The Writing Garden ~ Issue Three


Cover Image: Silent Sunday ~ SherryGaley.com
Getty Images

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Quietness

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Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick clouds.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.
The speechless full moon
comes out now.
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Rumi: Translated by Coleman Barks

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The Promise
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Mother_and_Child_by_bbbahrammm

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I once asked my mother if there are more good people in the world than bad.
She said that most people are good and that some are bad, but the problem is telling
them apart.
First be watchful, she said, then be wise.
I knew, even as a child, that she was lying,
Lying about people being good.
It was like she was reciting a poem,
The kind they made you memorize in grade school.
She spoke of beauty in the world,
Made us look her in the eye and told us she would keep us safe,
That she promised.
And just the way her smile never quite reached her eyes,
Her words of comfort would drift towards us like bubbles on a breeze,
Then pop,
Just as we reached out and dared to think that maybe this time,
Just this once,
We had caught one.
I think now that she’d known she wasn’t fooling us,
That it was her way of telling us the truth without having to actually say the words:
The world will try to devour you, my darlings. Bad things will happen to you and I
cannot stop it.
My mother was missing the sweet self-numbing simplicity,
That allows ordinary people to forget that one day they’re going to die.
To her, the world was a child’s daydream held together by spider webs.
To her, people were just veils over veils, passing through time together like dust,
Illuminated for an instant in a wayward ray of sun.
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Nicole Bresner -> missfury.wordpress.com/Etsy
Image ~ bbbahrammm

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Restful Sleep
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meadow_by_hanejay-d46ty4b
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Tonight I took a sip
Of lavender and waning moon
I catch my reflection
Sparkled
In violets
Listening to distant vibrations
Of Earth
And give praise
To feeling alive
Even in the reflection of waning moon-
I kiss her goodnight
And dream
Of fields
In lavender.
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Mary Holman -> poetrypretty.wordpress.com
Image ~ hanejay
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Breathless

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White_peacock_by_Yoh_Boo

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For nine hundred and ninety nine nights
he lay breathless in the garden of delights,
watching her sweet breast rise and fall,
awaiting the caress that never came at all.
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On the thousandth night as the peacock cried,
her pale hand arose to touch his side,
and his poor heart burst to leave him lying
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breathless
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in the garden of delights.
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Mournful is the peacock’s cry.
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Edwin Best -> anotherwayofsaying.net
Image ~ Yoh-Boo

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AsherFynn Facebook/Twitter
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Nevermore

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black_clouds_and_silver_linings_by_spiritomb1231-d6ip5u4

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Does the sparrow see
the ghost of the cat
that’s looking out
the little round window?
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Follow me
a silver lined cloud had said
to the heavy-hearted boy
I’ll show you a double Rainbow.
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But unwinged birds like Sorrow
and Woe cannot fly away.
Nevermore
is the saddest word I know.
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Frédéric G. Martin -> poemsandpoemes.wordpress.com/Twitter
Image -> Spiritomb1231

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Nama

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beach88934

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Wind kisses his face
Sun warms his skin
Floating in the ocean
I see him
He is everything
The water carries him
Right to my feet
Right to me
I am greeted
With strong arms for my waist
His good love for my heart
How perfect the day
My everything
Surfed his waves
To me

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RaquelL -> rquideal.tumblr.com

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In The Darkness

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emre

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In the heart of despair a visionary is born
In the center of anguish a lover is discovered
It is in the most terrible terrors that true beauty is found
In the darkness, Life is revealed.
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Poison Elizabeth Rose -> Readwave
Image ~ it-i-laf

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Decorated Hands

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e08ddace5bd476bc17c31f1890d71506-d5d5paz

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It was the longest train journey I had ever made without my husband and I was bored.  I’d dozed, looked at the scenery, had breakfast, read my book, lingered over lunch and studied the other passengers, particularly the family in the forward seats who were playing Monopoly as though their future depended it.  Lucy was scheming and avaricious, Ben played fast and loose, Father’s pension hinged on the outcome and Mother tried to keep the peace at the expense of her own game.  It was the world in microcosm; predictable and depressing.
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Eight stops punctuated the tedium; brief oases in a blurred landscape.  At the fifth I spotted an elegant, middle-aged woman on the platform.  She was slim with impeccable taste in natural fibres and muted earth colours, had short grey hair, and a discreet, natural tan.  Travelling light with one small hemp bag, she entered my carriage.  She stopped at the seat facing mine, its back to the shrieking family, and inquired in a soft, cultured accent whether it was free.
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As she settled down, retrieving a thick paperback titled ‘Illusion as Art’ from her bag, I caught a glimpse of the palms of her hands.  In that fleeting moment I got the impression they were covered in tattoos and my sinews tightened at the very idea.  She glanced up, caught my eye and smiled.
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The refreshment trolley rattled towards us between the seats and eventually drew alongside.  My companion chose and paid for her drink and I used the opportunity to get a better look at her hands.  They were extraordinary; a dense pattern of red-brown marks from her wrist to the tips of her fingers, seeming at odds with the subtlety of her general appearance.  I was intrigued.
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For the next ten minutes I struggled to keep my eyes on my book but curiosity finally got the better of me and, when she finished her coffee and replaced the lid, I leaned forward.
“Excuse me,” I said.
She raised her eyebrows.
“I couldn’t help noticing your hands.”
She held them up, palms upwards, and I stared at them with a mixture of fascination and revulsion.
“Amazing, aren’t they?” she said. “Each section of pattern represents a different charm or skill.”
“Is it permanent?” I winced, sensing the needle, pulsing in and out.
She was amused by my obvious discomfort. “No, not quite. I have it redrawn from time to time, when it starts to fade.”
“But what made you have it done in the first place?”
“It helps me with my work,” she replied, extending her palms across the table. “See – this pattern confers speed,” her polished fingernail traced the maze of lines and symbols, “and this one, dexterity.”
She changed hands. “This one gives me precision and this, strength and purpose.”
I added the information together but failed to draw a conclusion.
“So what kind of work do you do?”
“I’m a magician,” she said, laughing again at my astonishment. Her hands fluttered together in front of me, twisting and curling up and away, into the ether. “I make things disappear!”
I sat back in my seat, lost for words.
“Would you like to see?”
I nodded eagerly. Things were looking up.
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***
Over the next half hour or so, my new friend entertained me with her repertoire of magic and illusions.  Her hands stroked and carved the air, weaving shadows that mesmerised and convinced me of the powers held within the intricate patterns.  The family’s squabbling over acquisitions and penalties faded to a background murmur until we were the only two, cocooned within our perfect circle.
At last she began to tire and, with a final flourish, put her props away.  I thanked her for the entertainment, adding that she’d held me spellbound in a way I hadn’t experienced since childhood, and she smiled modestly.
“Time for a nap,” she said, folding her hands together and closing her eyes.
I agreed.  I felt drowsy, my body sluggish and begging for sleep; the sustained level of concentration had left me exhausted.  I arranged my bag comfortably under my arm and drifted off with decks of cards fanning out into the distance.
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***
I don’t know what woke me; perhaps a variation in the rhythm of the train or an announcement from the Guard.  My eyelids were unusually heavy and I forced them open, aware of a change.  As I straightened, I saw the seat opposite was empty, all evidence of its occupant gone.  We were no longer moving and the family in front were asleep, reading, plugged into an ipod or furiously exercising their thumbs on an electronic game pad.
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I shifted around with an odd sense that something was missing, but gave myself a shake and got up to stretch my legs.  Daylight was fading and my hand went automatically to my wrist for the time, finding it bare.  Puzzled, I stepped out of my seat to search the floor below.  Nothing there either.  Then, with a pounding heart, I saw my bag had vanished.  My hand flew to my throat in alarm, only to discover that my only valuable piece of jewellery, a heavy antique gold chain, had gone too.
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My neighbours looked at me with curiosity as I spun round and round in panic.
“Excuse me,” said the mother, “but is everything all right?”
“Yes – I mean no,” I said. “No, it’s not. Some of my things are missing. Did you see anything?”
“Like what, dear?”
“Like the woman opposite stealing my bag and jewellery!”
She frowned.  “No dear. I’m sorry.  It’s all been quiet.”
She glanced at her family for confirmation and they shrugged.
“But she was here. She got on at the last stop.”  I was almost shouting.
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The boy sniggered.  Now they were all staring at me as if I’d gone completely mad.  I looked round at other passengers for support, but received none.  They turned away, embarrassed.
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Mother laid a soothing hand on my arm.  “What did she look like?”
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I groped in my memory for an image and found a haze of shifting shapes that refused to stay still long enough for me to catch them.  Confused, I gave up the chase and scanned the floor, hoping for an answer.  A tiny sliver of red caught my eye, sticking out from under my foot.  It looked like the rounded corner of a card.  I bent down and peeled it off the sole of my shoe as my unfocused gaze wandered to the stationary train across the platform.  Through the window I saw a young man leaning forward, apparently examining the hands of the woman opposite.  As I watched, she turned towards me and smiled.  It was warm, friendly, familiar.
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I flipped the card over in my hand, expecting a playful instruction to go to jail or back three spaces, but it was an ordinary playing card – the Queen of Diamonds.  I closed my eyes and something swirled and sharpened at the edge of my mind as our train glided from the station.
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“She had decorated hands,” I said.  My legs buckled and I slumped back into my seat.  “She did magic.”
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A slow realisation gripped me by the throat and choked the words as they formed.
“She made things disappear…”

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suewrite (aka -Susan Howe) -> Readwave/howesue.wordpress.com
Image ~ nuxtu

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Mythos From The Fire In The Sky

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tumblr_luucaug87A1qluhjfo1_500
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From the fires in the sky,
births a flash of brilliant insight…
spiders down into a fork
of arms and legs.

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Quick to intimate in the echoes
of her startled repercussions
when she mumbles rolling rumbles
as the thunder claps a splintered
aftershock of sharp distinctions
in her wide, awakened sky…

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“You will hear me cry,
when upon my weary weight of burdens
raze a scar across the scape
of my freshly sheared horizon.”

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“Unto you, I shed my sorrows as a blessing
down onto an eager and accepting Earth.”

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Awaiting with open arms of a Mother
kneeling to embrace her mournful babe,
drinking hurried tears freshly fallen from
the cheeks once forsaken….

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“As reward for your rescue from
my ripped and rattled rapture,
you shall bear the ripened fruit
from the prairies and the vine.”

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“Out of the greatest growth
shall sprout abundance from
the heavy laden secrets
that I weep.”

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“I will know of the comforts from below
that remain ever vigilant and faithful.
In return, you shall share in the
treasures of my mystery.
In the tears that I cry
live the sustenance for life
and for death…and in both
you will come to know
the Glory of my Story.”

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Yet for now we must part
for the time being in return,
we will dance with the darkness,
come to life and rejoice
in the fires from the sky…

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…until appears a lighted lantern
with a lesson of the Gnosis
from the Fire in the Sky.
fun fairy tale to tell….

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Venusoul7 -> Hello Poetry

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I Love You

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1-rare-foxglove-tree-paulownia-tomentosa-blooms-valerie-garner-01

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I love you
Among all things
Gone wrong
I love you

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In the silent departures
In longing
And belonging
I love you

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In the falling leaves
And under maple trees
I love you

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In the footsteps left behind
And the ones not yet made
I love you

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Walk with me
My love,
Let us walk
Together
Further and further
Into life
Deeper and deeper
Into love

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Trini Lind -> pathsofthespirit.wordpress.com
Image ~ Lileinaya

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The Big Why

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Start_With_Why

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The way we perceive the world in which we live, is limited.  Therefore, our knowledge and understanding is limited.  In answering the big “why”, we need to let go of how we perceive the world, the cosmos, all of it.  We need to overcome our perceiving limitations and how they are translated to our thoughts and feelings.

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In short, to understand the big “why”, you simply have to die. But there’s no hurry, at some point in time, we all die.  So you’re bound to know the big “why”, sooner or later and you’ll probably laugh yourself silly, because it’s so simple.  But until then, ignorance is bliss and so, enjoy life.

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cornelisrage -> cornelisrage.tumblr.com

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The End Of Ding Dongs And Twinkies

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4556678898766

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I watched clean cut, silk-tied, well manicured fusillades
from the phalanx of CNN reporters
inundate ears and bathe eyes with coverage of
the latest next great festival of guns, blood and money.
I watched pet food ads that proudly announced
in no uncertain terms, their meat-filled truths,
then the blue-pilled nirvana of renewed virility.

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I yawned at the routine: seen that, heard that.
I fell into dreams of odourless death
of war shredded bodies in the Arab desert cities,
strobe-lit with the flash of bombardments
timed to the CNN’s rave, their naked VJs excited to
celebrate each explosion, to christen every successful
bomb and its ravaged homes to be re-made
into perfect backdrops against which there will be
paraded the cleaned-up dead like so many unwanted weeds
or, maybe, just the lost and to be forgotten heroes.

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And when I woke up I heard that the world
would be deprived of ding dongs and twinkies.

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Guy -> Readwave/egajd.blogspot.co.uk

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Bus Writings

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Blonde_haired_woman__by_mitch_meister

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The bus home is packed.  I stand near the door and see my own tiredness multiply, hewn into the faces of the sagging, indeterminate crowd.  We are all squinting, with heavy lids and foul breath and the ache of responsibility right between our ribs.  Caught between destinations, we are relapsing into stupor, cast down and as stupid as the cattle they move to the meat market.  Even the rain is uninspiring; wordlessly we prepare our umbrellas, unwrap ourselves from our iPhones and our problems and our blank, drooling contemplation.

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This would be me except I am typing away, provoked by a mundanity that both chills and appeals.  It’s a comfortable unpleasantness; all day I’ve been looking at mistakes made by other, more careless, more carefree people, and tomorrow I will do the same.  It keeps me in credit but has me standing at the traffic lights, playing chicken with the outward two step.

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What if, who knows, why not?

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This morning I stood two feet from a car accident and watched it unfurl like a scene from a play.  Sure, I pitied the student in the backseat with his bloody nose blossoming into a playground story and his unwilling, adolescent tears.  But there was an ocean upon me, an immovable, liquid heaviness casting deep blue shadows across the burning, speckled wreckage of the road.  And the more I walked, the more it weighed down on top of me.  I treaded water to the school gates and sank into inevitability.

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Throw the corpse overboard.

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Now I am struggling to keep my eyes open, and the way I am writing scares me.  We lurch to a stop.  I am filtered through the doors on a tide of people with the same crunchy, bone-deep numbness cultivated by caring too much and proving too little.  We are all and nothing but the same.  We long for flame, for colour, for purpose, for change.  Yet we are unwilling, tastelessly vapid, breathing back into a slipping and uncertain past.  We smoke our cigarettes and seethe with our puny resentments, praying for tomorrow and the day that we walk with intention.

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The bus has pulled away.  The rain washes colour into the ground and the lights and the faces.  I miss the girl who would weave amongst the many, lipsticked and defiant.  I miss her so much.

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stephcartz -> Jottify/fatandfabuloushk.wordpress.com/Twitter
Image ~ mitch-meister

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Dating A Writer

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a_writer_____by_orazioflacco-d4l6p0q

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Writers will live on your every word
They’ll listen to what you say
And understand what you mean
By deciphering the breaths in between
They’ll feel every syllable that escapes your lips
Hear the words behind the stand
Behind the crossed arms
And bathroom walls
They’ll know even before you do
What you really said
They’ll spend all night and all day
Thinking of the right words to say
Despite the fact the conversation’s passed
They’ll debate if it was just a slip of the tongue
A heated response
But every word no matter how small
Has a minute truth to it all
And if you leave some sort of blank
If you leave a fragment behind closed doors
Rest assured the writer’s coming up with every possible ending phrase
To finish off the dialogue

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Sara Febles -> sarafebles.com/Twitter
Image ~ OrazioFlacco

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And What I Saw There

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francoise_04

I love it here
At the bottom
Of the rabbit hole
It’s beautiful
And I know
That the skies
Are illusions
Painted
On the walls
I can feel
The darkness
Weaving spells
Of neo-classic
Madness
Can taste
The tears
Blurring
The bold strokes
Of impressionism
Colors running
Like rivers

 

 

Cyndi Williams -> missmorleah.tumblr.com
Image ~ francoise-nielly

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Grains Of Time

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dreaming_of_a_better_tomorrow_by_dasha444-d501l28

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After 14 billions years
The little girl took the sand in her hands
And threw it in the air
Just like that….
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Little did she know…
There once was a time where she was one
With all the atoms that make that sand
And the rest of all the universe
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All together in a space smaller than a grain of sand
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There was a time when each grain was shinning bright
And there she was
In the heart of a supernova
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When we explosed in the cosmos like sun seeds
All together
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We travel in a spiral dance through time
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My atoms knew yours since forever
Each grain of sand is at it’s right place
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Just like that…
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Mia LotusWattPad/YouTube/reverbnation/facebook1/facebook2
Image ~ Dasha444

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The Rhythm Of Life

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rain - window

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The rhythm of life
is like rain
falling down,
and no one is listening
or laughing.
No one is jumping in puddles,
or splash, splash, splashing!
watching it fall,
the wet rain.

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No one – except maybe children –
is hearing the world
sing its tune.
Like roses which opened in summer:
blooming
fading
petals falling,
and nobody noticed a thing.

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Then it’s midnight, suddenly,
the streets are all dead,
all the traffic is finally asleep.
And the drops
on your window
are falling, still falling,
and no one
has noticed
a thing.
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Anne Lawrence -> Jottify/shrewdbanana.wordpress.com/Twitter

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Shortly Before Dawn

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA.

In the landscape of her love, I wander like the enamoured stranger of her dreams. There are no roads to lead me home, but this is part of the fun, exploring every little detail as I stroll along.
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The sun hasn’t come up yet, it’s at the break of dawn and there’s this gentle glow in the sky, the promise of a new day, that enlightens everything, every hill, every slope, every valley, every tree and every little bush, and the grass beneath my feet.  The dew I touch, of a world so rich, bursting with life, yet still so peacefully asleep. She fills my lungs with air, my heart with passion and the center of my manhood with devotion for her, as I wander, as I drift, as I move along, embracing everything as a gift.

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cornelisrage -> cornelisrage.tumblr.com
Image
~ Tantawi

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The Soup

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pea soup

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I see my mother’s wrinkled hands gently stir
the pot of bubbling green goo.
The peas have been crushed, the ham diced
and the seasonings added.
All that is left is to meld the flavors with a gentle boil.
Diligently she moves the wooden spoon
around in the pot so the soup will not scorch.
The vision is gone as fast as it came.
Those wrinkled hands are now cold and still.
I stand on a lawn above the grey stone that bears her name.
I finally admit it, “mom, I hate pea soup.”
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Clark Graham -> Readwave/Amazon
Image
~ yomakadji

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Like a piece of ice on a hot stove - Robert Frost Quote.

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Image02302-07.
A very big thank you to everyone who contributed to issue three!  And thank you also to Sherry Galey for her beautiful artistic photography for the cover image – please check out her website to see more of her colourful talent.
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Also such grateful thanks to all those who read and post such lovely comments and share to Facebook and Twitter – you are all so much appreciated!

 

So good to see submissions coming in.  I have noted you all, and will be getting back to anyone who submitted a link to their work as soon as I can.  Thanks so much for your enthusiasm to participate in this new magazine.
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If you’d like the possibility of your poetry, spoken word, short story or essay included in the next issue published in July, please see Submissions.

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30 comments on “The Writing Garden ~ Issue Three

  1. Just popped back for another read. Thanks again Suzy for including my poem – delighted to find myself among so many fine writers and beautiful artwork. Every success in the future!

  2. I really enjoyed issue 3 Suzy. I always love reading them all but I set myself a task of selecting a favourite. And although it was very difficult, my favourite in this issue is Restful Sleep by Mary Holman. 😄 Please keep these coming, they’re fabulous. 😊 x

    • Thank you Christine! Well, yes, favourites are definitely allowed while reading. 😀 Restful Sleep is short and sweet and very dreamy for me – very glad to hear you liked that one! More good material coming in July, and hoping to have an amazing front cover from a photographer who posts on Tumblr – I adore his wonderful photography. I get as excited by great images as I do with impressive writing! 😀

  3. I tried to comment, Suzy, but I was asked for a password, and none of my regular ones worked. It’s another lovely issue; especially liked The Rhythm of Life. Now that Jottify is dead, I’m posting on writerscafe.org. My latest food story is called Chin-Chin. Where are you posting? Roland Date: Sun, 3 May 2015 15:23:12 +0000

    • Ah yes, Anne’s wonderful ‘The Rhythm Of Life’ one of my favourites too! 🙂

      That really does sound very odd Roland! The only reason you would need to be asked for a password would be if this blog was set to private, but clearly it’s not. Something must have got confused I’m sure. And there was I thinking the WordPress comment facility was superior to blogspot (have a lot trouble making comments on blogspot blogs) but obviously not! 😐

      Mm….it doesn’t look good for Jottify. I did contact Jack on his Twitter page, and Blossom did too – but no answer coming back. I see you’re having fun on there – love your tulip profile pic – perfect for spring!! 😀

      I have posted some pieces of Hello Poetry and Wattpad, but I will probably join you sometime soon on WritersCafe.org. Been thinking of opening a page there, mainly to find some more writers to publish here. I’ve got a lot going on at the moment, but hoping to take a blog break soon, so maybe then, when I have some time to b-r-e-a-t-h, and think about writing again, I’ll open an account and find out what it’s like. Thanks for letting me know! 🙂

      P.S. I’ve noted your email address Roland, but I edited it out of the comment box so to make sure you don’t get a lot of spam with it showing here.

        • Oooh, that sounds a pretty unbearable temperature to me!!! 😯 You have my greatest sympathy Justa – I really don’t like extreme heat. Most definitely a *sigh* 😦 Keep drinking lots of water and call out for the cool breeze to reach you. I hope it does very soon!

          By the way, I still can’t connect to Jottify and Roland left me a message to say he’s posting on writerscafe.org. I might join that site in a little while, was think of doing that anyway sometime. Just thought I’d mention it in case you were looking for somewhere to post writing and connect to others. Will come back to Jottify when it’s sorted itself out again – not too long I hope. 😐

  4. Thank you for publishing a poem of mine… and thank you for allowing us to discover so many talented poets… “the Writing Garden” is such a poetical name for a blog… I love it! Merci encore 🙂

    • Thank you so much Frédéric! I wanted a name that people would remember, and I guess it is poetical! 😀 And thank you for being part of this, very pleased to add your writing here! 🙂

    • Thank you so much Cynthia! I came across Prentice Powells spoken poem on a writers Google+ page, I was so impressed with that poetry – powerful and truthful statements in there. And I do love it when a stage performance of poetry is turned into an impressive act, it makes the poetry really come alive in a totally different way. And thank you for reading again! 🙂

  5. Stunning edition, Suzy. You are so good at this!
    I’ve read most of the poems – wonderful selection – and look forward to immersing myself in the prose later.
    Congratulations on another fine Writing Garden, I’ll do my best to spread the word! 🙂

    PS That gif you found for my poem is perfect – thank you.

    • Thank you so much Anne, so kind of you! I was on my way to send you a link – I see you found me first! 😀

      I really do appreciate all the sharing for this magazine, even more than my own personal websites. It’s lovely to know that it gets seen in many places and hopefully will give those who like reading these kind of creations even more to find and read with all the links included.

      And so pleased you like the gif! Lots of rain gifs out there, but that one is so vibrant and yet serene. You are an excellent writer Anne, so it’s been a real pleasure to add your poem The Rhythm Of Life! 🙂

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