Best Gardeners Poems
You small community of men
devoted to the gentle arts
why would you cross those foreign seas
where war awaits to break all hearts.
Stay in those gardens you make green,
sustain your rank amongst the trees
and don’t donate to wars grim scene,
the wages of your liberties.
Ignore the rant of those fool lips
that sanctify wars fight and kill,
always the vampire life’s blood sips,
always are some who to war thrill.
Your honest work’s a noble thing,
there’s no reward in enmity,
just pains choral where t bullets sing
their hymns of death and agony.
Walk on the paths amongst the flowers
and let your strength make fruitful keep
to tread the uplands of your bower
not trenches of infernal sleep..
The weeds that grow upon the lawn
Continue growing when they’re shorn
Though treated with a herbicide
It’s no surprise that none have died
The chemicals that you apply
Should make them shrivel up and die
But only seem to feed and nourish
Makes them grow and makes them flourish
Don’t sit there feeling all forlorn
Regarding such a sickly lawn
There’s one solution guaranteed
To eradicate, that awful weed
Get up, go out, put on your coat
Buy yourself a nanny goat
© John W Fenn 21-08-2009
In The gray of winter, when the birds don’t sing, there is frost in the ground, there is ice in the stream
When you have shivered so long that you could just “Scream”
Just envision the joys, the flowers of spring
Smell the air, so warm, so serene
The birds have returned, hear the song that they sing
There is bounce in your step, hey; it is back on the scene
You sample the fragrance, as it drifts on the breeze
With dirt on your hands while you are down on your knees
Wow, it has happened again, it is actually spring
“Dream”
Please be my Valentine!
I'm getting desperate now
That you will never notice me
Somewhere, sometime, somehow
Even though I've tried
To get some of your attention
I'm nowhere on your radar
I never seem to get a mention
I'm feeling quite neglected
And I'm always overlooked
I wish you would spend time with me
Instead of that new book
So in a last ditch effort
I write you this poem in a card
Please be my Valentine!
Love from your overgrown yard
A blank canvas
an empty stage
darkness in the primordial
vacuum of stars and space
a jug not yet filled
a reed flute hallow
yearning for the paint
yearning for the actors
yearning for the light
yearning for the water
yearning for the lips, breath
We assembled that night
one by one sat in a circle
forming a ring of unity
white, brown
light, dark skin
diverse background
diverse personalities
in the end-human
in the end-friends
brothers
The smoke swirls, leaps
from out mouths, colliding
and spinning, a spider
web of escaping essence
listening to the music of the
past, our ears leaping and
taking in the goodness.
Out comes the poetry
words of the past
Whitman, Lawerence, Gibran
Rumi-our hearts leap
with the joy of such
wisdom.
"Oh Captain, my Captain"
"God is born"
"On Pain"
"Gardens of Soul"
Flowers in the garden
we all are in a row
taking in the sunshine
rain and natural nutrition
from the earth
from the cosmos
from the Soul
from each other
Sultans upon ottomans
we recline, seeing what
no other pack can see
expressions rising and
falling, the wave of
imagination we glide
like the birds on a
journey along
the Way, guiding and
learning from each other
We kick up the dust
and go beyond the clouds
beyond reason and
heights, the sky breaking
down, its doors letting
down its guard, for us.
We are spinning with
all the protons and
electrons, whirling and
spinning with all
of the cosmos as
our playground. Finally
we all return to our
couches and chairs, the
time and hookah our
reminder of reality
packing up, we the
Caravan
The Sage of Wisdom
The Latin King of Knowledge
The Doctor of the Soul
The Romantic Seeker
The One who always had a Poet in him
We all experienced our own
Sema, our own level
of pure ecstasy, learning
and loving each other
Inspiration of infinity
We will all meet again
The canvas is painted
the stage has been set
the jug is brimming
and the reed flute is
crying.
But not for sadness
or pure separation
NO
it is singing for the
bond of friendship
Those bloody slugs have ate my spuds,
Not one leaf left in sight.
I sit all day with my gun,
They must only come out at night.
I've got a plan to catch them,
With nets and traps and snares.
Set my alarm for three AM,
And quietly creep down the stairs.
I set my plan in motion,
Traps around my vegetable plot.
Come on then you slimy sods
Show me what you've got.
Then the onslaught happened,
The gathering around my plot.
One must have caught the trip wire
A cascade of salt came tumbling down,
And killed the bloody lot.
18/9/2021
I’ve a garden full of uninvited guests; time to weed.
Tobacco worm, on my tomato plant, don’t spit at me;
you were not invited to partake of my produce!
Mr. Milkweed, why do you love my yard? Your sticky secretions make me itch; I do not want you in my cabbage.
Mr. Beetle, I gave no permission for your party; your rowdy friends must go. They won’t allow my beans to grow.
Ms. Wood betony, you may stay; your nutty flavor and fresh dandelion leaves, will enhance my garden salad. It was nice of you to drop by for lunch.
Ah, a lovely dog rose; how did you know that other uninvited guests,
were giving me a headache? I’ll harvest your medicinal berries to cure it.
You too, may stay; oh, how I love rose hip tea.
With uninvited guests, you can’t be too careful or too picky. Some are good, others bad; but I will not…be spat at, without retaliation!
Here, Mr. Coopers hawk, have a tobacco worm and leave those bunnies alone! I plant extra lettuce and carrots for them.
There are roses in my garden.
I love their sweet perfume.
I pick their blooms and take them in
to brighten up my room.
There are spring bulbs in my garden.
Oh how I like to see
their first green spears
and then their flowers as a spring gift to me.
There are butterflies in my garden.
They've come to have a nip.
I help the petals to unfold
so they can have their sip.
The birds are in my garden
and filling it with song.
I know when they are building nests,
summer's here before too long.
Perennials and annuals
take up their garden place.
Each does his best to decorate
my precious garden space.
Dog gone gardeners so long in the tooth.
They are planting beans today along with old Ruth.
Their overalls are straight, their tails are a wagg’n.
By six o’clock tonight, they may both be dragg’n.
Dog gone gardeners, their faces are long.
They are hoeing up the earth, barking a song.
They each have a hankie for the sweat that will drip.
Both of them just let a gas bubble rip!
Dog gone gardeners, you are in touch with the land.
Your radishes and carrots will truly be grand.
It is a lot of work, but in August it will be worth the wait.
Your vegetables and flowers truly are great!
A GARDENERS DAY
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A gardener's day starts at dawn, their hobby.
To feed the birds and water plants,
and perhaps a chat with the local Bobby?
Then exterminate some red ants.
To feed the birds and water plants, plus weeding.
Check greenhouse temperatures right.
What weeds were pulled composted if the needing?
Then to clean his tools shiny bright.
Check greenhouse temperatures right, warm not too cold.
Time now for a breakfast break.
A cuppa with a bowl of cereal, warm gold,
then some brown bread toast he'd make
Time now for a breakfast break, no, just eat some cake!
A gardener's day starts at dawn
Now breakfast done, back in his garden, grabs his rake,
He mows his lawn, just right it's shawn.
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If you care to listen,
I am on a mission,
To get more people into the garden,
And away from Satan,
Where the good can stay clean,
By joining an army that wants no weeds to be seen,
So the young and keen don't have to carry a gun,
In a place where the trees can keep us out of the midday sun,
And the madness that makes us run for a gun.
The more we garden the more we will have to share,
And the more we have to share,
The less we will care,
If someone gets a bigger share,
Which can only reduce the number who would go to war,
Over who gets what share,
And if it is bombs you fear,
The only blast you should hear,
Would be from water bombs that we take there.
Beauty will always calm the beast within,
If it is a garden you are in.
Laboring gardeners,
sowing seeds of love daily,
cultivate its peace:-
Off and on for twenty years he had lived on the streets
Oh how history repeats over and over again
Turning once proud women and men into a shadow of them self
Slowly destroying their health each time they enter that den
So on and on this destruction had went
As further and further he had drifted away
Such a dark and lonely way and causing such suffering and pain
As his final days seemingly wane with each passing day
But I seen him standing right over there
On the steps of old Saint Mary's Chapel
Talking to Father Shappell with a broom in his hand
From what I understand he's done with the streets as he would tell
I never see any trash around the chapel anymore
And the gardens look better than they ever did before
Seems this man knocked on God's door and the Lord had him stay
Isn't that just Gods Way one which so many others simply ignore
The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch
Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”
I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms
this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least . . .
The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies . . .
Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?
Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You.
NOTE: I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive “god” who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making, if he created life. But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it. Keywords/Tags: Jesus, Christ, cave, grave, tomb, garden, gardener, rose, roses, angels, resurrection, Mary, Magdalene, love, heaven, Christian, religion
In the realm of words, where knowledge thrives,
Teachers guide with wisdom, where the ink arrives.
Enhancing writing, a guiding light they bear,
To elevate students, their written tales to share.
They mould the process, each stage they steer,
Prewriting, revising, the path to steer.
Through drafting and editing, teachers impart,
Crafting brilliance, each writer's art.
Authentic tasks, connections profound,
Teachers weave worlds where ideas abound.
Persuasive essays, stories untold,
Students' passions and dreams unfold.
Scaffolded support, in steps, they lead,
From outlines to drafts, a writer to feed.
Graphic organisers, sentences to start,
Building confidence, nurturing the heart.
In workshops, they foster, a haven to shine,
Students explore, and their voices align.
Feedback, revisions, in a collaborative spree,
A nurturing space where all can be free.
Technology's embrace, a modern song,
Grammar checks and feedback are strong.
Digital platforms that students employ,
Enhancing skills, fostering writing joy.
Each learner has unique, a different needs,
Teachers cater, their pace to heed.
Customised guidance, pathways clear,
In growth and learning, they're always near.
In the circle of teaching, a quest they trace,
Crafting writers in each child's space.
With dedication, and evolving practice they glean,
For every student, a writer's dream.
In the pen's dance, in the writer's hand,
Teachers kindle flames in this wondrous land.
Inspiring, guiding, with hearts aglow,
They shape writers, making talents grow.
So teachers, brimming with inspiration's light,
Forge pathways for students, in their writing flight.
In the tapestry of learning, in wisdom's domain,
They foster brilliance, a writer's gain.
In memory of Ms. Devi Devavaram,
My headmistress with a writing charm.
Teaching the art with a graceful hand,
Guiding us through language's wondrous strand.