I write poetry. Probably been writing for 15-20 years. Here is some of my poetry inspired by gardening in some respect or capacity. It may also be a blend of my work as a mental health professional and the things I see mixed into a way I take a break and escape... gardening of course. Plus some of my favorite gardening picutures.
Francis Kilvert's Diary: May 1876
Bluebells
He wrote this 3 years before his death: 1840-1879. He was only 39. I edited the prose entry and changed the format into stanzas. I hope the things he saw, stayed with him. His ability to see, inspired me. The beauty of a garden is found by simply looking with your soul. To look upon life in this manner is to be alive.
Through the gate of a meadow,
I saw a cherry tree,
snowy with blossoms,
that scented the air.
Along the wild broken bank,
among the stems of the hawthorn hedge,
there grew a profusion of bluebells,
I never saw bluebells more beautiful.
They grew tall and stately,
singularly and in groups,
and sometimes in such a crowd,
that they filled the hallow places,
and deep shadows of the overarching hedge,
with a sweet blue gloom and tender azure mist,
that floated among the young bright ferns.
Here or there a sunbeam found its way,
through a little window in the thick leafage over head,
singling out one bluebell amongst the crowd,
tipping the rich and heavily hanging clusters of bells,
Tipping it with a brilliant gleam and blue glory,
crowning the flower a queen,
among her ladies and handmaidens,
who stood in the background of green shade.
Copyrighted July 2010 Gary Pilarchik
A Worn Shovel
Of old and new
Against modern colors
I’ll take the taint of black
Edges so dull
Rusted blades
Carvings in solid stone
Breath of sunlight
In sightless shades
I’ll take mine pure and deep
Choking weeds
Unturned ground
Growing slowly tangled
Of showers and storms
Drowning with benevolence
I’ll take the purest fall
Soaking earth
Swelling seeds
A purpose to be enjoyed
Copyright September 2006 Gary Pilarchik
Tending Trees
A lone tree,
the one that sits
there.
Might have its
leaves ripped off...
By a storm
or a playful child.
And the next day,
you couldn’t tell,
unless the leaves,
sat there; exposed.
Maybe, some small
branches were snapped.
And still,
if you looked hard,
you couldn’t easily tell.
Perhaps, a limb broke.
Dangling, you would notice it.
Unless you stood
on the wrong side,
or were indifferent.
A lone child,
the one that sits
there,
May not
deserve
indifference.
Copyright December 2005 Gary Pilarchik
The Rain Barrel
You might drink
To quench the thirst of an early morning walk
From the aged gray – black iron ringed rain barrel.
The one filled with a cool night’s country rain.
It collects by the corner of the old cottage house
By the climbing rose and creeping red dianthus.
Take the moss and stone covered path
Just past the clusters of mint and lemon balm.
The rain barrel stands with the daffodils and irises.
A cast iron ladle sits on the fence post
Plunge it through the floating yellow rose petals
And watch your feet – the barrel is full from the night.
Copyright November 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Planting Daffodils
In simplicity
The bellowing boredom is broken
The mundane movement of mouths
Is halted
A deep breath of silence
Fills forgotten ears
Exhaling weighted words without meaning
Clarity collects within
A single simple sentence forms
Experiences form a lifetime
Events and actions move
Simplicity and laughter blend
Feelings become
The sounds of memories
And memories become
The words of our children
Copyright December 2004 Gary Pilarchik
A Garden’s Beauty
When color matters more - Do you see the dying blooms?
Don’t you know that flowers fade - into brown and yellow tombs?
Would you curse the purple flower, that stands in fields of white?
Nothing grows forever, and our darkness chokes the night.
Do you see the single flower - in a shade you’ve never seen?
Do you curse its vile fragrance and see the color as obscene?
When difference matters more - Do you know you'll turn to seed?
There is no flower like jealousy, but there is the human weed.
Within a field of flowers, there is color without disdain.
Every petal shelters - as they grow beneath the rain.
Even the purple flower, finds a home in fields of white.
Nothing grows forever, and our darkness chokes the night.
Is not a garden’s beauty found - mixed in colored hues?
Do you wonder if they laugh at us - Our ignorance must amuse?
For us, we think, were different, but they know we turn to seed.
There is no jealous garden, but there is the human weed.
Copyright March 2006 Gary Pilarchik
A Lower Form
Worms that wander and wiggle
From rain, they cross the road
Scraping their skin
Racing the drying sun
Feeding the feasting birds
They can not see where they wander
They do not know why the wiggle
The rain chokes them
The road wounds them
The sun burns them
The birds swallow them
They have no thought, no history and no blame
No reason to make this a better place
For they are only earth worms
And the do not predict the rain
Copyright September 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Complicated Gardening
Bring back
the simple summer day
Remove the sun
that burns my skin
And the air
that takes my breath
Return my
childhood worries,
he fallen rope swing,
afternoon rain,
and the doorbell
that went unanswered
Copyright August 1998 Gary Pilarchik
Branches of an Apple Tree
I can enter the orchard only at night
Not as a secret but as a blanket
A veil of darkness to hide my actions
I can even hold an apple in each hand
And gently bite their flesh
But my teeth can not leave an impression
I can tend this orchard during the day
With simple tasks on clear cut paths
They kind any visitor may casually do
But at night, my hands are given more
And the orchard seems to come alive
It is the paring of these apples; so divine
Copyright August 2005 Gary Pilarchik
The Playground
In the vacant fields of time
Where dormant grasses turn brown,
Racing to meet the fallen gray skies
(There graze our fond and fading memories)
Green grass struggles
Beneath the shadows
Of a rusting iron playground
Tended by a wire fence
Three strands struggle
To preserve simplicity
The quiet times of laughter
When the day was not measured
And the world was a playground
Copyright November 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Bent Daisies
Of one hundred flowers; white
I only notice the failures
The crimped stems; bent green
Of one thousand petals; off white
I only notice the imperfections
The spotted leaves; yellow green
Of ten thousand seeds; brown
I know the beauty they hold
The dirt covered seeds; black
Of one hundred thousand days; my life
I will encounter it all
The failures and imperfections; discolored
Copyright May 2006 Gary Pilarchik
Bouquet
If I could
Not that I can’t
I would intellectually
Sniff out you intentions
You may smell delicious
Like a pig basting
Where satisfaction only comes
From swallowing you whole
Perhaps you are diseased
The smell of breath
Blown across infected teeth
Where satisfaction is found
In mothering your cure
Maybe you are a mix of smells
Scents in a subtle shifting wind
Drifting across a garden of flowers
Freshly fertilized from fowl droppings
Where satisfaction stems
From being what you need to grow
And maybe you are novel
A smell I wish would linger
Where satisfaction only arrives
By slowing breathing you in
Copyright June 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Rusted Blade
Sorrow is
this choking garden
With grasses,
weeds
and bastard seeds
Copyright November 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Comparing Flowers
Sunlit singular rose
Beautiful bloom of red
Slender stem of green
Thorns are barely known
To clip and contain
Purity and perfection
Fragrance and form
Not a single blemish
An elegant vase to cradle
An antique stand to sit
A mirror to cast the brilliance
An accidental image of…
The reflection holds a truth
Not absolute but of belief
I see the rippled bulky stem
Thorns puncture the beauty
Mold and mildew seep
Disgust and doubt return
Feelings I can not fend
Not a single redemption
An elegant vase to cradle
An antique stand to sit
A wall to catch my shadow
My body does not compare
Copyright July 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Hurting Charlie
A remarkable hideous childhood
Close your eyes and relax
Where is your safe place?
I don’t have one
Imagine one
A rock,
on a cliff,
suspended
What makes that safe?
There is no one
Below,
above,
behind,
in front,
or on top
Maybe one day we can add to it
A blade of grass,
a sapling,
rain & sunshine,
People,
laughter,
seeds
A remarkable hideous childhood
Copyright October 2005 Gary Pilarchik
Snow – Drifts
Orange gray clouds
of winter
Bring the silent sound
of night snow
And morning waits for the footsteps of a child
Imprints of a moment
that slowly moves forward
The crunching sounds
of pure white
innocent laughter
Look at them play
Taste the snow with them
For they too will soon melt away
Copyright January 2006 Gary Pilarchik
