The Gardener

Blogophilia 48.3  Topic:  “Spring Fever”

Bonus Points:

(Hard, 2 pts): incorporate 2 electric wood working tools
(Easy, 1 pt) : mention a cracked pot

The Old Gardener by Thomas Kiefer (c) 2011

“The Old Gardener” by Thomas Kiefer (c) 2011

The Gardener

Every March saw him grow restless,
he felt the rush of spring fever
coursing through his ambitious veins,
evidenced by dog-eared Burpee catalogs
and tattered gardener’s books
stacked beside the painted pantry.
Strong arthritic fingers dug
into coarse, pungent loam,
pushing tiny seeds deep down,
in a blanket of black compost,
sprinkled with water and love.

In his modest backyard garden
lilac bushes perfumed the air,
purple morning-glory caressed
the varnished wooden arbor,
tangerine daylilys waved from beds
beside rows of violet snapdragons,
standing tall, on guard like soldiers.
Robust bell peppers pushed forth
in brilliant hues of green and scarlet,
savory sun ripened tomato vines
crawled high up wooden stakes
like rogue bladerunners
reaching for the cloudless sky.

But in a cruel twist of fate,
the heartless hands of winter
took the tired gardener
during the bleakest blizzard.
Spring dawned with April rain,
but the tiny garden fell
into inevitable disrepair —
cracked pots of terra-cotta
speckled with mud lay
beneath the weathered arbor,
weeds sprouted up, choking
the life out of the seedlings,
leaving once fertile beds
dry and barren.

The latch of the shed has rusted,
but the aluminum door gives way
to tools of his precious trade.
I feel a surge in my restless veins
as I grab the blue tined rake
and work the dirt, sweating,
sifting out stones, dead roots,
and clumps of dried weeds.
My nimble thin fingers
enrich the beds with loam,
dig trenches to scatter seeds,
rubber boots tamping down soil,
embellishing with cool water
as my heart fills with hope
that life and love will bloom again…

I can almost smell the lilacs.

Colleen M. Breuning © 2011
January 27, 2011

Note to Marvin: My tools are the saw and the bladerunner. The Rockwell BladeRunner RK7320 Cutting Machine is a combination of a jigsaw, scroll saw and band saw, all in one variable speed machine. Versatile machine cuts wood, metal, PVC, ceramic tile and more. Hmmm…. put that on my birthday list, hehe….


Taking out the trash, Louis Vuitton bag, rags to riches, bags to riches, fit for a king, designer garbage bag, rich man’s bag, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure (or woman’s treasure), recycling in style, cats got the bag, my front porch, rubbish, no dumping allowed.

Lily Speaks ~ A Haiku Series

Blogophilia 46.3

Topic: “Clear a Passageway”

Bonus points:
(Hard, 2pts): feature a talking plant
(Easy, 1pt): use the word “moil” (means to labor or toil)

Final date to post: January 18th, 2010, GMT midnight


Lily Speaks ~ A Haiku Series

The sun stretches west,
feathery rays of gold paint
wispy silken clouds.

Down dampened mud banks,
fingers clear a passageway
between the sawgrass.

From coral rock seat,
I behold the hidden pond,
As green herons moil.

Verdant lilypads
Whisper of serenity,
Promise of new dawn.

Dragonfly alights,
Luminescent paper wings
Flutter in the breeze.

Lily speaks of peace.
Her fragrance intoxicates,
My soul’s healing balm.

Black water ripples,
As cool wind caresses me…
I am born again.

Colleen M. Breuning © 2011
January 13, 2011


Winter wonderland, Roman holiday, snow angels, Italian Ice, there’s no business like snow business, snow globe, frozen fountains, when Rome freezes over….

The Cartographer’s Last Request

The Cartographer’s Last Request

Long ago he etched the seas,
scaled distant mountains
and traversed dense jungles,
this drawer of lines,
wielding astrolabe and pen
with masterful precision.

A dust-laden mahogany desk
bears witness to his labors:
tarnished sextant,
musty gilt-edged tomes,
barren inkwell…
tools of his trade,
this dying art.

He whispers with gravel voice
and sense of urgency.
I lean my ear closer
with deep reverence,
straining to hear somber words
rise from his heaving chest.

Meet me at the point of demarcation,
stand firm on the longitude of today.
Do not fall east and wallow in yesterday
or the fruitless west of tomorrows
that may never come to pass…
for the earth belongs to the living,
not to the dead.”

He lies in the waning moon
of his fading twilight,
eyes dim in lined alabaster face,
frail ink-stained hands motionless.
The north arrow points homeward,
the mariner’s final destiny.

I gaze upon his lithographs,
finely etched artifacts,
fingers tracing serpentine
this international date line…
and my minds eye visualizes
a swim in the Indian Ocean,
trek in snow laden peaks,
verdant African rainforests.

He leaves his legacy
inscribed in parchment,
the fruition of adventure
and colorful imagination…
masterpieces of history
bearing compass rose
and an indelible watermark,
the fertile essence of his soul.

Colleen M. Breuning © 2011
January 5, 2011

Thomas Jefferson quote used:  “The earth belongs to the living, not to the dead.”