Best Garden Poems

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hoping the flowers bloom

Hoping the flowers bloom

Sifting through my day,
withered masses of an old heart
searching in the wrong corner,
dreaming in muted grays on a white background,
wandering through the garden
of my every lost dream,

hoping the flowers bloom . . .
and I get to see them

Long hours only offer relief
when I look past the walls
formed around my smile so long ago, 
they are now only a faded memory
flickering in and out,
losing clarity

Then out of nowhere comes a light, 
so brilliant, beautiful, electrifying
I can only stare and wonder, 
is this for me to keep, 
or dare I say . . . to love? 
Love, now that’s a laugh 

Love only finds those who deserve it 
and those signs have long since
pointed a different direction
But a voice speaks otherwise
a soft tone, a sweet noise I’ve not heard
or imagined . . .  

When whispers of affection from her
fall upon my ears . . . my ears?
Like I am something, somebody, and it feels good 
even if it is still hard to believe
And I feel tears forming, could this be happiness
I ask, when there before my misted eyes 
 
The flowers are blooming . . .
and I can see them





 

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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