by B. Garth Steinhagen
Stare out and far beautiful dove,
tremulous petals so subtle with love.
The garden’s freedom frees the mind,
as asphodel greaves lower to time!
You only need a rose’s touch,
you catch aroma or eye by crutch.
And once your soul tastes all three,
spires of blooms days shall be.
IN THE GARDEN are nature’s roses and me. No display of disparity delights more than, thought and larger thoughts by suggestions. The influence of presentation and performance in nature’s roses is so critiqued from within, and as such, I ask myself, do nature’s roses reside only in the confines of the garden?
Spectaculars within nature’s roses I pondered, noting the physicality at times, as well as, the dissimilarities of the disposition, whether joy or sorrow, anger or calm, birth or death while suffering and rejoicing with the two personalities. First, the external body, nature’s roses appeared to be envious green leaflets, long pedestals of introverted sharpness and crowned by a celebratory showy flowers. Second, the internal behavior, they were blossoms of inspirational layers, opening and closing a composition of contrasting points of view. I can only imagine it is these two traditions of opposition that paints Renoir’s, “Roses in a Vase” and author’s Shakespeare’s, “Romeo and Juliet”, by the expression of our own, truth, love and the eternal beauty of humanity.
The instant introduction of nature’s roses did not impart Isis, Aphrodite or Venus, granite stone goddesses embedded near the banks of a pond but rather a nocturnal moonlight sparkle above the gentle ripples of midnight current. In the garden it surprised me, just like a parting bloom did the other day in early morning dew, a reminiscent of a first kiss euphoria, where age is retrospective. These are the fluid feelings that are sometime unknown. For to view nature’s roses any other way would be unfair, petals in bloom points to the corridor of right. During one walk, my presence, namely, my mystical mind and body eyed a single secretive spiral bud, a hint to anticipated allure. But I wonder, am I ready? A new dawn in every man is the ingenious hesitation, a spirit of five petals of sacred virtue, restoring human will. It is this that gives life as man’s explanation. And, I a lover of uncontained perpetual beauty, an arousal to study distinguish relations.
Springtime, I felt liberated. Of course every year I desire infinite enthusiasm. But this season hibernation was thawing. The midday was warming and the air had a tinge of sweet and spicy “Double Delight” roses. My clothing was restrictive but my disposition displayed a bare presence. I sensed a cheery freeness as I smiled at green confetti leaflets, hidden porcupine divining rods, bursting pink to deep red patch quilt’s, perfume goblets of elucidations, and enjoyment of perfect contradiction. This nakedness, a boundless spirit, reminds me of running around the garden as a child giggling, a quality of innocence. For past early life memories always place a joyous outlook by aspirations of dreamy perceptions, dancing bittersweet pixie sticks with fluttering bumble bees a buzz, topped off with delicious to be licked lollypops, perpetuating my youth. For “springtime” a perennial festival is dressed to abound fresh buds and colorful blooms. And therefore no disgrace or calamity can befall this time by a youthful attitude.
In the shade, the unspoken clock of my own cover, fragileness appeared, lost within the hardiness of “Sheer Bliss” roses. In the early morning, I had overlooked my windbreaker, silently shaming myself, exposed, while shivering a blank gaze at nature’s portrait. Painting a still life with a degree of opaqueness, apathy is the commoner within me that shuns the artist. This null devotion with shyness is a glutton towards indifference relinquishing the soft pink tints of each petal as they reflex. In a failed work of art this is the essential hue. For this reason, the frosted barrenness of the intellect often brushes guilt by winter withered stems, forgoing joyous color and weeping leaves to the canvas. By discarded disregard cold is in the garden. And stems rimed with frost, contribute to the blooms petals appearance as an uncomfortable quivering foreign friend. To the attentive eye though, each moment has beauty never seen before, and shall never be seen again. And thus, the garden is a perpetual gala, which blooms each moment a new bud. I must though use the moment that I create in solitude to let the sun shine on me and behind.
Besides nature’s roses and me, periodically another is in the garden but is unseen. A caretaker’s scissor hands sniping frustration and ignorance, a translucent pain, from difficulties of a past pruning. Each holiday, nature’s “4th of July” roses, tells a heated blush of redness in noxious euphoria’s about sorrowful embarrassments. A reminiscent sensation, of one year closer paraded without fulfillment. Yet, the bud senses this but I did not. Because of this, the ethereal emptiness causes the bud to “bullet” and I to reveal. Like the caretaker, I too discern not the greenery within the long olive stem, the bridge within life, but rather points, knives of past wounds like jabs that climbs prickles of sadness throughout my demeanor. These nodes reduce the browsing animals in my life, the outgrowth of propagation of conversation hooking continuous talk in silence in my head. On this twisted sprig let each extroverted node become my introverted stimulation too. By this, nature’s “4th of July” roses burst in my darken sky, to a virgin white lattice for the branches to climb and attach faith. For me the beneficiary, an emotional red surge to white peace occurred by a velvet caress of a petal, striping the droplets on my cheek. Forgiveness became the season. And like any new period, I intertwine in my earthly dissertation of pleasure by draping color, motion and groupings, a splash of a bouquet to my eye and the lives of others. But heavy rain began and, the buds avoided repeated bloom, the thought withdrew, the roots rotted and perception contracted to a selfish desire. Those impediments, the “seeks’ to the sun”, the thorny unseen denial is the prohibition levied on myself impacting the garden. I was paralyzed, the sky shut down to light and color, to grey, and I feared in muted bloom. Why? I suppose though, if accepted is the possibility of a prick, oozing failure through a pulsating blood of forbiddance to embrace. Maybe simply like the bud before bloom, I was frightened, scared to be the reason, to be a cause to fragileness, the decomposition of a petal to the dirt, a diminished silence within a holiday.
One time I was enthralled with a particular grouping, nature’s “Elle” roses. Elle’s wide blooms, which I towered over daily with the sun to my back, were so soft and satisfying. They were the most beautiful I had ever seen. The citrusy scent was eternity. So I watered daily, tending to the pruning of the fourteen inch stems with sharp snips while permitting kudzu friendship nearby. But as days went by the luster diminished, my sorrow eyes reflected with softened to pink blooms. Perhaps I wasn’t giving nature’s “Elle” roses enough attention, so I dampen the soil intensely. I even withheld my touch to Elle to avoid damage. I whisked away any bee’s about. I stood all hours, watching with my shadow giving comfort. After a period of time, all of a sudden leaves fell quickly the blooming buds stopped. I was startled by the brown frown, unable to detect black mildew, confused but then a whisper in my head. “We kill the thing we love, let this be heard, some do it with the spoken word, some do it with a simple look, the coward does it with a kiss, the brave does it with a sword” said Wilde, for I had killed the thing I loved.
But in summer hours, in the intense heat, viewing nature’s “Passion” roses, my heart bloomed again. At every turn I lusted for each flower, a phenomenon all and mighty and from an unknown source. It first appeared innocent, a fresh palpitation as I traveled over unsteady cobblestones, a footbridge crossing a stream. Nature’s “Passion” roses were far away and beautiful, I had to reach the oasis of tranquility. Upon arriving each flower was my favorite, a vision of eternity, with apertures the perfect size and blooming at the correct rate. My heart numbness reseated, I was in a spiritual euphoria. For love expressed by nature’s “Passion” roses, propels an arousal of sensitivity an announcement told by a flaring curve petal in bloom. With each brilliant red petal, flames of torches burn towards the midnight sky. My soul flickered. The rain of heat melted a longing of an aromatic vivid pure chocolate on my tongue. With intensity about, my chin lifted, lips separated like petals to take a deep swallow of inward value and outward purpose, moistening my dryness. It was an incredible fertile soft touch. Incongruously, I was somewhere else, as nature’s “Passion” roses had transposed me to, “The Great Gatsby” a recollection to the 1920’s and Jay Gatsby love not for a rose but for “Daisy”. I began to celebrate and leaped higher than the cotton candy clouds and elevated with sugar plum fairies a sweetness of enchantment. Breathe the pirouette exhaled breeziness, I announced, ending the whirling of discontentment. And I by prose’ revealed anew
…the sparrow’s wings bend like petals under the vaults of blue, deep into the mirage of once baptized sea while the winds of wisdom sing, McCartney’s “Let it be”. And what did the trumpets of blooms call out with roar? That Poe’s “The Raven” is nevermore. For in the garden my medicinal lessen restored my tone. I was all, here to the bone. Disparity comes and goes, but slipped within is love that forever flows.
For love, opens the gates to eternity to come out of a bud and bloom to find oneself, reminiscent of “Lincoln” to lead, “Galen” to cure, “Da Vinci” to connect, and “Wadsworth” to inspire. Eternal love unmasked is the soul. For the soul never tires, sounds in the silence to compassion, healthiness, appreciation and enticement. But let me not waste this masquerade ball but rather construct a continuation to expose all positions, each petals maturity, honoring all blooms outwardly in all ways. And as the façade fades and the wind dusts to dilate my eye, I will notice the love, the uniqueness beneath the petals, for the sepals are viewed only from the heavens. This perception of the burgundy richness, displays a wine intoxication triumphing the mind. In this high truth, it shows the carpenter, the actor and the statesman as majestic masterpieces touching to the source of all being. And therefore for this to be on this summer day, I must see, nature’s “Passion” roses not droop but be erect to necessitate a push to the root of sentiment down through the driest soil for growth, fight through all disease on leaves for strength and forgo any insect nibbling the bloom for clearness. By this revelation, my life was a godlike moment, the juxtaposition against ugliness that perceives the horizon to be the rainbow upon my garden. This in the natural is the dowry nature’s “Passion” roses bestowed on me.
Sometimes, I remove myself from the garden. But within this attempt, I through an unknown presence still placed “Sun Sprinkles” roses in a decorative container. I found from beginning to end, this encasement is merely a fraction of its divided existence an expression of a collective identity all the way through the garden. Pruning the stems and moistening the soil to damp, the tiny buds responded, with yellow announcement, a clear understanding for proper presentation. With selfish indulgence, I am its nourishment, and the gardener. Thus the buds bequeath that honesty. The high pointed buds opened to spiral two inch petite double blooms, beautiful with twenty-five diminutive petals. The air became cordial of incredible virtue, publicly merited by “Sun Sprinkles” roses on my mantel. And all visitors did not tire of the visual delight. For every hour was authorized within my intellect and a congratulatory acknowledgment of my taste. I can only imagine being draped by blazing sun petals at every day observance, and must permit myself, to move outside a musky overtone, to a moderate spicy fragrance, by giving an open handed emotion of contentment. Oh, as the bright yellow bloom blossoms, I lean outside of the green foliage, eyes shut, inhaling the perfume of joyous opportunities, embracing myself and announcing “I am alive”. For when we are upright, love is a bloom of miniature petals within our heart, being sprinkled and caressed, spoken fondly even without sunlight. But it will not last for petals fall like tears upon us, nature’s way of giving love into our eternal eye forever. It is this reality in the garden, calling me to walk the walkways “now” told by rounded “blooms” of beauty.
Though sentiments are beautiful, I live outside of the garden. My intellect is in prayer discouraging the truth of under the rose. To be alive, to have a relation with nature’s roses, I must be larger thoughts. I shall see with new eyes, love. For I am what my soul perceives, thus the air, the soil, the water and nature’s roses I shall be. This is the permission for the occult to create nature’s roses and me. For IN THE GARDEN are nature’s roses and me. And for “nature’s roses” to be me, to know…“the sun ceases and the questions die”.
© Copyright 2016 B Garth Steinhagen. All rights reserved.