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'In The Garden'
July 2014


Reflejos de un foto de Hostos monumentalmente en el jardín de l@s maestr@s

Una estatura profunda
se carece con
el mundo de la letra .
Un homenaje para el
ciudadano de Abya Yala.
Un maestro de l@s maestr@s,
su pensamiento para la libertad
está presente en un jardín de fomento:
un recuerdo de hacer actos de corazón.

© Ángel L. Martínez 31 juio 14
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective

The March of the Plant Kingdom

Man desires order
In all things,
His idea of order,
He plants his crops,
And flowers
In long neat rows,
And is satisfied.
For just a moment
Consider the world.
From the point of view
Of the plant
Who has a life plan
Of its own.
A plan honed,
And refined
Over the eons.
It goes like this:
It’s simple.
It’s seeds, once pollinated
Are carried by the wind
In random disbursement
To land in fertile soil
Take root
And create
The next generation.
This plan worked well
From the dawn of life
To the right now.
But then
Along came the human.
After finally seeing
The inefficiency
Of hunting and gathering.
He saw that the plant
Was relatively inert
When compared to man’s
Ability to move.
He then cut down forests,
Plowed up the earth,
& Then forced the plant
To grow
In nice neat rows
Without asking them
Whether they wanted to
Or not.
This man
Now commands
The Plant Kingdom
To march to his tune
In his formation.
So attention rutabagas
Kumquats, and squash
Forward march
Into the mouths of us!

© David Gordon 7/31/14
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective

El Jardín
(en la memoria de mi amigo Cholo)

En la noche nace el día y en el día nace la noche
Y en el río floja al jardín y el sol nos da un cariño
En el respeto de la madre de la tierra
De nuestra vida
Cebolla, ajo, orégano, cilantro, perejíl, pimiento rojo,
Con un mar de amor
Viva los vampiros en su reino
Y a las madres que sus hijos mueren inocentemente
Y a la nueva vieja guerra del Medio Oriente
Y yo solo canto una canción pa’ paz
En el momento de mi tristeza
Y en el nombre de la humanidad
No a la muerte en Gaza
Y en el día viejo tiempo
De la Calle 111
Un buen día que nadie escapa el dolor con una sonrisa
Y en el ritmo del pueblo
Agua que va a caer
Con Tatico y Patato
Yo con mi risa
Y con mi amigo del pasado
Yo bailo una rumba
Celebrando 46 años en la
Fiesta de la 111
Y en el jardín del amor
En la reunión con la familia
Del caserillo James Weldon Johnson
Vital mi semilla
Y aquí yo saludo 67 años con paz y alma
Y debajo de una luna en el 29 de julio
Yo hablo en alegría
Del perfumo de rosa de la casa de paz
Y la voz de Roberta Flack en esta noche
Ella cantó “You are my love”
Solo tiempo para amor y vivir
En el jardín de la vida

The Garden
(in memory of my friend Cholo)

In the night the day comes and in the day the night comes on
And the river flows to the garden and the sun gives us loving kindness
In respect for Mother Earth
Of our life
Onion, garlic, oregano, cilantro, parsley, red pepper,
With a sea of love
Long live the vampires in their kingdom
And mothers whose children die innocently
And the new old war in the Middle East
And I just sing a song for peace
At the time of my sadness
And in the name of humanity
No to death in Gaza
And in the old timers day on 111th Street
A good day where no one escapes the pain with a smile
And in the rhythm of the people
Water will fall
With Tatico and Patato
Me with my laughter
And with my friend from the past
I dance a rumba
Celebrating 46 years in the
Festival of 111th Street
And in the garden of love
At the meeting with the family
James Weldon Johnson Project
Vital my seed
And here I salute 67 years in peace and soul
And under a moon on July 29
I speak in joy
Of rose perfumery in the house of peace
And the voice of Roberta Flack tonight
She sang "You are my love"
Only time to love and live
In the garden of life

© Carlos Raúl Dufflar 7/13/14
The Bread is Rising Poetry Collective


I love my garden it’s so serene.
In spring and summer it’s a beautiful scene
But it hasn’t always been like this
Because once I lived in married bliss
We had decking, slabs and potted plants.
No birds or butterflies; not even ants
Such a perfect place but sanitised
Nature disappeared before my eyes
Then she asked me to build a water feature
It was the final insult to Mother Nature.
So I dug a big hole for her creation
She said. “That’s very deep for foundations.”
She was always right; knew better than me.
I sold that water feature and bought a tree
When nieghbours and friends started to wonder.
I said she was visiting relatives down under.

By Jim White

Gardening Leave

I’m not very fond of flowers
Unlike my wife who can spend hours
In the garden, so enchanted,
Cutting flowers which she has planted.
Blending colours in a vase
Backed with lush green foliage,
Whilst I simply cut the grass,
My chore, my matrimonial task.
Sweating in the scorching heat,
Wishing it was all concrete.
The battle ‘tween the grass and me
Will never give me victory
For every time it’s cut, it grows
And shoves more pollen up my nose.
May the Queen stay hale and hearty
But keep me from her garden party.
Another place I will not go
Is to the Chelsea Flower Show
And neither will I come with you
To that botanic place at Kew.
Itchy eyes and streaming nose,
Pollen from the grass, the rose,
The lilac tree, the daffodil,
The whole damn lot just makes me ill.
Hay fever is a source of sorrow,
I could never plough a furrow.
So I have to beg your pardon,
I really do not dig your garden.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers

The Male Cauvenist Gardener

At home I have no company.
There’s nobody to talk to me.
So, in the garden, I spend hours
In conversation with the flowers.

But our discussion is one way
They don’t seem to have much to say
Because, you see, in truth, a plant
Won’t answer back, because it can’t.

Unlike a wife, with much to say,
The flower stands silent on display;
Living to perform its duty,
Smelling sweetly in its beauty.

But flowers can’t clean, or wash my clothes,
Or cook my meals, or wipe my nose.
So if I had a wife named Flora
Maybe I’d learn to adore her.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers


They cut it down, our flowering cherry.
The main branch broke, it was too heavy.
The wind and rain caused it to fall;
Now clouds and sky, no flowers at all.
It’s such a pity we shan’t see
Our pretty flowering cherry tree.

The cat’s upset, it used to climb
The flowering cherry all the time.
And then the firemen would come round
And get our puss back on the ground.
Even the dog feels it’s been fiddled
As the tree is where it piddled.

It cost two hundred pounds today
To take the bloody thing away;
Charged to us by a man and kid
Who made a mess, that’s what they did.
They left us with a rotten stump
And that is why we’ve got the hump.

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers

In the Way

I go in the kitchen;
You’re already at the sink.
I can’t use the bathroom
Because you’ve made it stink.
You seem to hang around me
All through the day
And you’re always in the way,
You are always in the way.

Why do
You leave your dirty washing on the floor?
And why
Is it that you never close a door?
You’d leave the hall light burning
Throughout the day.
You are always in my way,
You are always in my way.

And when I hoover
You never lift your feet.
There are crumbs all over
From the biscuits that you eat.
And you will never listen
To a word I say.
Please get out of my way,
Please get out of my way.

Once you
Used to set my racing heart on fire;
Then you
Announced that you were going to retire
And now you sit around the
House like a slob.
Go and get another job,
Go and get another job.

You won’t do the garden
Because you say it hurts your back.
You just sit in your armchair
When you’ve made yourself a snack.
Then you watch television
All through the day
And you’re always in my way

Andrew Diamond
Goodmayes Writers

poetic prank

In the Garden
poem words won't come
dead flowers on my windowsill
small flat - NO light
One room
come live here
in my Garden

poem words inside the book
pavement to the front door, tarmac surrounding
Small flat- NO shed
One room
come live here
in my Garden

poem words in the pocket of the monster
tablets in the drawer
small flat - NO pets
one room
come live here
in my Garden

poem words stolen in my sleep
No investment in this society
small hope - NO future
one room
come live here

there is
NO Garden
apply within
choice based letting
satire if you desire
forms to be filled
a fantasy of someone
with a Garden

Andrew Henry Smith
Stevenage survivors poetry


It’s amazing what a garden can do for you,
especially when you don’t have one at home.

You can build the garden of your imagination
in your imagination, or your school exercise book,

or your stamp collection if you choose to specialise
in flora & fauna after amassing countries.

You can visit every public park within walking
or bus distance till you know which you prefer,

whether you love roses, rhododendrons or tall trees,
the oak, cedar of Lebanon or the dark-dripping yew,

& are not put off by the History teacher saying
the yew bow was the English archers’ preferred

weapon, used to deadly effect at Flodden Field,
Falkirk, & other notable Scottish disasters,

or maybe you will always associate the yew
with death & rain, something to turn away from,

yet always in the background or just out of shot
in Mediterranean postcards or Spaghetti Westerns;

no matter which garden you make for yourself,
you will return to a freshly rained-on mound

of earth under a yew tree, or biblical cedars
lining the path leading to the Rose Garden.


'The Garden'

The garden breathes silently filling my lungs with scented joy.
Amongst the Bluebells I am anything but blue. Reaching for the sun, cold green stalks seek warmth as I have sought them for the comfort of nature.

Tiny creatures crawl, insects flit and fly, birds sing or chitter-chatter to themselves while I sit quietly in this heavenly setting thinking poetically of friends, good times and of love.

The garden breathes silently filling my minds eye with beautiful visions. Life seemingly clearer than ever now feels as if in full bloom! Rose, Dandelion or Daisy, I care not! For now I am aware that all that inhabits a space in the garden has its own special ingredient to add to its majesty…

The garden breathes silently filling my heart with hope and a sense of belonging.

Antony May 29/4/14
G.R.O.W. & Shorelink Community Writers

Sparkling blind Scent

Branches move with the whistling wind
I walk down many streets
Gardens greet inviting me
London streets spread smells
I'm in the garden
In every London street
Foxgloves foxes  oak willows
Elderberry BlackBerry blackbirds
London's garden grows glories
Roses white red yellow Daisys
Crimson fucias. I know just
Few big  names grasses greens
Rivers flow waters trickle
In London in the garden shade
Wondrous  grows London growth
Sparkling blind scent  

John J Sheehy

Domestic cat

Domestic cat
stands by the door
because he wants
to go out.

He just discovered
outdoor life.
A jungle in bushes
and smells
of the garden.

He learns
how to hunt,
or just to watch,
eat grass,
roll in the dust,
enjoying Sun,
wind and scents,
green leaves,
and wild life
in the garden.

Marie Neumann


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