Six
The raged celebration of sorrowful gain
(returned to embrace my world needs)
was pretended laughter ‘mid gardens dry, too.
We blasphemed the One with good seeds.
Yet, every morning apparent my shame.
Unable was I to till ground.
Engrossed in the hiding, my weakness unfaced,
with bottle to keep the truth bound.
Then I woke one morning behind walls I knew
(although I could not recall why).
The grizzle-faced jailor had rasped with a snarl,
“You best pray that feller don’t die!”
Remembrance of needles that my father gave,
appeased by my promise to work,
gave hoped supplication. The labour, I vowed,
of my garden I would not shirk!
I begged and entreated, but not to the Lord
about Whom I knew naught at all.
The world I entreated, and begged by its lusts
to save me from this certain fall.
The weeds of my garden had shown me good times
until they were all I could know,
but when chanced compassion made good seedlings sprout
I would not allow them to grow.
And so my tare petals were sprouted afresh
and model inmate I became.
A joy to the warden, a calm for the guards,
addressing the chaplain by name.
“My son, I saw victim.” As per my request
to this fool of collar and faith.
My weeds bouqueted brightly when victim I learned
was not due to give up the wraith.
Lush, mockery garden and Cheshire grin
convinced my intentions as pure.
“I wish to hoe garden,” to preacher I lied,
“and freedom would make my work sure.”
The twist, unexpected, when charges were dropped
by victim when preacher had asked:
my presence was bidden to hospital bed,
my freedom required this task.
Seven
“How pretty, your flowers,” he said, piercing-eyed,
this little man prone on the bed.
Arrayed close to sixty, though fifteen years more,
aged not by the gauze ‘round his head.
My weed flowers withered ‘neath his steely gaze
(I felt like a child next to him!).
I seethed my defences at frail silver hair
yet I felt compelled to his whims.
My world taught me power – the strength of my arm –
was dominant over the weak!
This rule found exception when his will prevailed.
“Gainst his flowers I could not speak.
“Come hither to wisdom,” he motioned to chair
and, mesmerized, I had complied.
Then, drawing contentment amassed to his lungs
his quiet-voiced message was cried,
“When young man world beckoned, I answered the call
and went to partake of its wealth.
I was bane of parents who loved me to wise
for I preferred gain bought of stealth.
They sought to instruct me in gardening work
but I thought them not up to date.
My world was convenience, of easier ways.
New methods made shovel innate.
“And yet there was emptiness, though I amassed
world treasures in rising degree,
and walked where I wanted and did what I may.
My freedom was not liberty.
For always within me a little voice cried
to mourning the pain of my wake.
I knew it was truthful: that others paid price
of what I thrust hand out to take.
“My parents, my family, the friends I called close
had each felt the sting of my lies.
The women who loved me, and I could not love …
their faces parade my mind’s eyes!
I chased them away. I would not let them close.
My failure I could not admit.
I’d not see their tears, nor listen their fears.
Walls raised were the sides of my pit.”
I heard as he drifted down memory’s lane,
but age led his drift into sleep.
I considered leaving, escaping his snare,
yet I stayed when dreams saw him weep.
I watched and I waited the space of one hour,
lulled mute by his chest rise and fall.
Then he woke in smile to see I remained
(I had to! He knew my youth all!).
“Forgive me my rest need.” With nod I allowed
for hungry was I that he preach.
With pent breath I waited while he thought his course.
Resumed then, my life in his speech,
“My parents had mourned for my garden’s sure death
as cockiness led me away
convinced that my green thumb would overcome weeds,
unworried as some strove to stay.
But world overpowered, my blossoms had died
though in me remorse found no place.
Discovered weed colour had served just as well
to gain for me fruits by mock grace.
“Content in world knowledge to gain my desires
… I thought no one hurt of my ploys! …
Till I lost true beauty when I bruised to flee
the gardens of my wife and boys.”
My ears, how they marvelled! Dumbstruck in my awe
he told of my life without fail!
He had never known me, yet by his recount
he surely was reading my mail!!
I prayed him continue when he lapsed to thought
of pain which still ached in his heart.
I questioned of after his family lost:
how did he, from sorrow, depart?
“We now call it sorrow, but then it was joy.
My freedom from hand to the plough.
But your interest shows me that not only mine,
I also tell your story now.
“My friend, we are many, we are not unique,
our gardens we all must de-weed.
But we need direction as parents had taught
and planting of one special seed.
I felt I had no need of such flower grown
and let lay that seed to the ground,
but know this: we have it sown deep in our youth
but we need to want it around.”
My curious nature his words had perplexed,
of special seed I’d want to hear.
The silver hair lived a life so much like mine
yet he faced himself without fear.
“I see I have snared your desire to learn,”
he smiled and twinkled his eyes.
“I bow to your capture. Your net draws in full.
Old man has best youth twice his size.”
With laughter inspired, a moment we shared
and I forgot cause of that place,
but new found affection stirred up memory
and tears of shame rivered my face.
The room reigned in silence but for my wept grief,
and gentle hand firmly held mine.
This man of good flowers, who vanquished old weeds
cried also the ache of my pine.
At last, tears subsided, control was regained.
I cowed at my failure to cope
and I, in meek spirit, asked my ancient friend,
“What is it, this seed to give hope?”
“My friend, I will tell you,” he said serious,
“the seed which completely sufficed.
You cannot escape from this truth I confirm:
This seed is our Lord, Jesus Christ.”
…
…
…
…
My hope was lain shattered, collaged by this man
who gave voice to my secret fear.
He spoke of the youth Seed which I had denied,
the One my world let me not hear.
“Your garden can be saved in no other way,
the Seed of your youth will win out
and I know revealing comparable life
will passion your Seed to soon sprout.”
Then silver hair saddened in his final words,
“My friend, you will hate me this day.
The truth which I’ve spoken will haunt like a ghost.
You’ll curse the words Love bade me say.”
And curse them, I did so, but not voiced aloud,
new found respect kept them within.
My fragrant weed garden, world scented to sweet,
now reeked putrid scent of my sin.
With crestfallen goodbye I took leave of him
who told my life as open book.
He had garden beauty by just one Seed grown
(perhaps it did merit a look).
Eight
The next days had found me to hermit my room,
Botanical Readings at hand.
This Plant of uniqueness full baffled my mind
and knowledge I tried to expand.
I studied the method of how I should tend
this Seed that It flower up strong,
but words which caused trouble from authors who taught
declared the world methods as wrong!
Too hard, their instruction. The price was too high.
My world was the cost for this Seed
so I kept the essence my world would provide.
For flowers I would just de-weed.
So I served a master for money legit
to maintain the life chose as right.
New rented apartment of leased furniture
was pleasure of pride in my sight.
I gathered the dead weeds (each day there were more)
and garbaged this trash with much glee.
Though new flowers would not in my garden grow
enough that I broke the thorns free.
Then fresh, female garden came into my life
(her colour had dazzled me blind)
and gentleman reborn respect won her heart.
My lonely days long left behind.
I worked in the effort to keep her wants met,
inspired by the love that she said.
Her colourful petals gave pleasure no end.
Together we shared home and bed.
But world took of vengeance that it was forsook,
showed how my mate’s colours had ranged:
I came from work early to find her abed
…her weed flowers with a man strange!
…
…
I left, shocked to silence by justice so clear.
My thistled past had done the same
for I also strangered ‘gainst woman and child
who, for a time carried my name.
I mourned to a tavern and gave scrutiny
of gardening done up to now.
The thorns were depleted but nothing new grew;
just empty, void garden to plough.
Thoughts turned to Seed Special spoke by aged friend,
the only One needful of care.
Botanical studies confirmed this Plant would
replenish my garden so bare.
But they stayed thoughts only when price was recalled:
I must give up all that I knew.
My worldly possessions would all come to naught.
Such things I did not wish to do.
As such, with a bottle I flooded my pain
to cloud my dilemma of mind.
(there must be an option to that Special Seed!)
Resolved: a new option I’d find.
Success I then toasted, assured of my quest
that bouquets my garden would see.
I toasted for ten days all things come to mind,
my garden no longer weed free.
My job had not waited, nor landlord for rent,
unmindful of my plan for luck.
The payments, extended on what I called mine
were ended by men and a truck.
Committed to wander, determined to flee.
Let distance de-torment my mind!
But I travelled world lanes from which no escape.
Weed gardens unsought would I find.
Resigned invitations had bid them to stay,
these gardens which saw certain fall,
for flesh and blood people who’s gardens saw death
were better than no one at all.
World had no forgiveness that I sought to leave
(it took all my travesty gains).
Poetic, the justice, my destitute fall
reward for my causing past pains.
My colourless garden spilled over with weeds
beyond any man to repair.
My plough could not break through. My shovel was naught.
Foolhardy should I even dare.
Accepted as destined that they would remain
I settled to course what I could.
The world stood the victor in conquest of I.
It made me obey as I should.
Nine
By illegal practice my treasures increased,
but not with agreement of mine.
I would not bloom petals on my roaming weeds
when action void feeling worked fine.
I dealt marijuana, but not in hard drugs.
I forced the debts only of men.
Although world had bested I stated my terms,
disgusted to be back again!
My distorted values were my alibi:
excuses by distaste felt strong.
My profits of blindness would not face the truth:
distaste made my sins no less wrong.
I prospered abundantly of world delights
although I felt numb to the gain,
and did as the world bid for it was the game.
To garden were efforts in vain.
I pondered Seed Special, the freedom It vowed
from weeds while good flowers replaced.
Then I weighed the chances should Special Seed fail.
Alone, the world’s wrath I would face.
I’d tasted the beating the world could inflict
and scars recalled memories – sharp!
Too painful, resuffered. The odds were too high
to try and trade world for a harp.
…
Continued in mundane, my uninspired life.
Each day dull resemblance of last.
As bland as my garden of brown and green thorn.
No feelings for future or past.
So I was unmoved by her garden like mine,
dispassioned at hearing her name
until the time passing revealed a new hope:
our freedom desires were the same!
Electric renewal had entered my limbs
to put into my step a spring.
I found of another who wished same as I
that good songs our gardens might sing.
Though scars from past lessons and pessimists’ eyes
made slow our progression to trust,
our common objective – to battle the world –
made joining our forces a must.
Objective: adopted! Enacted: our plan!
We played nonchalant while world reigned,
completing its rulings in defeated stance,
our aims hid ‘neath loyalty feigned.
Unnoticed existence, compliance our screen,
anonymous subject put on.
Conforming to standards made movements unwatched
and we were there … then we were gone!
Sweet laughter of freedom in packed, moving car,
our road stake in hand adding bliss
and as wont to happen from elation shared,
our aims were confirmed in a kiss.
Ten
We rented a home in a small, gentle town
as base for the life that we sought.
Avoidance of world snares meant assets were few
but what we had was fully bought.
We settled employment to maintain our lives
(our jobs did not, vanity, stroke).
Though weeds were our gardens they ceased to expand,
no longer to twist and to choke.
First taste of contentment since we were just kids
made raising of walls ‘gainst our past,
but then we discovered the world was within.
Our blood burned return to the fast.
“We have not enough things. Our pace is a bore.”
I had to agree what she said.
“Indeed something’s missing.” I returned her thought,
“Life should be more than home and bed.”
I mentioned Seed Special (familiar to her
for she also read Botany),
yet we sought to laughter, in home entertained.
Seed Special would end the carefree.
Refusing world methods had staunched our weeds’ flow
and bettered the taste of our gain.
To nurture the Seed might make our meals gourmet
but patience to wait was our bane.
“Our battleground gardens where we waged our fight,
a glorious struggle we saw.
The world has its methods, but we hold to ours
and I’m satisfied with a draw.”
My words she concurred with, “Our efforts were great
and side by side we are quite strong.
We now hold the reins for the course of our lives.
We choose what is right and what’s wrong.”
We counselled to prosper of honest earned goods,
then laboured to increase our wares,
a focused pursuit for what we had agreed
till owning of such eased our cares.
This form of cohesion united our hearts
and two saw a household arise.
Our mutual rule shared a heightened respect.
Esteem preferred truth over lies.
In labouring honest, compassion and care
had whispered like smoke in our hearts.
Then love followed gently (we could not say when)
to make up a whole from two parts.
Well fed was the fullness, what more did we need?
Assumed that behind was the worst.
But love grown between us saw Seed Special sprout!
Foreshadowed: our bubble would burst.
We awed at the presence of this Special Seed.
So small, yet we witnessed Its might:
The thorns had recoiled! drawn back from this Sprout!
Reflected in weeds was our fright.
