Best Weeds Poems
Young girls’ bright eyes widened
Behold our wild wheat field
Playground for imaginative innocents
Gracefully swaying amber stalks
Feathered with grain centers
Ostrich plumes reaching for azure sky
Such was the ideal venue
For hide-and-go-seek
Catch of a summer’s day
Plans dashed through my mind
When I grow up, I want to live here
Right here in this sun-kissed field
Thatched weeds can be my roof
Rain will not seep through
As I play host to God’s creatures
I’d want for naught
Grain could sustain me
While windswept shadows dispelled heat
Two decades passed swiftly
Before my eager return
To revisit youth's field of memories
Stinging sadness overcame me
As I stared at an empty mall
That had replaced our weeds
But I will always remember
Gracefully swaying, bowing stalks
With grain centers that shot up like ostrich plumes
Casting shadows on little girls’ faces
And lives
Forever lost deep in a lonely heart,
stands a forgotten palace hidden from sight.
Where lived a simple scribe who practiced his art
and languished in the flames of candle light.
While a fair princess peacefully slept,
upon her pillow by a warm crackling fire.
She was surrounded by the lovely roses she kept,
pressed between the written words of a secret admirer.
She would often sit in the evening air,
overlooking the garden from above.
Into the eyes of the moon she would stare,
dreaming of the face of an unknown love.
The young scribe dared not reveal himself,
being a plain looking man with meager means.
Having to leave his heart upon a shelf,
only to hold her in his arms in a dream.
Then one bitter night a cold wind blew
and took the fair princess away.
When her letters were found they all sadly knew,
the young maiden died with a broken heart that day.
The young scribe never wrote another word,
he tended her garden the rest of his days.
His face never seen, his voice never heard,
a life lived in a dream never to stray.
Time has moved on, but the moon still remains.
Looking from his lofty throne he will never forget.
This crumbling castle with its garden of pain,
neglected and choked by the weeds of regret.
8/26/19
Most people are crazy about flowers,
Whether grown from cuttings or seeds.
They can talk of their beauty for hours,
But no one says anything nice about weeds.
And out in the garden, the veggies
Enjoy far more care than they need,
But along the highways and hedges,
The world has no time for the poor, lowly weed.
That's why I hate work in the garden.
It's not that I'm lazy, indeed,
I would really enjoy the labor,
But it's cruel to pull those poor weeds.
Form:
groundsel
forget-me not
my pretty spurge
mere fools parsley
sowing thistles
a
dead nettle
leaving such
bitter cress
a scentless mayweed
in a field of pansy
O scarlet pimpernel
a dan-de-iion
black
as nightshade
a common poppy
speedwell
my wild radish my fat hen
penny crest
in a sheperd's
purse
weed on grassy slope
so unpretentious in look~
with blooms, a marvel
from derelict turf
fair blossoms shyly peek out
something amazing~
beauty springs from hidden coves
giving sweet surprise to all
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stencils of night’s mist
brush your graveyard with ash dye
laying on crushed weeds...
this heart spills a requiem
and my tune—love’s offering.
.....................................
Brian Strand's Contest 245
In a garden which is hopeless
Because of weeds
Pink cosmos is blooming
Like hope
Like the stars of cosmic dust
They describe my love
I'm afraid that you won't admit
I'm afraid that you won't feel
I'm afraid that my flower blooms
In vain
It's so hard just to look at you
Because I can't look away
It's unfair that in front of your eyes
My flower fades
It was fate that I met you here
It was fate that I broke my rules
I thought you were a simple boy
That just looked good
But I was wrong
Your soul is pure as lake
Your soul is innocent like a child's
Take me in your hands
I'll never let you down
P.S. I tried to write using an inversion, a new stylistic device for me.
If you admit any mistakes, let me know, please.
Thanks for reading.
Lots of love.
Raggedy Weeds Poem
Here is my poem on weeds, not the kind you smoke.
Raggedy Weeds ?
Have you ever really looked at a weed
Not at all like the beautiful flowers from seed
Angrily, we pull them from our gardens
How dare they take over without even a“pardon”
Petunias, Zinnias, Daises, Roses as red as a flame
Weeds, have you ever bothered to know their name
Tall ones, short ones, all shapes, and sizes
Not at all like our lovely plants that win prizes
Walking across the field on an autumn day
A rainbow of color glistened along the way
On closer view, it was grasses and weeds
Not beautiful flowers from seeds
Should I dismiss their beauty seen from afar
Scraggly looking up close their splendor did mar
No, look in and out of the weeds, butterflies flutter
Silently, no sounds do they utter
Alighting on raggedy stems with tiny flowers
Their sweet nectar they love to devour
Some of the weeds are mashed down
What is this that runs the weeds to the ground
A home for rabbits, snakes, possums, and coons
Usually, only seen under the light of a full moon
Could it be that weeds survive
To give honey to bumble bees for their hives
To provide animals food, protection, and a home
To enable them on this earth to still roam
There are some destructive weeds that are concerning
Realistically, we have to be discerning
Weeds neither work nor toil
Still God finds a place for them in the soil
Some weeds should be pulled indeed
There are others that provide a need
So today or tomorrow, really look at a shaggy weed
Try not to compare it to a beautiful flower from seed
Seek the delicate flower among the raggedy leaves before you moan
You may discover a purpose and beauty all it's own
BLESS MY WEEDS!
God bless my weeds,
They grow their own seeds,
They feel the need,
to bloom and grow,
Them I don't need to sow,
They won't even grow in rows,
Put them in a verse to read,
Dear God, Bless my weeds!
Pick my flowers if
you must
My peony, my daisy
But if you try to
pick my weeds
You just might make
me crazy
The peony is
beautiful
The daisy simple and
sweet
But it’s the weed
that stands strong
And at the end of
the day can take the
heat
In my yard they're
free to grow
They have a job to
do
In the garden not so
much
So I rid it of just
a few
As I pick and pull
them out
Forgiveness in a
whisper I ask
I appreciate the job
they do
But they're in the way
of the gardens task
I am in awe of how
they both grow
In tandem with earth
and sky
Helped along by the
bumbling bee
And the fluttering
butterfly
All living things
try to find their
place
Some catch our eye;
others not so much
They're in this world
by God's good grace
Sometimes you must
look closer for
heaven’s touch
These winter weeds, they come alive
and seep in through my pores,
they dig through flesh, they dwell inside
and multiply by scores.
As vines lay bare 'round garden run
I curse the weakness of the sun
as vines lay bare
as vines lay bare
infectious shivers come undone.
These winter weeds, they come alive
and stretch from dusk to dawn-
perennial shadows, how they thrive
o'er achromatic yawns.
They breach my skin and stalk my bones
unearthing every warmth I've known
They breach my skin,
they breach my skin
and fall from eyes o'er all I own.
These winter weeds, they come alive
like worms that tunnel light.
I mourn all that could not survive
the hunger of the night;
it grows upon the hollowness
of sunshine steeped in sallowness
it grows upon
it grows upon
depressions empty, fallowness.
Growing weeds are any gardener's abomination.
My lawn mower appears to want to stay in hibernation.
I can't seem to get the old motor to run.
This is frustrating, and making me come undone.
The municipality says the grass is too high today.
They threaten to send a summons and fine my way.
I want to exterminate all the dandelions and chickweed.
Crabgrass and wild onions are also things I don't need.
There are other undesirable things on the lawn like clover.
They have proliferated themselves just about all over.
What I want is a nice thick green lawn.
When that is accomplished, my life can go on.
Weeds and flowers grow
Side by side in fertile ground
A verdant picture
Unknowing their given names
Who decides their place in life?
We pull the weeds from dawn till night,
and pray for rain on summer's blight,
as muscles strain and blisters bleed;
we will not bow to nature's creed,
but dig and pull with all our might.
What burning zeal she dares ignite;
she sows those thistle seeds in spite,
and mocks our pain as we proceed
to pull the weeds.
If all our birds have taken flight
and blooms once lush are shriveled tight;
if summer fields stand choked in weed
and nature scalds us with her greed,
then stiff intent inflames our fight
to pull the weeds.
Weeds
Why do I do so well at growing things,
I don't want to grow,
and do so badly and the other plants,
I work hard to keep alive?
The value of weeds is a question
I have pondered at length.
At first we went to war.
I pulled and pulled the intruders out.
They came back,
their numbers increased
by dispersion, into the soil.
I thought to use chemicals next,
and then looked about at the birds in the trees,
the bees in the flowers,
and the cat next door on the sunny porch.
I also suddenly remembered the dumb bunny...
that comes in the morning,
and eats his fill.
I moved on.
Under further investigation,
I discovered many of the green aliens
offered a bounty of teas,
healing properties,
and editable delights.
I had not considered their usefulness.
Learning new knowledge,
and expanding my world,
made a difficult problem
solvable,
and even provided
an answer to as yet unknown
questions, until now.
Weeds