Long Gardening Poems
Long Gardening Poems. Below are the most popular long Gardening by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gardening poems by poem length and keyword.
Under a guava tree, I rest
Like me, a kitten also roosts
Both are excited to begin our quest;
And the tree gives us the best of the best
Seeing the birds for the first day,
The kitty thinks he can fly;
Climbing over the branches of guava tree,
Savouring the flowers, he smiles with glee
Glimpsing the birds hoping over the branches,
My mind kindles the memories avalanche;
I was sitting with my dad at the same place,
conversing about the garden we raise
Planning to plant some fruiting trees around,
And the plants to get flowers all year round;
A garden full of flowers, butterflies and birds, he dreamed,
His idea of providing an half plot for gardening was highly esteemed
Now the guava tree started bearing fruits;
His favourite kopsias are in full bloom;
But he is not with us to cherish the things, I thought,
until I saw a bulbul savoring the fruit
Squirrels, spiders, bulbuls,butterflies and moth
and sometimes koels and kittens, both
All live together in the guava tree
Yes, plenty of lives I see
Through these creatures' plethora
I feel my dad's pure aura .
Under the guava tree,
Now my mind is stress free ,
For I feel my dad's aura,
under the guava tree
Snakes And Mr. Baines
By Curtis Johnson
The phrase, “A snake in the grass”, has often been expressed toward certain individuals. Such a powerful and direct metaphor of treachery, is it not?
Among the first stories ever heard by me involved a snake that was up to no good.
Perhaps from that point, my opinion of snakes was sealed, and I have avoided them if I could. Growing up in the country, I saw them occasionally, but was not unduly afraid of them. Because of heavy chemical use on the farm, being bitten by snakes was probably slime.
I had lots of friends, lots of freedom, and a good dog name Jack.
We hunted for blackberries along the banks of the railroad tracks. We roamed the country sides, and played fearlessly in the grassy weeds. We had things to do and places to go, and never any time to worry about snakes.
There’s a wild kingdom out there, and may all of God’s creatures survive and forever be. But the hissing, crawling, rattling, and the twirling are out of my comfort zone. Nevertheless, there’s a place for snakes, as long as that place is away from me.
I once saw a snake curled up in a bush. Nearly touching him, I was startled.
My boss and I were gardening. With little concern, he said to me, “He’s just a chicken snake”.
Whether chicken or king, rattles or moccasins;
Whether harmless or causing deadly pain, I prefer to keep my distance all the same
My father had a friend who lived just up the road from us in a big house.
He looked mean and sometimes acted the part, but I liked him and thought he was brave. He was one snake slinging man, and I was his biggest fan.
Back then, if my father’s friend Mr. Baines saw a snake, he’d grab it by the tail, sling it around, and pop its head off. But the world has changed; wild life is well protected, and many things have been banned. How sad, is it not, that there is not a ban on “snakes in the grass”? Perhaps the day will come when they can be caught and have, not their heads, but their poisonous venom popped out of them. Meanwhile, we best keep avoiding all snakes; and I do miss Mr. Baines.
Cj08052015
These people I safely know
who like to healthy grow
fail to distinguish
between cooperative housing
and cooperative households,
cooperative countries
and communities
Which
as we all seem to know
although textbooks often fail to show
include cooperative gardening
and cooperative farming
and possibly cooperative
organic management
of a polytheistic living planet
without monotheistic competitive
monopolistic cultural intent.
In each interdependent case
we explore something together,
some primal trinitarian relationship
between healthy resilience
and safe transitions
and beautifully balanced
resonant energy
Synergy produces
co-arising fruits of sexual
sensual
and sacred exotic
erotic regenerate sensations
Further witchy wonder which,
like resonantly tasty
and fragrant,
richly brown and black
white and green
orange and yellow
red textured
robust stews
Cooperatively touch
and feel
and show
and thereby know
a primally sublime
healthy
safe
and beautiful homebrew.
It was a summer of living next to my father. He turned every ordinary day into pure laughter with his Italian antics and beautiful smile. When it came to gardening he had the magic touch.
He would plant morning glories and each morning he would water them with caring hands.
I would get up early just to watch him take out the hose and water the cucumbers, tomatoes, basil, parsley etc.
One evening I asked him why the morning glories closed up at night, and he told me they needed to rest after a long hot summer day. He said, " If you want to catch them in the act of opening, then you have to get up very, very early."
Not a day goes by that I don't think of him and the sage advice that he gave me while living next to my heart.
He was my first teacher and although I didn't inherit his love of gardening, each time I see a morning glory open its face to the sun, I think of him and all the times he shared his knowledge.
Until this day, I still think the best time of day is the early morning. I often take my coffee in the backyard and watch the living plants grow and thank God for having given me the best father a girl could ever ask for.
The End.
There are some people
who find gardening
to be a very relaxing hobby.
I am not one of those people,
I was born and raised in the city.
The closest to a farm
that I have ever been
is at the supermarket.
But I will admit,
I like the produce section.
and I like picking
Fresh fruit and vegetables.
Everybody in my family
has a green thumb,
with plants growing
on their window seals.
I was not born a green thumb.
But as life would have it,
I am working in two gardens
on the 7 acres of ironbound.
And since the house and property
is owned by my wife's uncle
whose nick name is Shady
I like referring to the place
as the shady rest.
It is here on the
seven acres of ironbound,
that I work with a tractor.
And refer to myself as
Farmer Bob.
Science is a staid professor with wild hair
In an unkempt white lab coat stained with grease
From a hamburger he ate without tasting
Science is searching for his own truth.
Throwing other theories out to hither and yon
Insisting on his own ways; wanting some credit.
Science is not for our kind;
Too high brow for us, my darling.
Stick with your gardening; you can plant carrots.
Sure you can prance optimistically into a lab
And give science your ideas
But they are worthless.
When Science shoves them back into your face
or stuffs them into a test tube and dashes it to the floor
Then will you come back readily to sling some hash?
The only science worth studying is astronomy
And there is no money in it. It is not for people like us.
We are sandwich makers, honey.
Now get your ass off of that cloud
and come back down here where we belong.
Hiding our dreams and aspirations in our stained aprons.
Sit back on your porch, let your mind drift
to a moment your eyes saw
a beautiful painting or picture that left you in awe
When music sifted through your ears
and your spirit did lift
or it touched your heart and down poured the tears
Think of a fragrance of your favorite perfume to smell
bringing pleasant aromas for your mind to dwell
Let your mouth water as you picture your favorite meal
Remember a blanket's silky softness comforting feel
Unique people develop these creations
from many continents and nations
From whence comes that little spark
that motivates humans to produce art
Whether it be painting, poetry, jokes, or books
gardening, fragrances, music, or cooks
dancing, teaching, pottery, fixing things or more
From whence is the source of our inspiring core
Sit on your porch, let your mind drift
to a moment your eyes saw
A beautiful sunset, or moonlight that left you in awe
The sound of birds chirping sifted through your ears
soft cooing of a baby touched your heart, down came some tears
Think of the smell of a fragrant flower tree
or the sweet juice of fruit or the many flavors of tea
Remember the softness of the wind
how it felt gently blowing on your skin
The feel of a kitten's fur or the sharp edges of a fish fin
The core of our inspiration is a gift from God I believe
God the greatest artist made us in His image, you and me
He takes the dust of the earth and brings it to life
Creating beauty that eases minds and heals strife
No wonder at times arises a little spark
to give back our gift, message, prayer through our art
A means to commune with people of all kinds
Melting the barrier between our hearts and minds
Just as the potter can remake pots that break
God can rekindle that spark in our core for our art to create
If we can inspire one smile or touch a hurting heart
feed a hungry soul, our gift has done a part
A birthday is a special marker
inside your volume, "Book of Life."
Between the markers lay the pages
of each year's happiness and strife.
And, like a story, life progresses
unfolding gently page by page,
the character and growing wisdom
that magnifies with each new age.
Joyce, with the coming of this birthday,
a special marker joins the rest,
the hundredth one among your pages,
says you are living life your best.
Your gardening, your moving poems,
and love of family so dear;
your gifted years of life we honor...
applaud your day with love and cheer!
April 12, 2018
For Premiere Contest, Occasional Poetry
Sponsored by Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
-------------------------------------------------------------
Written for Joyce Johnson's 100th Birthday, July 2018.
Joyce is a PoetrySoup Premium Member
and posted her first poem, March 21, 2005
A hiatus of verse,
for at least three months or more
But today an early incident,
to add to the rhythmic score
Barefoot in the garden,
prior to rising of the sun
Illumination from a headlight
allows hours of gardening fun
Sticks and stones on bare feet
can sometimes cause some pain
Today it was most unusual, not just once
but a second time again
The first time was a puzzle, how could the foot lodge,
between a branch and a protruding stem???????!!
But it wasn't very long before the mystery it was solved
Once again a clamp down on upper and lower foot. Ahem???
Knee jerk reaction to remove
the inconvenient impediment
Lift the foot, shake the leg. It's worked !!
Seems to be, a successful experiment
And as the freed up missile whistled through the air,
a yellow belly, revealing in the light
First thought, it's a tree snake, but no!!!
tis a python, what an awesome sight !!
One puncture wound upon a toe
drew a small amount of blood and a small amount of fright
Blessed that pythons have no venom, at least an hour has passed,
still able to sit here and write
An old idiom exists that states,
once bitten one is doubly shy
Today twice bitten what does that mean
having witnessed that a snake can really fly
A day of snakes, a python,
that's how it had begun
Four hours later, a yellow faced whip snake,
lying relaxedly in the sun
Sometimes it's said,
events often come in threes
Anymore today it's hoped
the snake will be slithering through the trees
The land you grow on is His,
As water is, sunlight is;
And I'm but a care keeper
And claim to be no owner,
I raise crops blest by His bliss…
He says, heart gone to each plant,
Each makes him feel so pleasant
He strokes them with tender hands,
Two long-lost souls as old friends—
A friendship that feels no lent!
Wishes well, fruits and flowers,
Admires beauty of bowers,
To fresh buds, fragrant blossom,
With praise ever so handsome,
And keen advice he showers:
A season there’s to mature,
Heed to haste nor waste, be sure—
Enemies that kill childhood,
Cherish, long as lasts and good,
It helps old age to endure,
Nor wither before your time
Ere your growth reaches its prime,
He walks on to feel young fruits:
Never miss to thank your roots,
Growth’s fine, but roots only rhyme.
Seeds and leaves as do all else,
Each its success story tells,
Ungrateful O never be,
Be a proud offspring of tree,
Bear in mind till ring loud bells.
And whilst gardener's wards nodded,
A pregnant breeze, yon, wafted:
His nature is to nurture,
Not to heed, Nature’s nature,
Rare if advice is heeded.
__________________________________
Musings | 03.03.16 |
Poet’s Notes: With loving hands and heart a gardener nurtures a garden. He treats greens as living beings, as they really are, and tends to counsel them with well-meaning words. But even from my not so sound knowledge of gardening I know: not to heed humans is Nature’s nature, a sentiment that reflects in the last two lines of this poem.