The Garden [or, "Dreaming"]

I liked this and I liked the story, and I think with some cutting down this could be a very nice poem. It's not that you need to make this shorter by taking out whole chunks or stanzas, but that the whole thing is quite wordy and word economy and sharper images would make this easier to read - it would be more concise - as well as more effective. We wouldn't get lost in all the words as much and could better focus on what they show.

Dark shatters along with the silence;
Fragments of the dream I'd had flash in front of my eyes,
[s]And wishing I can remember exactly what it had been about. [/s]
I watch them, though even as I try, I feel them slipping
Out of reach into the void of Forgotten Dreams.

What I can see is amazing - I don't think you need this line, just the realization; the force of the strike shouldn't be blunted by extra words. Since we don't get to see how/why what you see is amazing [yet] you don't need this.
The realization strikes me;
I should know where this is,
It holds some important meaning to me. a familiar feeling. The familiarity of this would be more pronounced if the extra stuff at the beginning and ending of the stanza was cut.
Perhaps something important will happen there
In a darkened déjà vu –
[s]Or perhaps instead a forgotten memory. [/s] deja vu is enough to spark the idea of "i've done this before and can't remember where" without 'forgotten memory', which is a phrase that just gets abused in poetry. Most poems featuring it can do without it. Also: perhaps. You don't need a lot the perhaps. Going back and reading Fand's crit, I like her suggestion for the cut-down version of this stanza.

I see a beautiful garden – flowers of every shade,
Colors lusher than that of the most gorgeous summer day; there's lusher stuff than that! The jungle, the majestic hanging gardens. "that of" is also an awkward construction ... "colors lusher than _____ " would work better.
Grass so vibrant it could have been painted with my sister's palette and brush. "My sister's vibrant eye could have painted the grass." Or something similar. we don't need 'palette and brush', and though the my sister reference is nice, giving the speaker more of a sense of character - like they're not floating in midair - don't let it get in the way.
And a woman standing in the midst of it
Motherly love etched into every feature of her face,
Arms spread out to embrace the world.

That fragment falls, [s]and I see another piece - [/s]
A bicycle sweeping across a field,
Speeding in slow motion.
I only glimpse the little boy riding it, cutting the "I" reference from this line would help condense it as well as keep the focus on the images, which is where you want it for now.
Teddy bear dangling from the hand clutched to the handlebars.
I know him from somewhere, I've seen him before.
But before face can pair with name aha! This line is nice. Not to contorted, but it is very condensed and has a nice sound because of it, as well as the added bonus of avoiding awkward extra words.
The bike carries him away from me and I'm left all the more alone.

Then I see an elderly man,
Walking stick poised as he moves back to the garden
Stopping to smell a rose here and there, again and again.
As if lamenting a love who left him years ago
Someone he is waiting for, someone he's been waiting for,
So long, so lonely. the longer, contemplative wording works better in this stanza because of the man's slow walk and his waiting. And the focus is on him, which is good.

The scene shifts, [s]another piece flies in front of it [/s]
[s]And I see[/s] a picnic table – set [s]to accommodate[/s][for] five:
One place for the woman in the garden ,
A seat for the boy on his bicycle and one for his teddy
One for the old man, and one for me.

Fragments of the dream fade faster.
I can remember one thing more -
I know that all four of us are connected somehow,
The old man, the woman, the boy, and me.
Perhaps we are all destined to meet again somewhere,
Or perhaps this is the only time we will meet.
Maybe someday I'll find the path that will lead me
Back to that garden, [s]where I can look around
And maybe that will be what I need to jog the memories of my dream [/s] I think the idea of finding the path back to that place is much more potent than any connection it has with remembering the dream, and the attention should be on that.

[s]But as[/s] the last shard leaves me, [s]I know that I cannot know[/s] "The last shard leaves me. Even now..." -- the not knowing bit is wordy and echoed at the end of the poem, so you don't need it here.
And even now I feel those faces fading,
I can't remember the shade of the woman's eyes,
Or what color the bicycle was.
The roses – were they roses at all?
Perhaps we are not meant to know what our dreams mean;
Perhaps their secrets will be learned in future dreams.

Dark shatters along with the silence;
Fragments of the dream I'd had flash in front of my eyes,
And wishing I can remember exactly what it had been about.
I watch them, though even as I try, I feel them slipping
Out of reach into the void of Forgotten Dreams.

What I can see is amazing -
The realization strikes me;
I should know where this is,
It holds some important meaning to me.
Perhaps something important will happen there
In a darkened déjà vu –
Or perhaps instead a forgotten memory.

I see a beautiful garden – flowers of every shade,
Colors lusher than that of the most gorgeous summer day;
Grass so vibrant it could have been painted with my sister's palette and brush.
And a woman standing in the midst of it
Motherly love etched into every feature of her face,
Arms spread out to embrace the world.

That fragment falls, and I see another piece -
A bicycle sweeping across a field,
Speeding in slow motion.
I only glimpse the little boy riding it,
Teddy bear dangling from the hand clutched to the handlebars.
I know him from somewhere, I've seen him before.
But before face can pair with name
The bike carries him away from me and I'm left all the more alone.

Then I see an elderly man,
Walking stick poised as he moves back to the garden
Stopping to smell a rose here and there, again and again.
As if lamenting a love who left him years ago
Someone he is waiting for, someone he's been waiting for,
So long, so lonely.

The scene shifts, another piece flies in front of it
And I see a picnic table – set to accommodate five:
One place for the woman in the garden ,
A seat for the boy on his bicycle and one for his teddy
One for the old man, and one for me.