Definition

What is a poem?
I still don’t know.
In some ways,
I don’t care.
For me, it can be a phrasing of words
touching something inside
making me breathe a little deeper.
It can be anything,
an overheard snatch
of conversation,
a child’s ditty,
badly translated Japanese haiku,
formal verse
a sigh
a conglomeration
of unrelated words,
that suddenly make sense,
a baby's hiccup
raindrops sparkling on branches
after the storm
kitty's kaleidoscope eyes
snowflakes on my cheek
freshly made bed
fragrance of Jasmine, Geranium, Lavender
aroma of coffee,
even though I don't drink it
and, of course,
the taste of chocolate

It’s all poetry to me

Her Garden was Her Delight

Do you remember how your grandmother gardened? What about her grandmother before her? Or was gardening in her generation considered “un-ladylike”?
This book contains essays featuring two English women and 18 American women gardeners beginning about 1600, most of them famous.

The not so famous were obscure enough that historical records do not contain their names. Yet their gardens made enough of a mark on times gone by, that they have come down the generations to be included in this fascinating book. 

Some of the prominent women featured are Jane Colden, Alice Eastwood, and Anna Page-King with her legendary garden at Retreat Plantation, St. Simons Island, Georgia. Interestingly, few accounts were available on Theodosia Burr-Shepherd's story which was largely taken from an unpublished biography by her daughter.

Included is a wonderful account of Maria Martin, her relationship with John J. Audubon and her little known contribution to the paintings of birds, animals and plants of his well known book. In honor of her, Audubon named a woodpecker, Picus Martini, or Maria's Woodpecker.


Though this book is out of print, I found my copy at the public library. You can get your copy by going to the world catalog.

If you are into collecting books, or keeping those you read, checking with Amazon reveals seven used copies available beginning at the price of $14.05

Any gardener fascinated by history will enjoy this book.
HER GARDEN WAS HER DELIGHT
Famous Women Gardeners
by Buckner Hollingsworth
published in New York: by Macmillan, 1962

Further information, here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Photographs are of my neighbor and friend in her lovely garden.

Cemetary

Today, I drove into parking lot at my doctor's office which overlooks the cemetary. I've always thought it odd his office should be located there where patients can have the visual reminder. I felt just a tinge of irony until I saw several people walking the paths wearing Ipods or just talking with one another, a guy on a bike.

The juxtaposition of the very much living with the very far gone away threw me back in time... sitting in the car with friends driving through to the end where the pond was, throwing stones and munching on treats.

Still, even the boys wanted to make sure we got back to the car and out of there before the sun went down. No one made jokes or poked fun at one another for feeling squeamish, it was just an unspoken understanding that it was time to leave.

Across the Room

Many times 

I've looked across 

the crowd

you were there,

eyes anticipating,
smiling.
I want to be held

supported by you,
caressed, kissed, 

and cherished by you.

But we are not free.

Some part of me 

wants to fall in love

madly, romantically smitten,

you are in my mind

with that quirky grin.
Your eyes light up

when you talk to me

I want you to take me in your arms.

the intensity of our warmth 

illuminates the room.

everyone nearby basks in it

without knowing the source.

I play with my fantasy

never tell you what's on my mind.
Reality doesn't hurt so much,

knowing we can't be together.
I'm happy for now, 

walking with you

on garden pathways, 

arm in arm

in my thoughts.

And so I pretend 

you love me as we sit 

holding hands 

across a table

in a dimly lit restaurant,

candlelight dancing in our hearts.
Like the couple on the dance floor,

music guides our movements

and my body responds to yours...
It's not like we really know each other.
Having talked occasionally, 

laughing together

I wish that you 

think of me, too:

and fantasize.
I may not live up to your dreams 

nor you to mine.
The sound of your voice 

triggers an energy that excites me,
Then I remember the dream, 

so sensual, so alive!

Were you dreaming it too?
Oh, but it was good!

© Elizabeth Munroz
1989

Bad Blood

Covering the seed of my memories,
she is buried at the bottom of my heart,
where the blood has turned brown like dark rich humus;
the baby girl I gave away.
I have watered the soil with my tears of regret
all these eons, as she has grown.

She is big enough now.
I cannot keep her buried anymore,
my thoughts of her possess me.
she is breaking through,
fresh and new, like a newborn
my memory of her stares at me.
I hold her in my arms, softly cooing.

But the years have passed, 
reality faces me.
a full-grown woman stands before me.
she challenges me,

Why did you give me away?"

"Why didn't you want me?"

"Wasn't I good enough for you?"

"Why did you keep the others born to you?"

She spits out her bitterness.
"I have spent all my life feeling like a bad seed!

There are no tears to quench her now,
only anger jetting forth from her body
hitting me in waves.
She's got a lot of ammunition
I shrink from the power of it.
unable to reach out, hold her, comfort her.
My hopes dashed that we might be friends.

Now, I am buried at the bottom of her rage,
weighted down, held back, unable to explain.
She walks away and leaves me for dead,
buried at the bottom of her heart.

But the time will come when I shall emerge
from the dark rich humus of old blood covering me.
I will bloom into her thoughts,
and she shall seek me out, the mother she didn't want,
and she'll be surprised that I am young no longer
but, old and gray and haggard.

Addle-brained, I shall blankly stare at her,
the discarded mother in the nursing home.
Who are you? I'll say.
I don't know you!
What do you want?
Go away!

We will have spent our lives estranged