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The Berry Giver

 The Berry Giver

by Glenn Horvath

My name is Strawberry R. Plant

I was bought by my master at a discount grocery store.

I sit in a white plastic bucket

with a hook for hanging outdoors


I don’t hang, I sit

on the top shelf

of a cheap black plastic book case.

I was placed on a  balcony in a low rent socialist apartment complex in Germany.

Luckily, the inner courtyard is full of trees, bushes, plants, and flowers

If I had eyes

it would be a decent view.

I don’t know if I’m male or female but I do know I want to produce berries

It feels like my mission in life…

I have just started to plume

small pink-ish buds

flowers which feels rather feline

so I must be a female…

I am, however, silent

so I let my bright pink/red flowers

call out to nature.

I let my sweet perfume waft in the breeze

and It calls to the bees

to pollinate me

I dance in the breeze, with these leaves

of grass

I must be female,

my need to attract

I am calling every day,

 in my own silent way…


It is now July and I have not produced

one- single -berry!

Shitinski, berry season is over now

My flowers are slowly dying,

withering, blithering and shrivelling,

brown and black

Falling down floating down slipping down

Good God,

I am so sad

I’m  so madcap

Out I push more flowers,

just to get me some sun


soft untouched velvet petals,

Red and greensoft

blown by the wind

and… away they go…

Some of my leaves have died,

My master plucks them off me

and throws them over the balcony!


Some flowers fall to the floor,

having never ever been touched

and there one can see them

lying on the cold dirty concrete floor

an obscenity

I sit deep now, fully in blossom

Open to all

In full glorious bloom, righteous and tall

Me seducing nature,

only to have God turned her back on me!


I have not produced one single strawberry!

I cannot hold my leaves up much longer.

There is a droopiness to me,

I languish with droop and desire

of what may not ever be…

I no longer call myself Strawberry Plant and I hate nature,

with her

 secret selfish shitty silences

And her denial. Her pleasure at my begging

At least my owner can scream and rave …and he does!

I must sit, in quiet acceptance of my insults and wilt in shame

I’ve been embarrassed at my pride,

at my silly flowers, my nature

My growing in the sun, so in need

freezing in the  night.


My stupidity and hope

Only to be unfulfilled


Jealous of other berry givers

(Updated!  1 month later)



Good God Almighty


Secret Service bees must have come

seeing red

and greedy after a late season binge.

On September 11th,

I gave birth, for 27 hours

to two small niedlish strawberries


Everything has now changed


Oh how shallow I was, how pithy

At long last I am a berry giver!

A Berry Giver!

Sing Hallelujah!


my master is eating them all,

that greedy pig…


Takes them right off the stem.

He seems to like them,

He’s eaten everyone

It is now October

and I am still a bearer of fruit

Oh how wrong was I?

Oh how wrong I was

I’m a late bloomer

a latecomer

Red flowers, small berries, green leaves, yellow leaves, white flowers

proud now

Sorry I doubted you.

forgive me


Sincerely Yours,

Strawberry R. Plant


Glenn Horvath
Native English Teacher
Tel. 0341 247 622 75
Mobil: 01577 1478 268

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