Best Gladiolas Poems
I dreamt of blue birds
and buzzing bumble bees.
I roamed with the bison herds,
prayed with mantis on our knees,
and butterflies in the breeze.
I greeted the cheery chickadees,
dragonflies, and snowy owls.
I marveled at graceful manatees.
raucous sounds of guinea fowls,
and warblers’ velvet vowels.
I raved at ravens
dancing on a fertile field.
Mice sought havens,
safe shelters that red ants build
in hopes from spiders to shield.
I spotted rain-drenched
autumn leaves in tapestries,
their beauty strangely entrenched.
Purple hues imbued in varying degrees,
of gladiolas and sweet peas.
So many perfect pleasures,
many another than these.
All of God’s treasures,
created with love to please,
arranged to calm my world with ease.
August’s dry winds scorch the landscape
While I sit here in the shade of a weeping willow
Watching tiny dust devils twirl and spin along the pavement
Living heat dances, wavering gently the scenery before my eyes
While poppies and gladiolas wither limply on their stem
But the peridot sweet, with its pale green color
Reminds me instantly of renewing spring
As the sun sparks a glitter from this
Precious gift I wear on my finger
Perhaps or simply perchance
It’s why it was chosen
This transparent
Semiprecious
Form of
Olivine
Lost Garden
Lacy, lovely lilac wisteria
Drape over an old weathered garden fence,
Behind the gate, the history of a family,
Life loved, life cherished, life spent.
There’s a plaque with a name you wouldn’t know
Pinned on dilapidated boards,
A robin looks down at you from an untended tree,
His song just as sweet in his deserted world.
Tall salmon gladiolas planted by a young happy groom,
An old-fashioned garden by a rugged path
Crowds daisies, larkspurs, verbenas, and wild herbs,
The scent of which would rival the sweetest perfume.
As the gate squeaks when a visitor,
Longs to stroll and reminisce,
There is the chortle of children in the air,
And an empty rubber tire swing, a bench.
The lovers’ spirits hold hands on the path
They trod through a well-lived life,
Though none is left to tend their garden,
Save the birds of twilight.
And there it was…
a rose colored, winding path,
a narrow passage, maze like, but easily traversed
With a bent nail in the wood,
no gate remained, only rusted hinges
but beautiful rusted hinges they were
I felt their curves and screw heads
The post weathered with an enchanting patina,
woven in vine of an unknown variety
Stone boundaries in earthen shades
marked areas and channels
where foliage thrived and gladiolas
waved like flags in a cool breeze
I sat upon the lawn, uninvited but not feeling that way
and gazed towards the distant horizon
of hills and clouds and green
The world was silent except for my breathing,
calm lulled me as I floated within my mind
I felt the touch of something familiar
and I closed my eyes to experience it all
She took my hand and said, “relax’
and I did while opening my eyes
to find I was here, where I had always been
but I wasn’t…and it was because of her
Ornate is the ironwork that I peer through
as my fingers grasp the garden gate,
and I open my eyes to my Wonderland.
My bare feet step down the moonlit path,
where fireflies twinkle amongst the stars
that reflect upon the flowing crystal brook.
I capture them in a lantern, then set them free.
My lavender dress twirls weightlessly as I dance,
here I am free to feel joy and to dream.
Here beyond the gate of my enchanted garden,
when the golden sun sets low in the evening sky,
the daisies, gladiolas, and pansies never close their petals
and the sunflowers shine in the moonbeams.
While butterflies stay to perch on the blooming trellis,
the song of the hummingbird fills the warm night air
and I fall asleep in my flower bed of thorn-less roses.
Written by: Kelly Deschler
February 17th, 2014
For Nette Onclaud's contest - "My Secret Garden"
Intensive Care --
Gladiolas in a vase
In the waiting room
Nature poses in Her spring frock,
dressed in all Her regal splendor.
And tends Her gladiolas, in
the guise of a flower vendor.
Her hair perfumed with jasmine,
Nature poses in Her spring frock.
And the epitome of poise,
She sits gracefully on a rock.
She wears a hat spun by the sun,
adorned with a sweet yellow rose.
Nature poses in Her spring frock,
looking graceful in Her new clothes.
Gentle waves caress weedy shores,
where azure and green interlock.
And on such a beautiful day,
Nature poses in Her spring frock.
(Quatern)
Jan.17, 2016.
There are smells and sights and tastes which always remind
of Grandma with her rows of flowers bright,
the red of poppy the gladiolas white, the blue of spring violets vain
the scent of lilacs in the air and pine needles in the mix.
Sometimes too, the memory of her sweet breath does rise
of Black Jack gum or peppermint and all those summer times.
The search for new spout dandelions the mushrooms other times
And summer’s end brought black blue teeth a blueberry’s remind.
We’d dig for bait with cans of tin, Idella, grandma mine, and rise
from ‘neath the patched quilts of calico so bright.
By chance to fish within the stream, trout in our breakfast mix
along with silly shaped pancakes so placed on china vain.
The beauty of her sky blues eyes never was so vain
that wisps of salt and pepper hair gave time
its only claim. To rise like yeast a child within this mix
to hear a bark of terrier and feel Babe’s tongue remind
of childhood days a Grandma’s house. Idella our bright
find. Take those blessed tender hands and rise
Touch childhood cheek like dough of white and rise
have no dark dwelling thoughts of blue blood in the vein
the thinness of her fragile skin the dimmed light so bright
just remember love full of the better times.
And with the scent of venison and sizzling pans remind
laced with home made butter, fried onions in the mix.
How had Idella’s loveliness from German bloodlines mixed
together with the stalwart Grandpa Trussell’s rise
to birth the lively bunch of child my Mom’s remind?
When in the dark of night the rush of red rolls through my vein
mind light flies and flickers like the candle flame of time
and I return on winged horse within a dream so bright.
Smell the wood smoke from the stove caste iron bright.
See the siblings teasing cat and dog within the mix.
The mantle clock’s brass pendulum sings in time.
Hear the winter wind blow through the rafter’s rise
like tucked in chicks the storms blew all in vain,
now only grand kids live these tales and do remind.
Always in the darkest times I think of my Idella bright
and Gram reminds me of both joy and sorrow’s mix
soon like the wind on weathervane I'll rise to heaven and her kiss.
Meadow of Evermore Rise,
Verdant greens of envy neath the skies,
Emerald breathes swirl wayward bound,
The scene repeats the olivine surround,
Spray of jade gladiolas emerges for eyes.
The cool rocky fence tinged moss lies,
Gathered sage on display, tossed flies,
Observed fronds of ferns, all around,
Meadow of Evermore Rise,
The mints swim freely, breeze back tries,
A row of pines stands proud, trophy prize,
Laurel newborns crawl the hilly ground,
Chartreuse treats, all roaring to be found,
Harlequin limes anoint, trickled tea ties,
Meadow of Evermore Rise.
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Cream colored tulips and satin red roses
intermix fluid in the garden.
One flower fades away as another takes it place,
like croci giving in to daffodils.
Marsh daisies and wild violets blend between the hosta
and minimize the scent full of lily of the valley.
A lone white iris bloomed today, stunting the green of others
holding high its flowered head above the may-apples.
At last the hint of peeking gladiolas rise,
red and pale green above the ground.
Yellow green eunonymus glow lime green in the sun
vibrant and colorful around the bark of an old broken oak.
Wild mustard rises and bloom in clumps
yielding dainty bouquets of delicate white florets.
With this early spring that lingers dry and warm
everything will bloom before its time.
How delightful is the softest sound of a clear and starry summer's night,
You may hear a moth bashing up against a cottage window pane near a lamp,
If you listen really hard you can hear him amongst the many garden leaves,
A boom as the soaring cockchafer passes your ear, into the flowery lime.
The smallest runnel murmurs aloud as do the far rivers over the green downs,
The frogs deep in the marshes sound like they are turning a thousand wheels,
And the dorhawk, the cuckoo and the nightingale sing from meadows far away,
Quails pipe from the ripe green corn, curlews from the far away moorlands.
The sound of a little owl, hooting, he is small, smaller than the blackbird,
He hunts for food in the twilight of the evening, mewing shrilly like a cat,
The little owl lands in a back lawn, and his head swivels like a corn wheel,
It's a fierce little bird and will rid a garden of mice, rats and small birds.
The flowers are in the fields, scabious, companula, glomerata and some thrift,
The flowers in our gardens are borage, phlox, day-lily, gladiolas and many more,
Grasses that make mowing grass beautiful are perennial clover and goats beard,
Filling the air with sweetness that will make you heady and happy, great days.
To slice through
The marvelous Gladiolas
Are all around me
I need to grasp
The moonlight.
That very night
Whispering in a mastery voice
Avoided my despair
Let my body to gallop
Into the white sails.
Legacy
By my father’s hands
A legacy was left for me
I won’t disappoint
The inheritance is important to me
Green pastures and many pine trees
The land he labored was for me
The red dirt and gravel roads
He left it all to me
The fields he plowed
Gardens he planted
He did it all for me
By my father’s hands
The house he built was
miraculous to me
Making memories in that house
Is where my thoughts retreat
Hog pens and hen houses
Out houses and peanut groves
Watermelon patches
He worked until the sweat
was upon his brow
Running from one side of the fields
to another
Up and down the country roads
History in the making
Who would have known?
Berry vines and fruit trees
Was exhilarating to me
Fig trees and gladiolas
My mother planted for me
So accomplished with only a
fourth grade education
I’m so proud to be a part of the
lineage and total dedication
By my father’s hands
My father’s hands
His hand, hanging on
to the Lord’s unchanging hand
After taking a week-long break, went for a walk this morning
Saw decorations of Mother Nature for summer’s welcoming
Sun was shining with its multi million glimmers
Soft breeze was blowing making the walk feeling pleasurable
Trees on the road were filled with rustling luscious green leaves
Filled with many colorful birds singing their songs enjoying the morning gist
Having their tiny nests secured on extensive leafy twigs
Some of them were giving flying lessons to their growing babies
Roads felt a bit quiet due to the start of summer holidays
Flowers of charming Petunias kept showing their blooms taking attention away
Pink, purple, red and white
Sunshine had made their colors strikingly bright
Turmeric yellow colored perky Marigolds
Mingling with vibrant Dahlia and Daisy blossoms
Gorgeous Hydrangea’s blue, pink and white clusters
Peeping out from leafy foliage of distinctive textures
Numerous varieties of flamboyant Lilies
Orange and pink blooms of Gladiolas’ prominent streaks
Delightful fragrances of Star Jasmine and Gardenias
So many flourishes, so many diversities, so many shapes and charismas
The walk after a long break due to a case of flu
Revived my spirits with its breathtaking lively views
Status of Super Clematis
So what is the status of my super Clematis?
We hope our Hollyhocks are glad to see us
And what if flowers became a beautiful Rose?
With energy earnestly grows and grows.
Many nice words are said about my Mum
And Lilacs we always enjoy having some
Also Tulips that to us turn up in twins
Greeted by Gladiolas having great grins.
We became overcome by blooming dogwood
Who many wild storms they have withstood
And how we love each huge live oak
Beneath it is bullfrog beginning to croak.
Our singing song birds each of us impress
And we must confess glad that God did bless
All of us with doe and deer year after year
Blessed me too with WIFE that I love so dear.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
PS. Mum can be interpretated in two ways.
Changes are thanks to Terry Copper's great
ability to analyze poems and make suggestions.
He is absolutely right. I must appear like I am
talking to you the reader. Jim Horn