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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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Details | Garden Poem | |

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

Details | Garden Poem | |

The Garden of Adonis Lyrics

If I kissed you in the morning
would you stay,
or like the mist here in the garden
would you slowly fade away,
and if the sunlight warmed your lonely brow
and made you smile, 
would you be here by my side
and walk with me a while.

There's a blushing glow of roses,
A rouge upon your cheeks,
A hint of mellow sadness in your eyes
And a heart that wants to trust 
In your smile.

I wish I knew
the secret to your love
I wish I knew
I wish I knew

Will you wander here with me
and let's just share the day.
Who knows, perhaps we'll find our way.

If I kissed you in the morning
would you stay,
or like the mist here in the garden
would you slowly fade away.



Details | Garden Poem | |

The moon pours white wine

At a table in a garden, on a soft, sweet, summer's night
Two friends are sitting talking by the moon's reflected light.
On the table in the garden there are glasses but no drink
And the friends are sitting talking, but they often stop to think.
The topics that they cover seem to range so far and wide
And the glasses sit there empty, since they left the drink inside.
The night is getting cooler but the friends stay close and warm,
The moon just looks down calmly, she has magic to perform.
As he leans across to kiss her, and she kisses him as well,
The friendship starts to blossom into something more to tell.
The tension in the garden needs assistance to decline
So the silver crescent of the moon leans down to pour white wine.

Details | Garden Poem | |

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.




Details | Garden Poem | |

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 a contest "The Butterfly Flutters By" sponsored by Kelly Deschler (6-3-2014)

Details | Garden Poem | |

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.

Details | Garden Poem | |

Garden Party

All dressed in green, the rose bush beams
like a child’s blushing cheeks and pursed lips;
these debutants jilted by the bees
forever waiting to be kissed.
A carpet of phlox giggles like young ladies
and drips over the wall like a Dali clock,
tickled by fingers of lilies and daisies
still waiting to dance,  demurely frocked.
Impatiens wink at the pansy’s goodbyes,
while hostas and petunias wave.
In the light of a late springtime sky
all in the garden would rave.
   No need for people, they’ve nothing to prove
   because flowers can party too!

~Through a wisteria laden arbor~

Ah, the robins are here rummaging in the grass
and they just left the blueberries over the hedge,
a glutinous embarrassment for sure but as
deer prance so properly, I'd rather robins instead;
at least they don't consume the guests
or shall I say, permanent party participants!
Like a "who done it" dinner it's a safe bet
they'll win if the catnip and snapdragons can't.
What is the purpose of being pretty;
ogled and cut by people and eaten by deer -
it's the talk of the party and nasty --
Gossip is (don't tell) that our favorite guests aren't here,
   the honeys and bumbles do tickle and tease
   and though perhaps used, we're left pleased!



Details | Garden Poem | |

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.

Details | Garden Poem | |

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

Details | Garden Poem | |

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.

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