planter hold this soul
closely in the depths of your soil
let it grow downwards ever onwards
let it grow roots beyond your reach
let it grow and be healed
in your comfortable depth
I associate planter with farmer and greenery. I don’t have much experience because anything green turns brown in my presence. But you can plant ideas and dreams… that is what I need to learn to do!
If it was up to Ferocius DeSoto, the planter would have just fallen on the ground next to him, rather than landing at the right angle on top of his head. He did not like the feeling of having a planter full of dirt smash onto his head and presently he was looking up, wondering from where it came.
Let’s all be planters. I’ve been one of those old people that sit on the porch watching weeds grow. I need to be the planter in my life. I can’t always leave things up to nature. Sometimes, she screws things over for all of us.
Planters are like the gods of the flora world. They decide what goes where, who will pollenate with who. Planters aren’t near as appreciated as they should be. They carry the weight of a world on their shoulders.
My grandmother has a planter near where I park my car and I ran over it on my way to school one morning and I didn’t even stop to see if I squashed her strawberries. Sorry Grammy.
there was a man who planted furniture. He would look through other people’s garbage for old chairs, tables and lamp and then plant them in his yard. Every spring he would have the new spring collection sprouting in his yard.
Planter plants plants in his planet. Planter also has a Panther, called Planter Panther. He pants when he jogs, but he jogs every morning so he won’t die. Because in his planet if you don’t jog every morning you die.
It’s the planter at the window he decides he doesn’t like most. She always paid more attention to those shitty flowers than she did to him. There was nothing worse than feeling inferior to basil.
Flowers. The trees. Life and color and wind and fresh air. Spring and new life and joy and growth. There is something so refreshing about starting a new life. A plant, or person. It’s all life and it’s all beautiful. Such a precious gift we have with every new day. Another moment in time, another chance to be a light in this world.
A window box full of pansies. They smiled at him every time he walked past, and he was reminded of Alice in Wonderland. It had been ages since he had watched the movie with his kids. Whatever happened to tradition?
Jimmy is a planter of marijuana trees. He has developed an abundant variance of strains and has perfected the concept of hydroponic growing. One day, the DEA burst into his home and threw him to the floor. They read him his rights and told him he was a criminal for growing marijuana plants. Jimmy was a benevolent man who
Planter, planter, planter. What are you supposed to pull from this? My inspiration is missing tonight, and I’m sure I could try to dig it out of the planter in the backyard, but something in me is saying that’s not where it would be. Planter, planter, planter. I’m sorry, this is empty. Empty writings. Empty feelings, the worse kind. Empty like the planter is in my backyard. No bullshit deep meanings here.
The planter of 61 Prewett Street was a strange old man. No one could ever really see his face – it was always covered by an old straw hat. He wore old overalls covered in grass stains and big wellingtons. He barely talked to anyone.
I was so surprised when he gave me the pretty wicker planter. It was a white-washed tapestry of woven vines reminiscent of uneven linen in a delightful pattern of open spaces. I never expected a gift, especially one holding soil and an envelope of flower seeds. I had never mentioned flowers except in my stories. Sometimes they posed as decorations, sometimes as forewarnings of what was to come, symbols of loss or hope or just there in the story because they grew there on their own between the words my fingertips laced across my computer screen.
He saw my confusion. “What?” I smiled and shrugged, not sure what to say. I appreciated the graduation gift, but I could not hide my why in perplexed eyes. He knew me so well. “You like to nurture things in your writing and in your life with your family, your pets, your students. So, I knew you would like it. It’s a reminder to nurture you somewhere in all of that. I see the potential in you, and I don’t want you to forget the gift I see. I want you to remember and keep writing. Don’t give writing up again.”
He was the first college instructor that asked me what I wanted to do and didn’t laugh at me. No mocking of my choice or why. No condescending comments. Even after he read what I had done already, he told me I could do it. He was sure of it. That semester was amazing and he became my mentor. When life turned upside down, twisting and turning all over me, rolling me into places I never thought I would go–he pulled me back to the dream I came to catch after five years of surviving and trying not to drown in musts. He reminded me of who I was and what my dream was before my life changed, and he tossed me a lifeline back to myself. He opened the floodgates and I wrote. He challenged me to write about something he hated and make him love it; I did. He challenged me to write about something beautiful, and when I turned in the poem… he read it to himself and his face changed. He read it aloud to the whole class, the room going still as his voice spoke my captured thoughts from the page. He asked me to read it aloud to the class. We talked about it, all 37 of us talking about my poem. I read it again and again. He taught from my poem for three class sessions. He challenged me to write about something real, something unpleasant: I made him cry. And now, as I was finally finishing, it was his turn to make me cry as I stood hugging my white wicker planter. I planted the seeds of the annual. I don’t remember the name of the flower, but I remember the heart shaped leaves, the bright red flowers, the crazy, vined stems stretching in all directions. It was an annual, but I keep that same planter with the plants I started from seed for nine years. The flowers didn’t die in a few short months the way the tiny packets had labeled them; instead, the plants kept growing, thick, healthy, strong.
It was years later on the phone I told him I loved him, and he told me he knew. More years passed before he said it back to me, unexpectedly, without warning. I think I smiled for years, and even now nearly a decade since I spoke to him last, I realize thinking of what he helped me find within myself by knowing and loving him planted seeds that will forever grow inside me.
sowing the seeds with mechanical efficiency.
the sweat drips down my elbow, it tickles
before watering the little plants below.
i wonder when they’ll learn how to grow $ on trees.
And it is cold. I want to move but have settled with blankets and slippers, with everything in arms reach. The chair acts like planter pot from which my arms escape like the waving fronds of an exotic plant to drop words from these pale my stalks onto a pale screen.
In the soil, the brownies waited. Striped leaves of what the Talls called “snake plant” towered over them. Padded footsteps grew louder with each achingly slow draw of breath.
The planters hanging in the backyard
Swinging in the wind
Remind me of you when times were better
But now you’re gone
And all that remains is the smell of your flowers
And the loneliness that comes
With waking up in an empty bed
I have never gardened much in my life. My sister was always very passionate about it but look where that’s gotten her. She’s seven years old and nowhere to go but down. I guess I’d like to garden, but I don’t like vegetables and the prospect of doing something consistently frightens me. Also tomatoes look like alien eggs.
You planted me deep
Past clay and dirt all the way to rock
Fire and water didn’t help me at all
I really do not konw what means planter.
They call me planter. For reasons unknown to me, they do it. They call me planter.
My mom wanted to be a planter, but finnaly, she became a French teacher in a primary school. People don’t decide, money decide.
you planted seeds in my heart,
watered them until they grew
and burst from my lungs
they flowered
with laughter
with love
with affection
but when winter came
and the green leaves turned white,
buried by the snow
that you left behind
i could feel them wilting
underneath my skin,
veins clogged with
empty soil
i know that you had to leave
but you shouldn’t have
i know i’m selfish to ask
for you to finish what you began
so lovingly
cut off the stems
don’t just
leave them to wilt
( it gives them
empty hope, you see )
planter hold this soul
closely in the depths of your soil
let it grow downwards ever onwards
let it grow roots beyond your reach
let it grow and be healed
in your comfortable depth
I associate planter with farmer and greenery. I don’t have much experience because anything green turns brown in my presence. But you can plant ideas and dreams… that is what I need to learn to do!
If it was up to Ferocius DeSoto, the planter would have just fallen on the ground next to him, rather than landing at the right angle on top of his head. He did not like the feeling of having a planter full of dirt smash onto his head and presently he was looking up, wondering from where it came.
the flower in the planter was dead.I took another drag from my cigarette and sip from my beer.I didn’t understand
What is Planter i think it is a platform for making plants that is something u use to put seeds in the ground i dont know i will google it.
Planter.
Growing things, right?
Growing… dreams, maybe?
Let’s all be planters. I’ve been one of those old people that sit on the porch watching weeds grow. I need to be the planter in my life. I can’t always leave things up to nature. Sometimes, she screws things over for all of us.
Planters are like the gods of the flora world. They decide what goes where, who will pollenate with who. Planters aren’t near as appreciated as they should be. They carry the weight of a world on their shoulders.
planter is a person who takes care of plant and grows them .
My grandmother has a planter near where I park my car and I ran over it on my way to school one morning and I didn’t even stop to see if I squashed her strawberries. Sorry Grammy.
Her ring was in the planter. She stashed in there when he came over. Now the act of digging it out buried her in shame.
but why
create structure
for life?
which grows
unruly without
purpose, just
to live
Manyu’s a planter in Minecraft! Pratyush and I are adventurers though :D
there was a man who planted furniture. He would look through other people’s garbage for old chairs, tables and lamp and then plant them in his yard. Every spring he would have the new spring collection sprouting in his yard.
Planter plants plants in his planet. Planter also has a Panther, called Planter Panther. He pants when he jogs, but he jogs every morning so he won’t die. Because in his planet if you don’t jog every morning you die.
It’s the planter at the window he decides he doesn’t like most. She always paid more attention to those shitty flowers than she did to him. There was nothing worse than feeling inferior to basil.
The planter was on the shelf with a jar of double sided comments.
The plant that was in the planter was a cancer.
a cancer is no answer.
and answers are no more.
in a postmodern culture,
we expect closed doors.
But grace opens doors every day.
Amen
Flowers. The trees. Life and color and wind and fresh air. Spring and new life and joy and growth. There is something so refreshing about starting a new life. A plant, or person. It’s all life and it’s all beautiful. Such a precious gift we have with every new day. Another moment in time, another chance to be a light in this world.
She was a planter, but instead of flowers she planted ideas. She watered them everyday with her imagination and gave them plenty of sunlight to grow…
A window box full of pansies. They smiled at him every time he walked past, and he was reminded of Alice in Wonderland. It had been ages since he had watched the movie with his kids. Whatever happened to tradition?
Seeds soil
grain and oil
Incepting ideas
Fermenting and growing
cleansing and pouring
souls anew
are hopefully
what I am to you
Jimmy is a planter of marijuana trees. He has developed an abundant variance of strains and has perfected the concept of hydroponic growing. One day, the DEA burst into his home and threw him to the floor. They read him his rights and told him he was a criminal for growing marijuana plants. Jimmy was a benevolent man who
Planter, planter, planter. What are you supposed to pull from this? My inspiration is missing tonight, and I’m sure I could try to dig it out of the planter in the backyard, but something in me is saying that’s not where it would be. Planter, planter, planter. I’m sorry, this is empty. Empty writings. Empty feelings, the worse kind. Empty like the planter is in my backyard. No bullshit deep meanings here.
The planter of 61 Prewett Street was a strange old man. No one could ever really see his face – it was always covered by an old straw hat. He wore old overalls covered in grass stains and big wellingtons. He barely talked to anyone.
I was so surprised when he gave me the pretty wicker planter. It was a white-washed tapestry of woven vines reminiscent of uneven linen in a delightful pattern of open spaces. I never expected a gift, especially one holding soil and an envelope of flower seeds. I had never mentioned flowers except in my stories. Sometimes they posed as decorations, sometimes as forewarnings of what was to come, symbols of loss or hope or just there in the story because they grew there on their own between the words my fingertips laced across my computer screen.
He saw my confusion. “What?” I smiled and shrugged, not sure what to say. I appreciated the graduation gift, but I could not hide my why in perplexed eyes. He knew me so well. “You like to nurture things in your writing and in your life with your family, your pets, your students. So, I knew you would like it. It’s a reminder to nurture you somewhere in all of that. I see the potential in you, and I don’t want you to forget the gift I see. I want you to remember and keep writing. Don’t give writing up again.”
He was the first college instructor that asked me what I wanted to do and didn’t laugh at me. No mocking of my choice or why. No condescending comments. Even after he read what I had done already, he told me I could do it. He was sure of it. That semester was amazing and he became my mentor. When life turned upside down, twisting and turning all over me, rolling me into places I never thought I would go–he pulled me back to the dream I came to catch after five years of surviving and trying not to drown in musts. He reminded me of who I was and what my dream was before my life changed, and he tossed me a lifeline back to myself. He opened the floodgates and I wrote. He challenged me to write about something he hated and make him love it; I did. He challenged me to write about something beautiful, and when I turned in the poem… he read it to himself and his face changed. He read it aloud to the whole class, the room going still as his voice spoke my captured thoughts from the page. He asked me to read it aloud to the class. We talked about it, all 37 of us talking about my poem. I read it again and again. He taught from my poem for three class sessions. He challenged me to write about something real, something unpleasant: I made him cry. And now, as I was finally finishing, it was his turn to make me cry as I stood hugging my white wicker planter. I planted the seeds of the annual. I don’t remember the name of the flower, but I remember the heart shaped leaves, the bright red flowers, the crazy, vined stems stretching in all directions. It was an annual, but I keep that same planter with the plants I started from seed for nine years. The flowers didn’t die in a few short months the way the tiny packets had labeled them; instead, the plants kept growing, thick, healthy, strong.
It was years later on the phone I told him I loved him, and he told me he knew. More years passed before he said it back to me, unexpectedly, without warning. I think I smiled for years, and even now nearly a decade since I spoke to him last, I realize thinking of what he helped me find within myself by knowing and loving him planted seeds that will forever grow inside me.
sowing the seeds with mechanical efficiency.
the sweat drips down my elbow, it tickles
before watering the little plants below.
i wonder when they’ll learn how to grow $ on trees.
And it is cold. I want to move but have settled with blankets and slippers, with everything in arms reach. The chair acts like planter pot from which my arms escape like the waving fronds of an exotic plant to drop words from these pale my stalks onto a pale screen.
my mother hung them from metal rods in the garden. I was 6 and took them for granted.
all things must wither eventually.
Today as I walked past a planter
I thought of the years
We used to pick flowers together
And about how I’m now planting those flowers
Alone
For you
In the soil, the brownies waited. Striped leaves of what the Talls called “snake plant” towered over them. Padded footsteps grew louder with each achingly slow draw of breath.
The planters hanging in the backyard
Swinging in the wind
Remind me of you when times were better
But now you’re gone
And all that remains is the smell of your flowers
And the loneliness that comes
With waking up in an empty bed
His fingers scrabbled through the dirt of the upended planter, searching fruitlessly for any kind of clue as to his wife’s whereabouts.
A natural born planter,
You planted a seed of sorrow
Inside of me;
it wants to grow.
I have never gardened much in my life. My sister was always very passionate about it but look where that’s gotten her. She’s seven years old and nowhere to go but down. I guess I’d like to garden, but I don’t like vegetables and the prospect of doing something consistently frightens me. Also tomatoes look like alien eggs.
you grow on me
but I am no planter
not suited for
such strangling
vines
the planter was having sore muscles as she had worked so hard on her garden, trying to pull out all the obnoxious weeds..