One
My garden existed before I was I.
Grace first declared it was to be
in due season, growing, prepared in the womb;
the manifest garden called “me”.
Luxurious flowers rainbowed in the Light
were fragrant upon my first air,
yet, so isolated by hunger and want
I cried out my need and despair;
for warmth and the darkness where two hearts were one
and sustenance always at hand
were rudely departed in brightness and cold:
my shocking arrival to land.
The blanket, then bosom, to which I was pressed
eased hunger and faded the chill
while voice so familiar (yet strange to my ears)
sang comfort and led me to still.
Enveloped to sleep saw this world fade away
in dreams from my world of ago.
My garden was patient, awaiting my care
though cared for in this time to grow.
Two
My parents had guided through life’s tender years
and nurtured my new body sure.
Familiar, the “No!” word, convenience and care
used well by my loved him and her.
And garden stayed beauty till that fateful day
when, bad advice heeded I lied.
Results stood apparent before my dismay:
a beautiful flower had died.
With loving compassion my mother shared loss,
then patiently showed me the way
to remove the lost plant and smooth out the soil
and water and weed everyday.
“So great is the struggle when first flower dies.”
her wisdom to work through the pain,
“I guide you to nurture, the work becomes yours
providing both sunshine and rain.”
With brimming desire to see growth renew
I set forth naive to the toil:
my flowers must battle the measureless odds,
those weeds which vied with them for soil.
And each day I gardened my fervour then waned
(I realized how hard was my chore)
for with every uproot of cumbersome tare
it seemed to replace with two more!
I studied my blossoms, my work barely thrived.
I counted my labours a bore.
I let die another (for some yet remained)
and false I had spoken once more.
My father, he angered my bottom to red
commanding my work to resume.
He pulled out the deadness with stern given words,
“Till weeds go, remain in your room!”
World-ending dilemma! Hard work versus wrath!
Hot needles urged ‘cross my behind!
I opted to garden, resolve was renewed
(those needles had made up my mind).
Three
My flowers had flourished, weeds did not prevail.
Rewards came for my speaking true,
but one weed, persistent, soon bloomed my delight:
I spoke false and nobody knew!
Good was the receiving for what I had said
(so pretty, the petals of weed).
Why struggle the seedlings and raise to mature
when beauty was mine by one deed?
No one ever noticed reduction of plants
for beauty and colour remained.
And though my weed flowers soon withered away
more falsehoods saw new colour gained.
But then a new blossom succumbed to the thorns,
choked lifeless as they did expand.
A wrong I committed with gain to be had:
I took what was not mine in hand.
Relinquished to sorrow! Fresh needles my brand!
Hot coals for my works now passed on!
And clear explanation had my garden shown
thick thistles with beauty long gone.
So my loving parents gave counsel in work
to clear out the weeds which invade.
Success seemed so futile (the weeds had firm hold!)
yet their strength helped sink deep the spade.
The arduous labour with parents to guide
was cultivation of the loam,
but weed seeds were planted so care became mine
to check them as they sought to roam.
My flowers were many – a bouquet renewed! –
the whole garden I would now tend.
“For once they have sprouted,” my father had warned,
“your life’s weeding will have no end.”
“Tare flowers are pretty but they quickly pass,”
my mothers advice to ensure,
“the key to your garden is work without cease
that you will have blooms to endure.”
Experienced troubles, temptations revived
to covet or utter falsehood
made upsprouts of green thorns a strain on my back.
I laboured the shovel of good
and always my parents, my aides to advice,
exhorted upon my requests,
“We show you the method, your work gives the gain.
Beware, though, the yearnings to rest!”
Four
My body matured while the calendar log
bore record to seasons of toil,
and spring rain intensity flourished the life.
Weed sieges (by my hand) were foiled.
I vainly loved garden, took credit as mine
that beauty was caused of myself.
My soil ingrained fingers, to me, testified
my shovel could rest on the shelf.
No need to ask questions of parents grown old,
to ask what I surely did know.
My time was exploring – to query the world! –
I’d made sure my garden would grow.
“Be careful!” my parents imparted to me
on seeking companions to friend,
“The slothful love cohorts and bait with a smile
while overrun weeds are their end!”
My love for this duo held laughter within
and condescended to agree.
I humoured their worries, then strode head held high.
(the conqueror would reap his fee!)
Excitement surrounded amid neoned light
with wonders of endless increase.
The carnival banter of world-wizened men
enticed to partake of their peace.
Abounding with friendships of leisure, I learned
my parents had worked me too hard!
Then alcohol magic, that secretive glow,
confirmed this as eloquent bard.
“Oh, look at your garden! The weeds try again!”
my parents beseeched to forewarn.
“You mind your own beddings!” retorted my ire,
“I know how to keep mine from thorn!
For years I have laboured,” resentful I spoke,
“because you had said that I must,
but my garden prospers despite my respite
so I leave my shovel to rust!”
“Our son, you must heed us and keep your spade near!
Your work has no end, there is more!”
But I had lost interest, their words were of naught
and fell on the closing front door.
My new freedom beckoned, oppressive yolk gone,
I answered the world’s siren call.
I would show my parents and those of their ilk.
(the garden of I would show all!)
Quick taken appraisal confirmed growth was well;
the weeds which had shown were but few.
At time more convenient I would tend the chore.
For now I would seize life anew.
Five
In fantasy, liquid and chemical made,
I mastered in life’s carnal lusts
discovering women who’s gardens saw death
while my own was loam dried to dust.
My flowers were withered by overgrown weeds
and violent man became I
of cruel intentions disguised by my grin,
beset upon gardens nearby.
The blossoms of others, in beauty but frail,
I became obsessed to destroy
with physical bearing and weavings of mind.
Their sorrow was mine to enjoy.
And my hoping parents had bound up their eyes.
Unable, my garden, to see.
Their gifts I would profit, my beloved prey,
by falsehoods I served them to me.
Then judgment was handed! Convicted of harm
by innocent blood on my hands.
Safeguard of their gardens demanded that I
be held within firm penal bands.
The world was my bearing. My labours forsook,
I ceased long ago to de-weed.
I laughed at the preacher within those stone walls
when he offered help to reseed.
“God will clear your garden.” he told me with prayer,
his timid hands in holy clasp.
“My garden is needless,” I stated resolved,
“I need but the world in my grasp.”
And so I continued in jail and without,
content by my lusts of the flesh.
Unmindful of landscapes of thistle and thorn
(good blooms and my life would not mesh).
Then when I met woman of colours so fair
my wants were intrigued to just one:
with ways learned of passion, of knowledge to woo,
I strove until her heart was won.
My world given knowledge of weed flower ploys
had dazzled in brilliance disguised.
(so many had fallen!) Chameleon ways
had made all my goals realized.
To ensnare my lady was effort to none,
the victory no more than last.
Secured, my desire; discarded façade.
To seed my weed flowers had passed.
It was her pretty garden that bade her remain
(her flowers excelled in the sun),
my brown, thistled garden her love had endured
with daughter-child garden begun.
I loved not my garden! How could I love theirs?!
Attempts to de-weed were a lie.
Denied my world essence her mercy had seen
and tear-stained note told me, “Goodbye.”
