Posts Tagged ‘blooms


white ginger (anti-blather)

it’s best if i just let the photographs do the talking for the next few posts.




you know what’s important in hollywood when a major producer dies at 77 and one of his friends says, “but he had 0% body fat!” (italics mine)

a few years ago i scoffed at those commercials for a drug that combats “restless leg syndrome” as creating an illness in order to market a drug, until i got it. let me assure you it is aggravating and sleep-depriving, and ever-so-slightly painful.

it rained thursday night, really rained all night long. i only mention this because this is southern california.

this has been the pinkest summer bloom season i can remember. also, “i wonder if the olympic venues will have a royal box?” asks my lover of 30 years (i don’t even…)


rrose sélavy (rose, c’est la vie)

are you the rose you thought you’d be at this stage of your blooming life?  when you were a bud did you think your petals would unfurl as they have or did you have a premonition of greater glory?  is your stem straight and true or has it taken a turn here and there that were unexpected and unpleasant/pleasant?  has a hand come down to admire you and you’ve pricked them with your thorns in spite of their benign intentions (clipper-less)?  do you worry that you’ll be picked too early, before you’ve had the opportunity to fully mature?  you’re not one of those roses who’s life is plotted and destined for a dinner table/rendezvous/mother’s loving embrace; picked, sprayed, and laid next to baby’s breath?  or do you think you’ll just play it as it lays, a rose that even joan didion would love?




confessions of an occasional gardener

confession is such a big word.  too big for today anyway.  it’s implications are too complex & demanding & frankly, i may just not be up to the task, besides, who in their right mind would be interested in what i would/could/should confess?  particularly since there’s no way for you to confirm or deny the truth of what i am confessing.

it’s true that the photos that accompany this post are of flowers in our garden.  it is also true that they are as freshly made as a bouquet in a florist’s shop.

it is a fiction that they have not been manipulated.  i cannot resist tweaking the contrast, the lighting, the saturation & the temperature until they express how i see the garden.  it is an idealized view with a foot root firmly planted in reality while the rest of it dances in the breeze of fiction.

in a life filled with priorities, the garden sadly suffers from benign neglect (gray gardens); all of its little fingers grasping at the hems of my long pants, shorts & night shirt/little whimpers of ‘pay attention’ ‘look here’ ‘this is no way to treat us, we who treat you so well.’

somehow though, it seems to be okay for the garden & for me.  just often enough i work my way through: dead-heading, sweeping, fertilizing, plucking, pruning.  it may be that i am only able to work a small section of it this week & it may be several weeks before i get back in there & work another section of it (i apologize.)

the garden, though, has its own rhythm, one that i can only listen to & react to & look at & admire.  the color palette (m. laid out the design, i’ve added to it willy-nilly over the years since he has been unable to physically work in here) surprises me — nature surprises me because there are no colors that do not belong together (everyone should know that.)

the true confession is that i love it more than i let on; there are times when it grabs a hold of me & shakes, shakes me hard.  i’ve yet to weep with love & joy, but deep inside it is the ecstasy of emotion that settles sweetly in my soul.


natural selection/five minutes from the front door

voluptuous, fecund, ripe/pluck one — mind the thorns — don’t get too close

the subtle message of an open fan / one fold after the other / its only adornment / the flicker of a dark lashed beauty / an exhalation of memory

the bruised blush of a bottom lip pouting & dropping to a curtsied ‘oh my’

lace loose & flush against her creamy skin: colette/anna k./mme. bovary/lady chatterley/women in love

sunbeams catch a silhouette at the upper window/lace curtains move in the spring breeze

aquamarine eyes with their yellow irises & deep lashes / coquette / fresh beauty

the family crest suspended over the linden lined lane

& acacia avenue welcomes you with its bowers of berries & blossoms nodding in the sun & shade

are you attracted to me?  i have put on my best just for you.

stop looking at me like that, you’ll make me blush with your unspoken thoughts



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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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