She sat along the row of planters. The sun was hot and causing a light sheen of sweat upon her skin. Deep in thought she was startled by a sudden scream from the other side of the fence.
I’m a planter. I plant memories in your heads, until you become confused little critters, searching the nooks and crannies for little crumbs of bread. I’m a planter. I plant happiness in your heads when I so choose, then you wear smiles over your faces, big flashy, brazen smiles, and ostentatiously you act, showing the other being beside you with whom I’ve gifted less happiness how grand your life is. However, just as I’ve gifted you with happiness, you must evoke to mind, how I also have the capability of snatching it away from you.
I am, after all, a sadist.
And I love to see you twist and turn, see your smile turn into a frown, see you drown in your own tears.
You come to me, hopeless and exhausted. Down you fall to your knees, and you wrap your hands together, fold yourself into a pitiful posture, and your lips part open, the tears have turned into blood, and you ask, “Why?”
There he stood, in the vast expanse of his field, bent over double to tend the seedlings he had placed in the ground only two weeks before. When the landslide started, he was only ten feet from the crack, and as the cliff face fell away below him, the only thought to cross the planter’s mind was whether or not his crop of tea plants would be okay.
i plant my plants here. a setting for growth to occur here, initiating growth. symbolic of the foundation that is needed to grow. holds everything in place, contains all the nutrients necessary for the plant growth.
Watching as his hair falls across the face, she looks at him sitting across from her at the table and smiles. It’s so funny, how one moment you look at someone and you see them, and then another moment you look at someone and see someone else entirely. She ponders this as he sips his water, straw dancing on his tounge. She wonders where her head has been all this time, not noticing this sweet boy in front of her.
The night smells like cold air and and snowflakes drift from the sky, landing on her eyelashes. It is silent, not a sound besides the whistle of the wind. She exhales, seeing her own breath and looks at sky, tempted to catch a snowflake on her tounge like she used to when she was young. But instead she inhales and tells herself to be careful because by the time these nights are warm and filled with crickets chirping, this boy will probably have hurt her, and will probably be gone.
planter’s green, sandy pots, crackling dirt dry in the sun, weeds long dead and insects skating on the pebbles. plant a seed in the dry, a dry seed drier, hope it grows in the rain that may or may not come, plant a seed in the rain, drop in in a trickle of rainwater and let the clouds decide where it goes.
the planter worked for us on saturdays and sundays. Molly liked him especially best. I wasn’t that fond of him. He seemed a peculiar man. Tall, bony, arched back; he wasn’t the average Joe. We were all fascinated by him however. The way he dug small holes.
She scoops up some dirt, rain saturated after the spring showers, and pours it into the planter. She pokes the soddy grains with her finger to make a hole, drops in a seed, and leaves it in the windowsill closest to the morning sun.
I hid the key in the planter so he could come in the door when he came by. I have never done anything like this before and wish that I would think this out better before I did it. But I like him, I like him with my whole being, which is the reason that I am going to let him approach my bedside.
“Mom, when will it grow?” Zaya asked her mother, pointing to the rose bud.
“In a while,” Her mother said, ruffling her hair, kissing her forehead.
“Darn. I want it to grow now.”
the gardens all have plants but some
are weeds
and for some reason the gardeners pluck those weeds out of their lives
like they are evil
bad
but they are plants too
just not in this world.
The planter was full of dirt and mold, and disgusting things that people would gasp and scoff at. It housed a rose, whose petals were fading and withering, but it was pink and beautiful even though. It was sad.
They took everything; everything but the planter. The girl found it, lifeless. But she did not look at it tediously. She knew it had a story to tell. And so she listened; day after day as one by one, the clues revealed themselves.
They took everything; everything but the planter. The girl found it, lifeless. But she did not look at it interestingly. She knew it had a story to tell. And so she listened; day after day as one by one, the clues revealed themselves.
Georgia reached for the garden shears. All it would take is one swift motion and it would all be over. She picked up the shears and started for the door. She hesitated for one second before swinging it open and and rushing through the doorway.
My mama is a planter. Of seeds and doubts. Of tomatoes and subtle criticisms. She bought me a planter so I could grow my own. Nothing tastes quite like tomatoes and criticisms that you grow all by yourself.
in my grandmothers house, flowers ruled over everything. her day began and ended in her garden, and in between there were the planters scattered in every window, soaking up light and demanding attention. they evoked such a sense of calm while teaching responsibility and the simple joy of helping something thrive.
I stood next to the planter, waiting for you to come to the door. My sunglasses are pink, they glisten and hide the way my eyes dart back in forth. I do not smile, I do not sigh, I simply stand like a statue. For each moment I wait, my doubt grows, creeping like vines up my legs and waist, clinching my arms to my side. I am always afraid you will not answer.
flowers, summer. Pansies, herbs, peppers. I love growing the peppers all summer then drying them for use throughout the year. Square, round, plastic, clay, pottery planters. Mint, herbs, I love to plant them all
Walking past the planter, I saw you walking at me. The sun made my eyes squint, but you were still there, still closing the gap, as my eyes tried not to water from the sun or the fact that you hadn’t talked to me in almost a month. And then you were there, parallel to me, and I knew I had to look at you, so I did. You tried to smile, but it was awkward after what happened. And I tried to smile, but the look on my face only read, “What is there to do?”
The little girl plants the flower carefully.
She puts the seeds in the pot,
The pot filled with soil, which smells like fresh earth.
She gets excited,
And sits down next to the little pot.
“Mama, when will it grow?” She asks.
Her mother says, “Oh, it will not grow so soon, my Flower.
It takes some time for the little sapling to struggle to the surface,
Then it must get taller.
It grows and grows, up and up,
And there, at the top of the stem, grows a little orb. It is called a bud.
The bud pushes itself open, and the flower slowly opens towards the sun.
Flower didn’t understand, but pretended she did.
That fall, it started to turn chilly.
Then, it turned colder and colder.
Flower was worried for her little daisy.
Then, after Valentines Day, it turned warmer.
Then Easter came, and her little pot of soil turned into a tiny stem.
Then came April, and her daisy’s stem was longer and longer.
Next came May. A bud formed. It turned yellow.
After May came June. The bud split open to proudly show it’s beautiful petals.
From June to the end of August, the flower showed off its petals.
In the beginning of September, Flower got ready for school.
The last day of summer, September 3rd, a bitter wind blew.
Flower was scared for her proud little daisy.
The beautiful sunny flower turned into a saggy brown bud.
Flower went to school.
The pot was put back in storage,
And the soil in the trash.
Flower, the planter.
The planter had been empty for months. She couldn’t re,ember the last time she felt like growing anything. Especially her heart. It was as dead as the empty planter.
there was a planter in the corner of the roon with a beautiful orangea nd blue flower in it, I noticed this as I was listening to hime tell me that its not me its him, I thought at the moment
The homeowner’s association were confused by his attempt to turn his home into the closest thing possible to a suburban farm. Planter boxes sat in tight rows across his lawn, sprouts just beginning to reach out of the composted soil towards the light of the sun.
The society we live in loves to put things in our head. You can’t be this, you must be THIS. They’re planters in a sense. They put these thoughts into us to make us grow into the same person as the one right next to us. They’re planters.
my grandpa was a planter, or a rancher, rather. he had to grow the food he fed to his cattle. his wife died this year, ten years ahead of schedule. now he’s alone in a home somewhere with nothing but his memory and the seasons.
The planter was the only thing left, the only thing that survived the fire. No one was sure how it remained untouched, though some suspected it was the mysterious blue roses that grew within it’s walls that had something to do with it.
Perhaps Carl was more than just a gardener after all…
Or perhaps it was the Phantom, though some would say they were one in the same. Very few people knew the truth, and they would never tell.
the planter was the person who planted the well… plants. beans, corn, tomatoes, you name it. they usually are passed from father to son, like passing down a farm. its hard work, but someone has to do it… funfun
“P-p-please, milady. I’m just a simple planter; I did nay mean ye no ‘arm,” he said, dropping to his knees before her and burying her face in the folds of her skirt.
She scoffed, waving a weary hand to charge one of her guardsmen with the task of hefting the man to his feet and away from the priceless Andalusian silks which composed her outer skirt. “I have no time for this,” she said plaintively. “Guards, I order this man executed. Do it quickly; I’m late enough as it is,”
The guards, each holding one of his arms, had barely made it a step before a voice rang out, making all of the villagers cease their whisperings in awe.
“Stop,”
She frowned. “Who dares interrupt my judgement?”
A girl stumbled forward before dropping dutifully to her knees. “Please. Take me instead,”
There’s a planter outside my window. It grows weeds, watered by Mother Nature’s watering can. As I gaze down the side of the silver can in my own hands, I look into the past, at weeds that should have been plucked long ago.
I love feeling like a planter, planting pretty things in the ground, with nothing but the hot sun beating down on me, perspiration on my face, and happiness. The satisfaction as that beautiful plant grows to become even more beautiful. When you’re planting you aren’t feeling stressed or upset about being bullied, or tests, or people hanging up on you in a conversation that you had high hopes for. You just are there enjoying yourself in an exceptional way.
I love feeling like a planted, planting pretty things in the ground. With nothing but the hot sun beating down on me, perspiration on my face, and happiness. The satisfaction as that beautiful plant grows to become even more beautiful. When you’re planting you aren’t feeling stressed or upset about being bullied, or tests, or people hanging up on you. You just are there enjoying yourself in an exceptional way.
She sat along the row of planters. The sun was hot and causing a light sheen of sweat upon her skin. Deep in thought she was startled by a sudden scream from the other side of the fence.
you grow on me
but I am no planter
Not suited for such
Strangling vines
I’m a planter. I plant memories in your heads, until you become confused little critters, searching the nooks and crannies for little crumbs of bread. I’m a planter. I plant happiness in your heads when I so choose, then you wear smiles over your faces, big flashy, brazen smiles, and ostentatiously you act, showing the other being beside you with whom I’ve gifted less happiness how grand your life is. However, just as I’ve gifted you with happiness, you must evoke to mind, how I also have the capability of snatching it away from you.
I am, after all, a sadist.
And I love to see you twist and turn, see your smile turn into a frown, see you drown in your own tears.
You come to me, hopeless and exhausted. Down you fall to your knees, and you wrap your hands together, fold yourself into a pitiful posture, and your lips part open, the tears have turned into blood, and you ask, “Why?”
My answer is simply really.
Because I can.
There he stood, in the vast expanse of his field, bent over double to tend the seedlings he had placed in the ground only two weeks before. When the landslide started, he was only ten feet from the crack, and as the cliff face fell away below him, the only thought to cross the planter’s mind was whether or not his crop of tea plants would be okay.
i plant my plants here. a setting for growth to occur here, initiating growth. symbolic of the foundation that is needed to grow. holds everything in place, contains all the nutrients necessary for the plant growth.
Your planter still hangs
From the back porch awning.
I think it may be the only thing
You forgot to take with you
Besides me.
The beautiful planter lay on the stoop overflowing with lush flowers.Their scent filled the night air as the two lovers locked lips.
Watching as his hair falls across the face, she looks at him sitting across from her at the table and smiles. It’s so funny, how one moment you look at someone and you see them, and then another moment you look at someone and see someone else entirely. She ponders this as he sips his water, straw dancing on his tounge. She wonders where her head has been all this time, not noticing this sweet boy in front of her.
The night smells like cold air and and snowflakes drift from the sky, landing on her eyelashes. It is silent, not a sound besides the whistle of the wind. She exhales, seeing her own breath and looks at sky, tempted to catch a snowflake on her tounge like she used to when she was young. But instead she inhales and tells herself to be careful because by the time these nights are warm and filled with crickets chirping, this boy will probably have hurt her, and will probably be gone.
They grow things. They make life. They nurture life. Are they gods?
Perhaps to plants.
planter’s green, sandy pots, crackling dirt dry in the sun, weeds long dead and insects skating on the pebbles. plant a seed in the dry, a dry seed drier, hope it grows in the rain that may or may not come, plant a seed in the rain, drop in in a trickle of rainwater and let the clouds decide where it goes.
the planter worked for us on saturdays and sundays. Molly liked him especially best. I wasn’t that fond of him. He seemed a peculiar man. Tall, bony, arched back; he wasn’t the average Joe. We were all fascinated by him however. The way he dug small holes.
She scoops up some dirt, rain saturated after the spring showers, and pours it into the planter. She pokes the soddy grains with her finger to make a hole, drops in a seed, and leaves it in the windowsill closest to the morning sun.
I hid the key in the planter so he could come in the door when he came by. I have never done anything like this before and wish that I would think this out better before I did it. But I like him, I like him with my whole being, which is the reason that I am going to let him approach my bedside.
“Mom, when will it grow?” Zaya asked her mother, pointing to the rose bud.
“In a while,” Her mother said, ruffling her hair, kissing her forehead.
“Darn. I want it to grow now.”
the gardens all have plants but some
are weeds
and for some reason the gardeners pluck those weeds out of their lives
like they are evil
bad
but they are plants too
just not in this world.
The planter was full of dirt and mold, and disgusting things that people would gasp and scoff at. It housed a rose, whose petals were fading and withering, but it was pink and beautiful even though. It was sad.
seeds, farms, crops; FDR quote about the nation being built upon its farmers. America built by soil.
They took everything; everything but the planter. The girl found it, lifeless. But she did not look at it tediously. She knew it had a story to tell. And so she listened; day after day as one by one, the clues revealed themselves.
They took everything; everything but the planter. The girl found it, lifeless. But she did not look at it interestingly. She knew it had a story to tell. And so she listened; day after day as one by one, the clues revealed themselves.
Georgia reached for the garden shears. All it would take is one swift motion and it would all be over. She picked up the shears and started for the door. She hesitated for one second before swinging it open and and rushing through the doorway.
My mama is a planter. Of seeds and doubts. Of tomatoes and subtle criticisms. She bought me a planter so I could grow my own. Nothing tastes quite like tomatoes and criticisms that you grow all by yourself.
in my grandmothers house, flowers ruled over everything. her day began and ended in her garden, and in between there were the planters scattered in every window, soaking up light and demanding attention. they evoked such a sense of calm while teaching responsibility and the simple joy of helping something thrive.
I stood next to the planter, waiting for you to come to the door. My sunglasses are pink, they glisten and hide the way my eyes dart back in forth. I do not smile, I do not sigh, I simply stand like a statue. For each moment I wait, my doubt grows, creeping like vines up my legs and waist, clinching my arms to my side. I am always afraid you will not answer.
flowers, summer. Pansies, herbs, peppers. I love growing the peppers all summer then drying them for use throughout the year. Square, round, plastic, clay, pottery planters. Mint, herbs, I love to plant them all
Walking past the planter, I saw you walking at me. The sun made my eyes squint, but you were still there, still closing the gap, as my eyes tried not to water from the sun or the fact that you hadn’t talked to me in almost a month. And then you were there, parallel to me, and I knew I had to look at you, so I did. You tried to smile, but it was awkward after what happened. And I tried to smile, but the look on my face only read, “What is there to do?”
his thumb green;
his heart blue
with the ice that she left.
when the frost took
the petals and stems
rot to the core;
just as his love did
for her
The little girl plants the flower carefully.
She puts the seeds in the pot,
The pot filled with soil, which smells like fresh earth.
She gets excited,
And sits down next to the little pot.
“Mama, when will it grow?” She asks.
Her mother says, “Oh, it will not grow so soon, my Flower.
It takes some time for the little sapling to struggle to the surface,
Then it must get taller.
It grows and grows, up and up,
And there, at the top of the stem, grows a little orb. It is called a bud.
The bud pushes itself open, and the flower slowly opens towards the sun.
Flower didn’t understand, but pretended she did.
That fall, it started to turn chilly.
Then, it turned colder and colder.
Flower was worried for her little daisy.
Then, after Valentines Day, it turned warmer.
Then Easter came, and her little pot of soil turned into a tiny stem.
Then came April, and her daisy’s stem was longer and longer.
Next came May. A bud formed. It turned yellow.
After May came June. The bud split open to proudly show it’s beautiful petals.
From June to the end of August, the flower showed off its petals.
In the beginning of September, Flower got ready for school.
The last day of summer, September 3rd, a bitter wind blew.
Flower was scared for her proud little daisy.
The beautiful sunny flower turned into a saggy brown bud.
Flower went to school.
The pot was put back in storage,
And the soil in the trash.
Flower, the planter.
The planter had been empty for months. She couldn’t re,ember the last time she felt like growing anything. Especially her heart. It was as dead as the empty planter.
there was a planter in the corner of the roon with a beautiful orangea nd blue flower in it, I noticed this as I was listening to hime tell me that its not me its him, I thought at the moment
The planter plants seeds in the mind that burst into blue skies, swirling flames, and thoughts that chime of the end.
The homeowner’s association were confused by his attempt to turn his home into the closest thing possible to a suburban farm. Planter boxes sat in tight rows across his lawn, sprouts just beginning to reach out of the composted soil towards the light of the sun.
“Who was the planter?”
“Um…” I blinked. “Planter?”
“You know what I mean!” Martin roared. “The planter of evidence! Of incorrect evidence, might I add! Throwing off our scent!”
“How in Hell would I know who the ‘planter’ was?” I demanded. “Are you implying something?”
Martin’s face went from red to magenta. He sputtered. He shook. He marched back to his desk, with the chief staring after him.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “He blamed me this morning.”
The society we live in loves to put things in our head. You can’t be this, you must be THIS. They’re planters in a sense. They put these thoughts into us to make us grow into the same person as the one right next to us. They’re planters.
my grandpa was a planter, or a rancher, rather. he had to grow the food he fed to his cattle. his wife died this year, ten years ahead of schedule. now he’s alone in a home somewhere with nothing but his memory and the seasons.
The planter was the only thing left, the only thing that survived the fire. No one was sure how it remained untouched, though some suspected it was the mysterious blue roses that grew within it’s walls that had something to do with it.
Perhaps Carl was more than just a gardener after all…
Or perhaps it was the Phantom, though some would say they were one in the same. Very few people knew the truth, and they would never tell.
the planter was the person who planted the well… plants. beans, corn, tomatoes, you name it. they usually are passed from father to son, like passing down a farm. its hard work, but someone has to do it… funfun
“P-p-please, milady. I’m just a simple planter; I did nay mean ye no ‘arm,” he said, dropping to his knees before her and burying her face in the folds of her skirt.
She scoffed, waving a weary hand to charge one of her guardsmen with the task of hefting the man to his feet and away from the priceless Andalusian silks which composed her outer skirt. “I have no time for this,” she said plaintively. “Guards, I order this man executed. Do it quickly; I’m late enough as it is,”
The guards, each holding one of his arms, had barely made it a step before a voice rang out, making all of the villagers cease their whisperings in awe.
“Stop,”
She frowned. “Who dares interrupt my judgement?”
A girl stumbled forward before dropping dutifully to her knees. “Please. Take me instead,”
There’s a planter outside my window. It grows weeds, watered by Mother Nature’s watering can. As I gaze down the side of the silver can in my own hands, I look into the past, at weeds that should have been plucked long ago.
I love feeling like a planter, planting pretty things in the ground, with nothing but the hot sun beating down on me, perspiration on my face, and happiness. The satisfaction as that beautiful plant grows to become even more beautiful. When you’re planting you aren’t feeling stressed or upset about being bullied, or tests, or people hanging up on you in a conversation that you had high hopes for. You just are there enjoying yourself in an exceptional way.
I love feeling like a planted, planting pretty things in the ground. With nothing but the hot sun beating down on me, perspiration on my face, and happiness. The satisfaction as that beautiful plant grows to become even more beautiful. When you’re planting you aren’t feeling stressed or upset about being bullied, or tests, or people hanging up on you. You just are there enjoying yourself in an exceptional way.