silence...
the voices in the garden...
loud and clear
and the water in the river...
only chanting.
What is there in the night?
...only darkness.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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The Flowers In Your Garden
you are telling me that the flowers in your garden
must not be of one and the same kind
or else there will be so much boredom
you are telling me the need of variety:
roses and jasmines
and suntans and daisies, colors and scents all in multiplicity
as you talk your eyelashes curve a little lower than i expected
and your mouth twitches a little bit just to show your dislike
and contempt of the word:
boredom
unnecessary uniformity, that human need of variety
equated with a taste for something new
and even unusual
i completely agree with you.
Let me take you inside my heart
where my garden lies:
flowers of different colors and scents
i have grown them all inside my heart,
feelings of love and
desire, in a variety or sorts
in a diversification of breeds
and if by now you ask me and demand
that i may tell the truth
inside my heart, in my garden of love, you are a very beautiful flower
so sweet scented and well loved and cared by me
but there are other beautiful flowers growing in there,
you are not
just the one and only, as you would like to think
that to be
and i will tell you again,
I agree with you, there is a need really
for a variety,
the one that removes the word
boredom
from the beautiful garden of our vocabulary.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Note That You Must Read When You Wake Up
before i embark on another trip today
i depart from the usual
silence, there is something inside me that wants
to
say something, like a note that i have written last night
which i put
inside my pocket and if by chance my tongue cannot get away
from its sealed
lips, i may just take that note and put it beside your table while
you are
still asleep, and if i had to, if i shall not forget, I'll put
a rose beside it,
the one that i pick from your garden, still fresh with dew on its
petals,
it is like, i only give what i take from you, a rose from your garden,
and a note from me, that despite all those stormy days,
i think, and this you must treasure like all the flowers that grow
in your garden, that which you water and nurture,
that it is my fault, that even if you cannot forgive me,
as i pack my bag, to give your flowers more space, and for you to be at peace, i, too, shall take a deep breath, saying
i still love you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Happy Ending In The Garden
... AND then as it was told
the princess meets her prince in the
Secret Garden
they sow the seeds of love
respect time
soon the flowers begin to bloom
soon the trees bear the fruit
in the garden of love
so private.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Universal Flowers
All all
Trees are
Earth flowers...
Wonder of
Green...
Making trees
Is
Not only
Earth flower's...
A unversel flowers...
Some flowers
Is big...
Some is...
Sumall...
That is not enough
Trees also
Flowers
For
The univers...!
Yes or not...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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As Though There Is Meaning
oftentimes
to make life as new
we make
beginnings
a fence here
a garden within
a new house
in the middle of
the land
and then the old
storms come
again
there is always
this instinct
for destruction
for which we must
be all
thankful
for soon we shall
begin anew
another fence there
a new garden here
another house to replace
the old broken one
in the middle of
the land
and so there is
nowhere
or no one
someone is always
here
something
makes the tick
in truth
just another
deception
for us to sow the
earth again
as though
there is meaning
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The crows, he said,
would roost each night in the middle one
of the three tall trees at my garden's end,
every night the flock of crows,
every night the middle tree,
except the once,
just the once,
the only night they did not come,
the very night a German bomb
hung-up, dropped late, and hit the tree.
The crows, he said,
were back next night in the left-hand tree,
where crows have roosted sixty years,
every night the flock of crows,
every night the left-hand tree,
except tonight,
except tonight,
the only night they have not come:
awake, I watch that moonlit tree,
the gap where something used to be,
awake, I wonder -
poem by Wild Bill Balding
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I Will Buy You A New Life
Here is the money that I owe you
Yes so you can pay the bills
I will give you more
When I get paid again
I hate those people who love to tell you
Money is the root of all that kills
They have never been poor
They have never had the joy of
a welfare Christmas
(yeah) I know we will never look back (yeah)
You say you wake up crying
Yes and you don't know why
You get up and you go lay down inside
My baby's room
Yeah I guess I'm doing okay
I moved in with the strangest guy
Do you believe he actually
Thinks that I am really alive?
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
(yes I will)
I know all about that other guy
The handsome with athletic thighs
I know about all the times before
with that obsessive little rich boy
They might make you think you're happy
Yeah maybe for a minute or two
They can't make you laugh
No they can't make you feel
The way that I do
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
I know we can never look back
Will you please let me stay the night
No one will ever know
I will buy you a garden
Where your flowers can bloom
I will buy you a new car
Perfect shiny and new
I will buy you that big house
Way up in the west hills
I will buy you a new life
I will buy you a new life
song performed by by Everclear
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Garden Fair
Flowers are blooming in
my garden fair. Their
sweet perfume fills the
air. My Garden fair is
beautiful to see., with all
its glory surrounding me.
My garden fair is romantic
and bright, and so redeeming
in sunlight where song birds
nestle in the trees, and sing
with each flowing breeze.
My garden fair is a glorious
sight, that I rush to greet
at twilight my garden fair is
most supreme with such lovely
enchanting scenes.
poem by Dr. Janice Marie Murrell
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My Trees
The tree has branches so full of life’s teaching,
Anyone stays inside this house of wood.
My trees are in my garden of roses,
They are full of beauty, my garden tries hard
To learn and grow like humans and animals.
Your knowledge survives, my garden lives on
As it deserves to, my harder gardening is a concept.
Trees increase us in numbers, plants normally learn
Outright, their infinity is greater than ours.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Restricted Area
High voltage in the air
No way to know its good or bad
Dont try to trick it down
Otherwise you could be dead
So just look out
It may be mean
Just cant be too afraid of this machine
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
Restricted area
Your brains been mesmerized
And in your mind this place is full of steel,
So full of steel
So shift to overdrive
Crash away the gang with the men from another space
So be aware
Just leave the scene
The worlds been metallized by this machine
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
The worlds been metallized
A hole in the middle of the night
Restricted area
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Its a restricted area
Hold on - hold on - hold on
Your brains been mesmerized
A hole in the middle of the night
In the middle of the night
Youre heavy metallized
A hole in the middle of the night
song performed by by U. D. O.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To My New Neighbors
on this morning chat
she says she will be arriving on time
for the halloween
she will be lighting candles for her dead parents
and other relatives of this old town
offer them flowers and prayers that she can muster
she will be bringing her middle child
who starts to write his poems in his notebook
she tells me he is the silent type
the one who can thrive without a conversation
she shifts the topic about the color of the rails of her new house
the verandah is not pink now, it is painted white
and she is asking what flowers fit into the picture
i suggest the bougainvillas, the flowering ones already
sold in the nearby farm by an old lady
she is excited, she will be having us, as neighbors finally
our fence shall be a line of daisies
our yard evergreen, our trees shall be the ones with
perfume: the champacas and the ylang-ylangs
and expectedly, there will be a lot of laughter and
nice conversations of cultured and educated people
whose sense of morality would be high
the chat is quite long, and i decided i have to end it.
i have still other poems inside my mind.Unwritten.
What bothers me, and for which i am really interested
is the poetry of his middle child. I like someone who writes
like me. And i do not need a lot of conversations too.
i like my silence. I love the talk inside my silence.
I will burst.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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84
my silence shall be
i find this in the forest of trees
long trees, shady, such that what you can see
are only shadows of leaves
and what you hear is only the sound of the wind
choked between tight walls,
this is my silence,
moist, and soft, between a growth of wild
ferns
rotten leaves heaps and heaps of
rotten leaves
layer after layer of rotten leaves
thick and pushed still to the roots
smashed to the ground
some seeds from the oaks
or maybe from the flowers of the orchids
or some sweet fruits and red berries fall
in there
and they begin to grow
rich as humus is this soil down
the darkness of this forest,
this is my silence
deep inside me
moist, rotten, but soon
lots shall grow
seeds turning into sprouts
to trees again
perhaps taller than ever
some fruits so sweet and colored and shiny
some flowers scented and so lovely,
this my silence
shall be, i am keeping it for years
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Middle Man
There was a mountain and there were three trees
There was a good man and there were two thieves
A man called Barabas was doomed for the tree
But Jesus took the middle one and Barabas went free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
A hill called Golgotha the place of a skull
No yellow flowers, no trees in bloom the scenery was so dull
Three crosses stood black and bold against a darkened sky
And not from pain but a broken heart that middle man died
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
I love that man in the middle because I know he first loved me
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free
Praise to that man who died on Mount Calvary
The middle man made it possible that I could go free.
song performed by by LeAnn Rimes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In the Garden, With My Father
It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.
I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.
But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.
It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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