Fields of Poppies
That there were fields of poppies once of orange and red with yellow robes was beautiful. That they laid waste to the planting of ideas with their scripted menus was another issue to the wild fields. Not the poppies that you turn to opium, yet in some old temples they did use them. I think it was beautiful once, many grew in dessert type conditions and then the cultivars moved like branches and roots, that one would take the root meaning away was harmful. I spoke about being a path through the fields and look at the species and flowers, not to be greedy and smoke all the leaves.
They wore the robes, these delicate lives and yet they made planned beds for them, I had liked the wild fields in the meadow, where the individual saw and smelled the beauty for themselves. Others took tours, and saw them as a group. I suppose when all are taught that one poppy looks the same as all the others they forget the balance that nature gave the flower. Each life was different, and each smell perfumed the fields in many smells.
It was different once, in my gardens. I picked many varieties of smells and colors, I liked the differences the most in height, variety, the smells and the wondering colors. It is not that the children and adults could walk and see from the projected lives that they had lived and the associations they made in the garden. It was beauty once and for a man, it is the same as the building of a family. I guess as one man, I knew diversity in the garden was the reason the garden was beautiful. I knew the uses of dead headed seeds as well, sprinkling them on the ground for more flowers to grow.
The poppy fields, now that was a different. Man had used them too for tools, and some thought them beauty too in uses medicine. I think they saw them as the talking heads of faraway places, like dreams that long standing traditions were based on. Some spoke of rightness of nature, some of the similarities, and others the smells. I knew them as the children, once orphaned and needed of shelter, then they grew to only know the fields of scripted lives. I think it was suppose to be a path that many took on want yet some needed as well. That medicine, sometimes are the hands that fed them knowledge or that fed them medicinal cures. Dances of the poppy fields.
They may have been grown men, young boys once orphaned by their mothers and lost in a field of hurt, they had not many choices where they planted or were seated in meditation of the sun, they worshiped. These words may go to another, and know that they are gifts as they are double jeopardy in nature. No retrial for crimes committed, know then that there were no crimes. Just the happenings of life on the fields of minds and the rocky soils. Some poppies became familiar in lands not native to their sight, root holdings in other lands. Many new cultivars became available.
I knew why I wept, like a baby when the once Afghani people were the crop home to the mountain tribes, that they used their nature to color was the tear home of the Satan they called truth once. Such was the trading routes once, and they may have needed in the mountain, the warmth of distilled partners. I loved that meaning, that it was cut down, a statue was my heart's tears still at times. What a inevitable act to know what harvest of potentials means, in a forgotten people, that they hated to speak of yet needed. Slaves to brothers and sisters, not as slaves are slaves yet relationships. Oh how my heart sunk last night in thought what had happened their.
The sights still of the library of names, the thoughts and the humming of bees and nature all around their beliefs. I would say they had not seen the temple, or the meaning of the seated mediation in years. I would say that some had their petals shaved off, and a mixture made of their thoughts and prayers. Seated children that grew to adult sizes and weathered many storms and droughts. They were in many regards the product of nature, yet tamed in the thoughts of beauty and projected education on their station in life. Had they known, that many would follow them and see them as a desired asset they may have kept in the great mountains hidden. Words like the smells enticing to thieves.
I had laid down words, gardens, and seeds in my life and in that some had questioned my life. Then they were their path to do so rightfully and mine to be mine in tow. I would not blame a bee for choosing an orange flower over a red flower yet bees rarely minded my voice. I would watch and let bees be bees and needs be wants.
That they coveted the words of bees needs was their faiths. Many would have just watched the television and seen that life in the field doesn't change much of all are the same, yet not many left because they were grown their in their cultivar. Some tried to say "our" cultivar is more best in the show of life than yours and that was in nature, nature of the means. Not much psychology in flowers, save for many are the likes to the bees.
I told a friend once "Everyone has the right to believe what they believe." I guess if they believed that they were right then that is their world. Mine was to watch and see how their beliefs played out given mine were in them and not in my Heart. The power of belief. I guess the choices they made made the futures they have, fair play to the olden beliefs for they were not of my truths. I would settle like the dust, of nothing in a poppy field. Just older than the dirt they grew in. My friend, not a friend for long, said "They are all in their own worlds." So be it. I rarely chastise flowers, unless they are robed as humans sneaking a peek at the other kingdom.
I had offered my life for a friend, so he may see mine and then banished him as was done to the other kingdom once to find his own Heart. It is hard work to send a loved one to chaos and seek for life in the universe of freedom of choices. Much of the universe was a flower once, the meaning is not important yet the reflecting sun was once a history for a two seated battle of cushion wars. I told them that they would need to learn the lessons of flowers, "Just accept your planting or ask to be moved." Not happy, yet understanding they would question.
Had not man moved from here to there and here again in spirit of spirit in life and spirit in spirit, many would think flowers just a legend or myth. I knew many in my life, many diverse lives and loves. That some damned my eye for the nature of my heart to sit in their presence was the shared knowledge we shared. Many bees never even cared about the outward appearance, just the love that they created. Two symbiotic unions and a third if nature was it's hand. Such a life in the garden, that judges were the whores were what lust made senses for. They would damn the garden beauty to steal their secrets to hell again and I would let them stay in their Hell for eternity. They were not bee worshipers, nor flower maids. They were judges of Hearts and shamed their reflections.
I saw a garden my Heart called home once, and none would live their with me for it was private before the invaders stole my Magic. They may never hold nor have that ever again. They are trapped in some Sorted stolen life and then they see it was everything to my Heart. Flowers walking as man and beast, what a life for thanks not that I not need, they may keep it until the bee and worms feet not their soiled life. I spoiled my needs and now nothing for they shamed the garden and burnt the Heart.
Just humming and chanting that never was heard in the flower language, none heard the wind as the colors mixed like paint in the visions of the back of the mind. That the eyes, not tools and the place that life is seen is not the eyes is their lacking. I created my life in all I lived, not in the rightness of another's path. Sometimes you have to look close to see the hidden beauty in a garden, you never know. I could never pick just one type, I believed in the whole garden and always will.
Steven Philip Lindquist, ex-father per decree of ugliness