Long Gardener Poems
Long Gardener Poems. Below are the most popular long Gardener by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gardener poems by poem length and keyword.
Like a weedy bed of roses
Someone gave up on long ago
My spirit whispered regret
That would never let me go
The thorns from the roses
Grew strong and wild
While the beautiful roses
Were faded into their pods
Like that weedy flower bed
My heart was weak and drawn
Feeling more like an ember
Than a vibrant, passionate fire
The roses were bent and dreary
Damaged by their neglect
As my heart dims from the sorrow
That has me longing for a better age
Through some tender, loving care
The gardener brought the roses back to life
Giving them the honor of blushing hope
Through a dull, worn heart like my own
It would be a few seasons before the roses
Left their dreary pods to become blooms of light
Shining down on the garden with faith
That soon their buds would bring rejoice and play
It would be a few years for my melancholy soul
After leaving the darkness in the past thoughts
Where it couldn’t haunt my present moments
And where I could sing and dance with pure joy
Together, those roses and my heart
Became linked by their crimson veins
Who would finally pursue the amazing grace
Of the One who loves without ever waning
Together, we changed from death to life
From dark to light – from fear to the promise
Of a love in life that would always be alive
Love that abides through every pain and strife
Love like this is the rose of every life!
Sat where it’s sat since chauffeured in gently
No driver now for the rusty old Bentley
Its tyres and battery equally flat
A rusted up den for an old ally cat
Manicured lawns, bindweed infested
No gardener now as hardship suggested
No tourist, no fan, nobody interested
Intruder detection no longer tested
Inside, a rocking chair, no longer plush
Creaks like the bones of the wizened old lush
Who stares at the walls of the now peeling flock
And pays little heed to the un-ticking clock
Newspaper clippings lay where they fell
Sometimes she grins at the stories they tell
But just as though they were still pinned to the wall
She picks up not one, she remembers them all
They’d urged her to dance, they’d begged her to sing
But all of a sudden the phone wouldn't ring
Now cataracts sully the stars In her eyes
And stubbornness stifles her arthritic cries
The phone once rang often, to her recollection
But now she just listens to check the connection
No point in a phone when you're no longer known
And the sound of alone... is a dialling tone
Dancing for Hollywood bought her the world
But one willing bint and her stardom unfurled
A word of advice for which she will vouch
You’re born but you die on a man’s casting couch
And as she sits there in her old rocking chair
With her makeup undone and her unkempt hair
Now she succumbs to Hollywood’s ills
As she rocks back and forth with some gin and some pills.
Fear is worry that does not exist, but only in your mind. Such an odd coincidence, that I created this sickness with all the pointless worries of mine. If you are suffering about something that does not exist in real time, well that is insanity and for most of us that’s a short trip & a long ride. Not even realizing we have been self-prescribing pain and sadness because of untrue thoughts derived from a blackness, just madness. We always took the regimen of fear straight to the brain, a quick end to any roads led by faith with strength. We expected and incorrectly predicted tragedy making ourselves sick when in reality we were our own sickness. We were our own creator of a life of travesty. Didn’t even stop to analyze myself because fear made me think it was everyone else. So I hung up unwanted signs within myself and in large it spelled out: fear will never serve you well. So if you find it don’t allow it to stay. Just hang a sign that reads: Fear is not welcome to play. I have had to stay in many days to protect my mind from whatever lie I was too weak and let inside causing me to lose hours of daylight. Tossing at night over things that ultimately only existed in a frazzled state of mind. Fear is the unwanted weed grown from the inside, you are the gardener of all new growth. So it is your choice to let it grow or eliminate the dark-rooted seed before it multiplies. Fear does not exist in reality, but only in your mind.
Fathers of that era
did not hug or touch or
intimate their love.
He was the same
Did he love us, we his
kin, his blood-seed. He
did not say, yet I
believe he did.
He was a provider, for
sure. A taste for beer,
never dissolute and
he smoked as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
vegetables supplemented
our meagre rationed diet.
Did he care, he never
said, I’m sure he did.
What made him tick,
deep down, I mean
where only introspectives,
types like me will
sometimes dig.
It is easy, so easy
to theorise. His
generation, strong
and silent, did not
discuss such things,
especially with his son,
such things were never
done. Maybe..perhaps
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
controlled, withheld
until death shatters
the dam.
Is that why I cried
so, the day he died
and still I wonder..
did I cry for me,
or was it for him
It’s October, we find time to go by the spring-house to get the tulips. It is time to prepare for winter and the inevitable coming of spring. The bulbs look hopelessly dead and ugly, rather pitiful in fact. We nurture them tenderly.
fall gardener
tucks the bulbs in bed
till spring's alarm.
Through many snows and chilling temperatures, we do not consider at all what is taking place under the ground. One warm March day we see tiny noses poking up through the soil around the back porch. By April, we are sitting in the swing admiring the result of loving labor of last fall.
seeing the blooms
brings to mind
dried-up bulbs
How could such ugliness have turned to such beauty in the cold, hard earth? As May approaches bringing other flowers, our short-lived tulips drop their blossoms and say good-bye. But as we've discovered, the wisest of gardeners do not hasten to bother the beauty in its passing.
dust to dust
all blossoms shrivel
with time
food for the soil
wilting leaves nourish the bulb
hidden in the ground
The bulb remains unattractive throughout the whole cycle of growth. Along in mid-July when all external signs of life have faded, we remove the unsightly bulbs from their bed, putting them back in the spring-house until fall. Without them, there will be no blossoms next spring. It is the care we show the bulb which bursts into the beauty we bless in time.
entry for contest: Carlton D. Kennedy's Love of Nature
Fathers of that era
did not hug or touch or
intimate their love.
He was the same
Did he love us, we his
kin, his blood-seed. He
did not say, yet I
believe he did.
He was a provider, for
sure. A taste for beer,
never dissolute and
he smoked as most
working folk, did then.
An adept gardener, his
vegetables supplemented
our meagre rationed diet.
Did he care, he never
said, I’m sure he did.
What made him tick,
deep down, I mean
where only introspectives,
types like me will
sometimes dig.
It is easy, so easy
to theorise. His
generation, strong
and silent, did not
discuss such things,
especially with his son,
such things were never
done. Maybe..perhaps
with Mum. Feelings
were not shared but
held back, within.
A reservoir of emotions
controlled, withheld
until death shatters
the dam.
Is that why I cried
so, the day he died
and still I wonder..
did I cry for me,
or was it for him
As a good gardener would do,
she had to evaluate the quality of her trees plants and fruit,
She saw that some were rotten; they had spoiled at the root.
Unforgivness and resentment suffocated her delicate tree,
It was time to prune the essences of it in its entirety,
Finding the initial cause was how she would now prepare,
Going a little deeper into the earth that had many layers.
From the time this tree was a seed,
It had glitches, cracks and lived amongst weeds,
Perhaps damaged from the packaging
Or banged up through the sifting
Causing some deformities and in need of some spiritual lifting.
Resenting the other trees,
For they were far more stunning than thee,
This garden had suffered through many damaging storms,
Causing animosity that took on different shapes and forms,
sometimes her fruit seemed a bit bitter and irate
Forgiveness was the only cure to transform this ugly hate.
Sniping away at what was easy for her eyes to see,
Then changing the soil all together to make it once again healthy
For in a season or two, what all this work would do
Would allow this trees fruit to look and be brand new.
By: sabina Nicole
Contest: secondhand emotion
Written: 1-14-12
How like the pumpkin you seem to me;
arriving full-blown from the seed planted
in my womb.
You grew wild and free
among the tamer fruits of life.
I can still hear an echo of your laughter.
Vines and tendrils wound about you
in infancy long past.
We were pulled apart by my growth and yours.
I long for the blossoming days
of infancy and childhood,
for the wee small one
who never failed to make me smile,
for the adult who sprang Jack-o-lantern whole
into a world of normalcy
refusing to accept the mundane.
Can you not see me? Did you not know me?
Was I never the gardener to you?
The garden now lies,
overrun by last years Halloween's delights,
allowed to run their course,
and in doing so trampling the ripe tomatoes,
and green bell peppers
as you do, my heart, by forgetting.
We planted some fruit trees
some five years ago;
The peaches produced more
than you'd guess would grow.
The apricot sits there,
does nothing each year.
Brings up a reminder
a parable made clear:
A man had a fig tree
right there in his garden.
He came seeking fruit, but
instead, he found none.
He said to the keeper,
"These years I've come seeking;
Three seasons I've waited,
and now expect some.
I think that it's time that
we stopped, brought this tree down.
Why let it continue
to use up the ground?”
The gardener said, "Sir
Let’s leave it another;
I'll add some manure,
turned into the roots.
If still nothing happens
then we'll cut it down,
but I am quite hopeful
that it will bear fruit.”
My fruit tree, a lesson,
but I'm not the keeper;
No, I’m just a fruit tree
my maker has wrought.
He's Lord of the harvest
and we are His garden.
Some children are peaches,
and some, apricots.
----------
After 5 full years, it looks like we have blooms this year. Very excited!
A man murdered his stepdaughter and framed me for the crime.
I was arrested and found guilty by a jury and I had to do hard time.
He blew his stepdaughter's head off because she refused to sleep with him.
He tried everything he could to get what he wanted but she wouldn't give in.
She was a good girl and she would not betray her own mother.
He murdered her in cold blood, that's how little he thought of her.
I was the gardener and I had a crush on the man's stepdaughter.
But he set me up, he made it look like I was the one who shot her.
He hid the murder weapon in my apartment.
When the cops found it, jail was where I went.
While doing hard time, the thought of getting even kept me from coming unhinged.
The only thing that kept me going was knowing that I would eventually get revenge.
Getting revenge wasn't just something that I wanted, it was also something that I needed.
But that scumbag died just one month before my release, so when it came to getting revenge, I was cheated.
I wanted to torture that pervert and when he truly suffered, he would die by my hand.
I wanted him to beg for mercy he wouldn't receive and I truly wanted to kill that man.
I'm thinking about committing suicide because I was unable to make him pay.
How can I go on now that my chance of getting revenge has been taken away?