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Best Garden Poems

Below are the all-time best Garden poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of garden poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Garden Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Garden poems are below this new poems list.

The Silent Garden by Acquah, Vicki
My garden of joy by Godwin, Terry
At The End Of My Garden by Wings, Broken
IN MY ROSE GARDEN by Ball, Judy
Magdalene's Garden by williams, colin mitchell
MY GARDEN by Y., Alexis
The Secret Garden by Demetros, Madison
Japanese Garden by Krauss, Emily
The beauty Of My Garden by duggan, peter
Night-time in the garden by Smith, Gary

View all new Garden Poems

The Best Garden Poems

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The Poets of Gloop

Have you heard of the wonderful Poets of Gloop? 
Their imagery slouches and metaphors droop,
but the poems they write have the scent of a rose 
‘cause they write in a garden where poetry grows.

They live in a place called the Garden of Gloop. 
It’s a beautiful garden for such a great group! 
They’re divided in teams, labeled A, B, and C, 
but they’re never quite sure on which team they should be. 

Well, the A-team is run by the “old-timer’s” clique.  
They have been there the longest - they know how things tick!
So do NOT try to trick them with ticks that are tocks, 
They’ll assume that you’re fake if your poems are crocks. 

Team B is comprised of a colorful few
who observe from the top, and they’ll fight for that view. 
They’ll whisper their thoughts as they give you their wins, 
and they’ll keep you engaged with their winks and their grins.  

Team C are just people who try to stay real;
so they sit the on the fence, and they feel what they feel.
They’re nobody’s puppet, for goodnesses sake!
And some peeps are so good, they’re thought to be fake! 

Now, here’s the weird thing about Poets of Gloop:
They all run in circles and try to regroup!
So that guy with the A-team? He used to be C … 
And what’s up with that one?  He’s now such a B ! 

So they flip and they flop as they fight to fit in,  
and they frown as they fall, but they get up again, 
for a Poet of Gloop is a poet who knows,
they all need to belong there, where poetry grows. 






Copyright © Rebecca Teagan | Year Posted 2016

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Where The White Rose Blooms

The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.

He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.

This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.

The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.

With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.

His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.

The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.

The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.






November 25th, 2013




Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

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MY GARDEN

My garden is such a colourful sight,
with pretty roses and scented sweet peas.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Beautiful butterflies gently alight
on flowers dancing on the summer breeze.
My garden is such a colourful sight

Sweet night scented stocks abloom at midnight
their aroma is always sure to please.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Carnations in purple, scarlet and white
are visited by busy bumble bees.
My garden is such a colourful sight

A haven for birds I watch them in flight
they alight on peach blossom from the trees.
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

Pretty pansies smile in clay pots so bright
I love beautiful flowers such as these.
My garden is such a colourful sight
An abundance of blooms, what pure delight!

190 syllables, 10 syllables per line checked with how many syllables


Contest Villanelle me flowers Sponsored by Broken Wings
06~13~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016

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The Library of Trust and Hope

The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but four years of age
Birthdays were such magical moments
The cake was filled with candles
The balloons still in their package twelve on the table

Daddy daddy, I can not fill these balloons!!
They are not magic like you said!!!!!
Do not fret Maria, its daddy who is magical
I shall help you little one, let me see those balloons

Sure enough daddy blew up twelve white and pink balloons
Maria was in awe at daddy’s magical powers
She knew her daddy would fight dragons to bring her but a smile
Maria knew she was safe in daddy's arms, oh what a birthday this will be

Maria was now ten years older
Fourteen years old and already filled with so many happy memories
On this fall day, home from school
There was grandpa in the back yard as usual

He was tending his garden of roses
When she was younger, he told her they were magical roses
Grandma would speak to him in his magical garden
From the heavens above


Now at eighteen, daydreaming in a coffee shop
A stranger picks up a rose from an empty table
A smile oozing in charm, stares into her eyes
This is for you, beauty for beauty


She was swept off her feet, in a whirlwind romance
They danced and dined, it seemed all on her dime
Until the morning she awoke, completely alone
Both lover and credit cards did abscond


Now twenty one, and wise to the world
Absorbed in her studies, somewhat colder than one should be for that age
A chilly fall day in an empty library
A stranger comes, giving her a drawing of a red rose

Hello he says! I drew this for you!
Oh no she thinks to herself, not another one!
Politely she smiles and replies thank-you, but I am taken
This stranger smiles right back and says, the drawing is for you no matter

The next week, and the weeks after, the same routine
He comes to her with a drawing of another beautiful rose
She politely declines his advances
Maria knows that a rose, has a stem, and that comes with pricks

The twelfth week and here he is again
What is the poor girl to do?
She is curious, and she can not quite help herself
She asks, from what do you draw such beautiful flowers?

He smiles kindly and replies
How about next week, I show you?
We can have a coffee, and discuss art
Hesitating she just can not say no to this simple gesture of kindness

They are walking along, and surprisingly she finds herself
Quite intrigued with the ease of their conversation
He takes hold of her hand, and says I live over there, the house in red
She has no time to object as he pulls her forward to the backyard

She stares in absolute shock and awe at what appears before her
Why its the most beautiful, wonderful, enchanting English garden she ever saw
You? she stammers, you made this?
He smiles shyly and says; well now you know what inspires my drawings

Now Maria is eighty and filled with both happiness and sadness
Her husband of all these years has passed on
To be with all his precious roses in the heavens waiting
She sits in their garden, remembering a life time of memories

She picks a single rose, and inhales its fragrance
Contemplating the wisdom's of life
I miss you so much my love
You taught me trust is earned and not given
	Your love was my blanket of happiness, wait for me my love, 
		I am yours eternally





Dear Reader

I was lucky in life to have had a good upbringing. My daddy, showered me with love, but most of all he taught me that gifts were not objects, balloons were not magical, nor was he. I learned that what was magical is the time and effort he took to love me, and protect me and those memories I so cherish, but they also he showed me the values I hold dear in myself and those around me. 

Then there was dear old grandpa. His garden was his passion, and I suspect that if I could have had more time to spend with him, it was really grandma’s passion, and after her passing, this was the activity that kept him close to her soul. In that respect, I guess it was truly a magical garden. Whenever he saw me, his eyes would light up, he would pour lemonades and he told me such wonderful stories. Unlike many though, he listened to all my troubles and told me, that in life I had to learn some things the hard way, but that he himself knew for a certainty that I would find the love and happiness, that as a young women, I felt would be lost to me forever.

I re-tell my story for all the people out there that have lost trust in others, or have lost hope in humanity. You may have your heart stolen for awhile, someone can bring you sadness, but never let them steal your soul. Learn that trust is earned, not given, and never punish the rest of the world, for your bad experience, for ultimately it is you who suffers most. Be giving, kind and generous, with a strong will and mind. If someone does not respect you, then they shall never earn your trust, and that’s how it should be. Be wise, be prudent, be safe, but most of all be open to love and kindness

God bless
Maria Sefue


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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A Bridge Over Silent Waters

A Bridge Over Silent Waters

Never judge your fellow man
Before seeking your own reflection
Not the one that shines in a glass mirror
Seek it in the eyes of your fellow man
His eyes shall reflect your compassion or lack there of

When a pond has no ripples
Look for the lies, underneath
When you see the waves upon the water
Know that the winds are singing to you
Truth will always seek you out

Never close your heart to a strangers smile
His smile may bring you serenity or deception
Trust in your inner being to know
It shall open up towards the rainbows or seek refuge 
To protect your soul

When you see a human suffering
Flea not inside your reflection
Instead reflect upon his suffering
Share the waters of your pond with him
This shall promise you both more rainfall


Notes

This was inspired by a poem written by Charmaine, she was kind enough to let me use a few of her lines in the first verse of this poem. Its amazing how when you read something it can open your mind to think of things you otherwise would not have. For some reason, maybe more because of his messages than his style I find myself thinking of Richards’s poetry as well. This for me is the beauty of the site, the inspiration one gets from fellow poets, it’s a great honor to have met so many, and to have shared so many ideas and views and opinions. More important than any poem is the laughter and smiles, this among friends is like giving away gold bars. (Although I do accept the occasional gold bar now and then)


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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Wild Love

The blackberry's love for the garden rose
Brought down the gardener's wrath.
The blackberry sensed the danger
As he wended the garden path.

" A love so true as mine", he sighed,
"Must dare to brave the hoe.
Just a few more feet to reach her,
My true love she must know."

He crept along so quietly,
Sometimes quite out of sight
Until he nudged his darling's feet.
Did he dare to trust the light?

He heard the gardener's heavy boot
And hid in craven shame.
He knew he'd soon be weeded out,
A seedling with no name.

"Have I no worth since I don't rate
Some Latin nomenclature?
Without a well known parentage
Am I a freak of nature?

His darling's line was long and pure,
No skeletons in her past.
He had to make his feelings known.
Those boots were treading fast.

Gently then he wrapped his vine
Around his loved one's spine.
In great amazement he opined,
"Her thorns are sharp as mine".

The sweet rose felt his tender touch
And realized his fear
And wondered at his bravery
In coming to her here.

She heard the swishing of the hoe,
She heard those nearing feet.
Quietly letting down her leaves 
In a manner so discreet

She covered her wild lover.
The gardener unaware,
Stopped but to view her beauty.
He saw naught hiding there.

She whispered, "You are safe now".
The blackberry's heart was light,
Thankful that his dear sweet rose
Had not exposed his plight.

"A rose is still a rose." she said,
"By any other name
And in our distant ancestry,
We share some of the same".

"I'd rather know your wild love,
Than a love that's dull and tame,"
Cuddling close, returned his kiss
Without a bit of shame.

Next season there were seedlings
Of a very different kind.
The gardener delighted, cried
"A horticultural find."

The moral of this story?
Things aren't always what they seem.
The love you look down on today,
Could be tomorrow's dream.





Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2009

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The Sands of Love

Two statues of stone
On pedestals in the park
One male
One female
White objects of a perfections beauty
Yet they stood erect and alone
When the rain fell
This was their tears
The stared at each other with longing
The trees grew tall
Season by season the flowers bloomed
Two statues standing erect in the prison of life's hold

A poet walked in the park
Glancing at lovers, kisses at dusk
He stared at the statues above his head
He knew, with dread, the loneliness of stone maidens
He waited for the park to become enclosed in the twilight
With toil and sweat he did succeed on his lark
Pushing the statues close rather than apart
As one statue danced and the other one sang
They kissed the sweetness of night and felt the tears of joy
All because a poet
Wished them a lovers embrace
He knew them like they were his children
For here he was as well
A statue
In love


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

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My Poetry Garden

My poetry garden of late 
has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay
upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted
and now vehemently raged among 
adjoining unmade beds of subjects and verbs.

Modifiers that had been 
carefully kept in check upon their trellises 
now dangled everywhere.

Sentences had spilled out of their beds
in fragments or running on and on while
cases of subjectives and objectives
shamelessly intermingled and
were now easily mistaken
one for another.

Grammar, whose care I had entrusted 
to first, second and third persons,
lay in shameless disarray, 
as if no one could tell the difference.

Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives,
many of which had split. I recalled with a sigh
how many years it had taken me
to tightly bind them.
[to bind them tightly is what I meant.]

Commas were everywhere,
rendering those in appropriate position
practically unrecognizable, 
which I suppose was better
than what had happened
to the capitals, 
now completely ignored.

There was no reason for the rhyme,
and forms had somehow been confused
or misplaced altogether.

My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl

An unfortunate mis-spell
had been cast 
and provoked an infestation.
Many of my friends I noted
had simply departed without comment.

The contest entry was blocked,
so I bowed my head in shame
and shuffled silently
through the exit marked N/A.


Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014

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Coral Garden

Coral Garden
(Lento - Rhyme)
			
Effortlessly blue damselfish parade across the scene, 				
Carelessly a turquoise parrotfish nibbles on flowers,			
Fearlessly an olive headed snake sneaks on prey unseen,			
Endlessly a butterfly fish pecks on polyps for hours.

Shining through, the sun kisses the giant clam's wave shaped lips	
Pining, at full moon the coral releases eggs and sperm.			
Lining behind mauve anemones the orange clown nips,			
Dining on a green sponge, sucked by a fluoro-pink flatworm.	
			
Sigh at the sight of the lionfish but beware its thorns,			
Spy creatures camouflage like the ground and even harden,		
Eye the school of striped angelfish weave around the staghorns,		
I am still searching for the famed octopuses’ garden.			

Discover these water gardens wherein secrets freely			
Hover, throughout a paradise untouched by human hands.			
Lover or not, marvels by these wonders which really			
Uncover, the awesome Creator of oceans and lands.				

Written by: Ronald Zammit
Dated: 16.02.2014		
Contest: My Secret Garden  -  rated 2nd
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud	

Note:  This poem is describing the mysteries of the sea and in so doing contemplates the power of God.


Copyright © Ronald Zammit | Year Posted 2014

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''Fluttering Gems''


As I stood in my garden amongst my flowers,
       a parade of blue butterflies was drifting;
past my lovely brilliant primrose rock garden,
           they kissed a purple cornflower growing.

They stopped and caressed rainbow painted daisy,
      drifting over to drooping bleeding hearts;
resting on white campania with their trumpets,
            like sparkling garden gems quietly hovering.

Blue larkspur and columbine called for them,
      the tiny rubies twirled over in a waltzing dance;
and between yarrow, sage and yellow tick seed,
            they spotted echinacea and came fluttering. 

Floating on over they kissed orange scabiosa,
      then the assemblage of sweet butterflies left;
just stopping for a quick sip of fountain water,
            and gone this parade of fluttering blue gems.
__________________________
August 11, 2015

Verse

Submitted to the contest, Any Poem Written in August 2015
sponsor, Julia Ward

Third Place
___________________________
Written for the contest, Butterflies Among Us
sponsor, A Skat

Fourth Place


Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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Corey Fazel

Koorosh the Great, Friend

All of my heart
One tear
Or one Monsoon
No amount, no grandeur
Can express the sorrow
Oh yes, I am sad, I am saddened
I am in sorrow
I am swimming in the darkness
I am missing something
That can not be said in words

Koorosh the great was a prophecy
For only now have we seen
The truth of greatness
Not by Victory, but by kindness
We are blessed to have seen
How simple life can be
Love your life
Your family
Your friends
Bring everyone laughter
Create, envision and dream
Everyone who knows you feels special
Your father taught you well
Kindness that transcended generations
In the end
A humble man
No god could make him bitter
He was as he always was and more
A kind man

Only when you remove a tree from the garden
Do you realize
The tree was the garden
The flowers bloomed for the tree
The people sought shade and comfort

Quietly, I weep
For him
For his family
For life

If all great leaders followed his path
What a beautiful world we would have
He inspired 
He smiled
Corey, you are missed


Notes: Dedicated to my friend Corey Fazel who just recently passed away before his time. Corey, you will be missed by many many people. It is you with your friendly pertinence that got me to swim, and that alone has changed my life, I will remember the many evenings and dinners we talked about all things under the sun.

MSA is Multiple System Atrophy, a terrible and debilitating disease that attacks the nervous system. It has many of the symptoms of Parkinson, however from onset one has very few years of life left.


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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The Butterfly Flutters By

The Butterfly Flutters By
On a steamy, sun-drenched, summer Sunday, Tree leaves delightfully dancing to the tune of A warm, welcoming, wandering breeze blowing, Metamorphosis now complete, no memory of being yesterday’s creeping caterpillar, The butterfly flutters by.
Blatantly, brazenly, boastfully, Showing off beautiful, brilliant, blue-black and brown wings, Gracefully gliding through a breathtaking, glorious garden, The butterfly shyly pitches from blushing, boldly-colored, buds to fragrant flowers, Cunningly outmaneuvering a competing, hovering hummingbird.
Slyly snatching a satisfying taste of tantalizing, syrupy, sweet nectar From attention-craving, Golden Flame Honeysuckle vines, The butterfly flutters by Cheerfully and completely satiated - Perhaps, already dreaming about tomorrow’s anticipated sugary feast!
Entered in the contest "The Butterfly Flutters By"


Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2014

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Nana's Garden

You won't find a yard like this anymore. You'd think it would seem smaller now that I'm an adult, but it doesn't. It's still enormous, stretching far beyond the house like a grassy sea. The hills roll like the tide, dotted with patches of melting snow that remind me of cresting waves. All around me, the gardens wake from a wintry slumber.


tiny buds cling to naked branches-- a robin sings
Time stands still here in Nana's garden; the ghosts of childhood haunt every inch of the yard. There's my brother, climbing the ancient apple tree, throwing crab apples at my sister as she plucks daisies. Even as she dodges apples, she plucks away - asking no one in particular if she's loved or not, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. And there I am in my grass-stained skirt, twirling and twirling, falling dizzily to the ground, oblivious to my sister's shrieks of protest and my brother's triumphant laugh. I shake my head and the vision clears. Now the garden is empty - still overflowing with trees and shrubs and flowers, but lacking in laughter, mischief, and innocence. Innocence has been replaced by wistfulness.
two robins glide across the sky-- a door creaks
"Tea's ready, dear." I glance over my shoulder at Nana. She stands on the back porch wearing her favourite apron and my favourite smile. Like her garden, she hasn't changed. A few more silver strands in her hair, a few more lines around her eyes - but she is still the same woman who took care of us, tending to us just as she tended to her gardens. She smiles at me now, as if she knows that garden has cast a spell over me. With another glance at the apple tree, I follow Nana inside the house - and I swear I can hear echoes of laughter behind me.


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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Only you and me

The garden curled around us as we sat beneath the stars,
In the silver shine of Venus and the rust red glow of Mars.
The brandy was between us and we toasted life and love,
While the moon conducted music from the dark green leaves above.
In the cold grey light of morning we may think things diff'rently,
In the moonlight, in the garden, there was only you and me.
 
Vintage brandy in the bottle seemed to ask us both to drink
And the flowers that were watching clearly knew what they should think.
Then your glass was finally empty and you laid it to one side
While you closed your eyes and kissed me and the barn owl tried to hide.
In the cold grey light of morning we may think things diff'rently,
In the moonlight, in the garden, there was only you and me.
 
There was silence in my city as your lips were joined to mine
And I tasted all of heaven and a little brandy wine.
As our bodies settled closer and we melted into one
With embarrassed little giggles that were sure to signal fun.
In the cold grey light of morning we may think things diff'rently,
In the moonlight, in the garden, there was only you and me.

So we gathered up the glasses and we put the stars to bed
Then we walked along the garden path, my shoulder 'neath your head.
We pulled each other closer and we whispered with our hands
That tonight is all that matters and the whole world understands.
In the cold grey light of morning we may think things diff'rently,
In the moonlight, in the garden, there was only you and me.


Copyright © Jeff Green | Year Posted 2009

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SPRING HAIKU

morning quiet time
in nature's warm bosom found
sun kissed flowers shine












12 March 2015
POEM OF THE DAY - 14 March 2015
TRADITONAL HAIKU- POETRY CONTEST : 6th Place
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi







Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015

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Shadow to Shadow

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
In youth the Eden where you played
was left bereft, destroyed, decayed,
by trusts malignant masquerade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Sweet grass dies in your fallow glade
as opportunist needs invade
and bleed the life from every blade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
First, victims surging song is brayed,
then dirges of the helpless fade
and urges pant their serenade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Agendas you've arranged cascade
to keep your motives undisplayed
and cover cracks in your charade

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
You've planted with your soiled spade
slick seeds of doubt in hopes that they'd
conceal the putrid plots you've laid

Shadow to shadow, shade to shade
Your blighted past will be replayed
and every bloom on whom you've preyed
must lie now in the beds you've made



Copyright © Lycia Harding | Year Posted 2015

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The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb

(Irish from his Pop      Appendage from his Mum)

stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!

(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)

the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground

Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can

(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)

Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets

the ground isn't just a place for our feet

Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes     giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence

(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)

Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight

our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple

We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"

I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...

... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...



Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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Hidden Beauty


A garden presents a most beautiful sight
When seen from afar in a much broader light,
For there in a setting with all that surrounds,
Its total of beauty and color abounds.

To observe much too closely, study and dwell,
Inspect every flower and leaf very well,
Will quickly cancel the powerful presence
Of unified form with divergent essence.

Then we are bound to observe those objections—
The scattered, meaningless small imperfections
Of petals and blossoms and leaves not so fair;
Lose sight of the wonderful whole that they share.

We can also apply this to those we love,
And sometimes must separate, step back enough,
To view the grand total of gifts which combine
To create an image of balanced design,

And appreciate well those colors which are
A bit subtle up close but strong from afar.
So trite imperfections get lost in the ray
Of the aura of wholeness seen from away.

And so like a garden’s grand totality
When we stand back to thoroughly look and see,
We will vision with awe a marvelous view…
Total beauty and depth now perceived anew. 


© Sandra M. Haight 2015 
   All Rights Reserved

~1st Place~
Contest: Hidden Beauty
Sponsor: Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
Judged: 02/04/2015

Quote: Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Every particular in nature, a leaf, a drop,
a crystal, a moment of time is related to the whole, 
and partakes of the perfection of the whole.”




Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

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Lady of Tears

A statue of grey cold stone
Standing resolute in a garden of young lovers
Strolling arm in arm as young lovers do
She is the Lady of Tears from a place called
Yesterday

As lovers stroll among the springtime lilies
Gazing up to a weathered bust
They think only of future loves
New songs and new hopes
No time for Yesterday

In the silence of the night
It is said the Lady of Tears can be heard
Singing sadly of her longings
Her lover is buried underneath, as she whispers
Yesterday 

Who of you would ever guess?
A lady built of weathered stone
Had a heart so warm and sweet
Her life a fairy tale fable
An angel of yesterday

If I could caress her face
In the night, her tears I would sweep
Away from the miseries long since dead
I had a dream, we embraced forever
I whom lies beneath, in yesterday’s tomb

A lonely white dove makes her nest
In the arms of this statue
The doves knows behind the bleakness of grey
Is the Lady of Tears
Guarding her lover buried underneath

Tall and proud, a Nordic beauty cast in stone
All around, they do not see
As birds and flowers sing of our song
We are together at last
Yesterday no more


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2014

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CRADLED BY PETALS


I stroll beneath lavish trees exploring the break of morning freely, and through a swarm of boughs' embrace jasmines twirl around the edges like a mystical dance of floral sway , their perfume...haunting. A light breeze awakens,while crystal dew grows quiet, as if grasses were holding their breaths. Now laying on soft cradle of petals, my world becomes Aurora's dome: I forget that I'm old - that I'm expiring; though I know it is here I can rest in my secret garden of limitless dreams. Contest: Chase Travis' Limits by nette onclaud 8/4/2014


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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Before the Rain is Gone

She kept it all inside her
and never spoke a word,
though her thoughts flew and darted
like a trapped and frantic bird.

Inside her was a garden
that was hung with Spanish moss,
like the massive oaks were weeping
to remind her of her loss..

The spider wove at breakneck speed,
a perfect work of art,
watching it, she had her doubts
that humans were so smart.

The southern air was sultry
and the sea salt cloyed the skin,
 the yard dogs dug depressions
and the alley cats grew thin.

The black top roads got sticky
when the southern sun beat down
and the heat forever rises
forming monstrous thunderclouds.

When the blue sky rolls and blackens
soon the thunder shakes the ground
and the southern landscape flattens
as the blinding rain pours down.

Nostrils flared, she filled her lungs
with the dank and heady scent
of peat-rich soil, decay and loam,
of lavender and mint.

And in her secret garden,
reptiles raised their faces high,
and blessed the cooling water
that came pouring from the sky.

She loved the iridescence
of the blue-green dragonflies
and marveled at their flying skills
as they went whirring by.

The rain soon turned magnolia leaves
into miniature garden ponds,
there the dragonflies must lay their eggs
before the rain is gone.

Wrens and sparrows chirped and chattered,
they enjoyed the cooling rain,
but the squirrels were wet and grumpy
and the jays were raising Cain.

The girl did not seek cover
and the rain ran down her face,
on her lashes rain drops trembled,
much like crystals gently placed.

The thunder never frightened her
nor did the lightning scare,
to nature she was connected,
to living things, aware.

She lived in every moment,
soon the thunderstorm would end
and the dark earth would start steaming,
then the heat would come again.

Suddenly all fell silent
in her garden of delights,
all living things were quiet
as the steam began to rise.

The gray squirrel broke the silence
and if squirrels could really speak,
she knew he would be cursing,
surely swearing a blue streak.

And then she saw the blue jay
madly pumping out his call,
his angry face was comical
Mohawk feathers standing tall.

She swam the Sea of Apathy
and the Ocean of Ennui,
there the waves upheld her gently,
washing over memories.

And the earthworms turned the soil
in the garden of her mind
and the trees again were weeping
from the echoes left behind.


Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008

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The Young Gardener

She is learning young
Pure genteel pleasures of a garden
Amid the fragrant roses and towering lupines
That give the winter pardon.
Sweet feminine echo of her beautiful mother
She holds up her watering can
a tiny version of the other.

Now she mimics to perfection
The sprinkling of flowers 
as she giggles with delight
At birds in secret bowers.

She can't wait for the 'morrow
Her duties to employ
She is mother's little helper
And Daddy's little joy

For	Isaiah Zerbst -Gordon Dunlop Leslie Contest
http://www.pasionporlapintura.com/art-gallery/george-dunlop-leslie-painter/leslie-gd-the-young-gardener-oil-painting-reproduction/


Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013

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Burning Daylight Day Lily


Hurry, hurry we are burning daylight,
      The flowers are wilting;
Mother was planting a cottage garden,
And we needed the right perennials;
Flowers durable, enduring, perpetual,
      Oh sweet dreams of flowers;
This was a journey I shared with mother,
      Daylight pours into this memory;
          That I recall vividly.

Fragrant burning daylight day lilies,
      Flowing emerald leaves;
Intense beautiful orange-yellow colors,
Trumpet shaped delicate soft blooms;
We set them in a sheltered location,
      So attractive in the shade;
They also thrive in fields growing wild,
     After mother died I took some;
          Placing them at her tomb.

Darkness turns to daylight as I recall,
      Mother's cottage garden;
Some tell me that I must let it go,
That all the time I spend grieving;
The less time I spend living my life,
      But how dear to me the memory;
Of me and mother in her garden,
      Planting burning daylight day lilies;
          With petals that sleep.


_____________________
April 14, 2015


Verse (unrhymed)

For the contest, Burning Daylight, sponsor, John  Lawless

Second Place


Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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Marianne's Love of Life

Marianne laughs, she's happy,
sitting under the magnolia tree 
in Saint Anton's Garden
alone, in Venus's bower
waiting for no one in particular
as the shadows of leaves 
dance across her face.
Her lips break in a smile,
Runs her hands through her locks,
feels the velvety texture,
smells the perfume of her hair.

Hear dear Marianne's laughter, 
the happiness is always there, 
come sun or rain, spring or fall
I marvel at her flair.
A lark flies by, she sees it not,
she knows its flight
she laughs in happiness  
even though
Marianne is blind.

Placed 3

25 January 2016
Sponsored by: Nayda Ivette Negron




Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016

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PRETTY PANSIES

Seeds Planted Then nurtured See how they’ve grown Into pretty pansies for my garden How I love to see their smiling faces In lovely shades Of purple Pink and Red They Brighten My borders Bringing colour Especially on wet dreary dull days Triple Tetractys 2 Contest sponsored by Eve Roper Checked with how many syllables 07~15~16


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016