Long Gardens Poems
Long Gardens Poems. Below are the most popular long Gardens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gardens poems by poem length and keyword.
I keep seeing an adorable Robin visiting the garden. A beautiful spiritual message from a departed loved one.
The Robin's Message
By Michelle Morris
05/01/2025
The robin flew into the garden
It bobbed gracefully on the grass
It drank water from the puddles
And reminded me of its task
To be a message of Hope and Joy
A reminder of Love and Light
That Faith is believing in the unseen
No matter the Darkness of the night
That our departed loved ones are with us
That we're never really alone
They remind us of their presence
A blessed Gift from Heaven's own
And the robins that grace our gardens
They are beautiful and delightful
They bring us so much Kindness
From beyond this earthly world
God's Angels who guide our Souls
They want us to be inspired
They want us to feel comforted
By Heaven's merciful Light
And every time I see the robin
I know that you are near
So even though I miss you dearly
I know that Death is nothing to fear
One day I'll see you again
When it's my time to return to Heaven
Where robins always sing sweetly
And Love and Light never end
© Michelle Morris, 2025
In many cultures, robins are thought to be a sign that a deceased relative is visiting. This belief is especially common in British folklore and Celtic-influenced cultures.
Robins are often seen as messengers from the spiritual world, guiding people through difficult times.
I got together with a friend
I haven’t seen in ages.
We met in Central Park, a spot
That certainly engages.
The flowers were in gorgeous bloom,
The gardens lush and tended
And everyone wore masks,
As Dr. Fauci recommended.
We strolled the grounds while catching up
Then found a bench for sitting
While birds and bees flew by
And even butterflies were flitting.
Yet there were also chipmunks
And some squirrels all a’scurry.
I even saw a mouse or two
Which didn’t make me worry.
Until from underneath a hedge
A big fat rat did scuttle,
To which my “Ew!” reaction
Wasn’t what you might call subtle.
It’s really most unfortunate
That this unpleasant sighting
Removed some pleasure from a day
In which I was delighting.
As I’m bowed, in cares distraught
Lightness unbends, thru an arbor caught
In the rigid coils of tight binds
Gladness interlaces with vines that unwind
Netted in a shadow of grasping night
Moonlit petals glow their reflective sight
Entrenched in weight of concrete inveighs
Nectarine wings point the scented airy way…
This entry is just the beginning of sanctuary
Gardens small grow and call the wisdom of trees…
Utopian dreams realign where nature breathes
Inviting serenity in wraps of soothing wreathes
Deep as the roots and high as a sun-ride
Elevation is granted where greenery’s the guide.
(8/18/2020: '87 Skipjack 28; Fresno. Sanctuary contest)
My daily routine.
Every day, as always,
Wake up at four.
Start the chores.
Go to the gardens,
Do some maintenance.
Visit the M Central
Play the piano.
One hour goes past,
Enjoy some breakfast.
Go to the library,
Take up space,
Use the computer/internet,
Lunch with meal set.
In the arvo,
Play more and more piano.
Otherwise, visit "Maker Space".
Do some embroideries
For the rest of the day.
What a wonderful day with appointment free.
Tomorrow is another day,
With hectic classes and clinics.
Appointments and treatments
Do not know how to describe,
How the rest of the week was like?
Few words maybe.
Busy and very busy.
Life moves on,
Regardless how you want it.
Where do the colors we see arise?
Not from sun’s bright, light guise,
But from its white, split and spun,
Through raindrop prisms, one by one.
A spectrum forged in falling rain,
That spills color on Earth's domain.
Red blazes in autumn’s gaze,
In maple leaf fire and embers haze.
It's rouge in a rose’s velvet flare,
Smeared on dusk and dawn with flair.
Orange glows on apricot and fox coats.
On pumpkin skins and marigolds it floats.
It's the color of fleeting flight,
In between go and woe, out of sight.
Yellow shouts from nodding daffodils,
From golden zest of lemon's thrills.
The hue of bees and cheery canaries.
The lipstick of sand beside the sea.
Blue is ocean's hue and a sigh,
when mood is dark and wry.
Its Forget-me-not's, in gardens weeping,
Blue-jays leaping skyward sweeping.
Indigo beckons twilight to go to night,
To lift a plum to lips, and take a bite.
It's the regal dye of kings and queens,
For clothes fit for their royal scenes.
Violet haunts lavender fields at rest.
Whispers in crocus blooms, moon-blessed.
Lingers in bruises and storm-swept skies.
Closing the curtains, as scene of day, dies.
“The Indian Ocean, once key to the spice way,
Is now playground of superpowers, every day,
Bent on weaving their web of sway." -By poet ‘
*****************************************************************************************************************************
Indian Ocean
Blue cradle rocking wide and deep,
The Indian Ocean from stretched shores peeps,
Round all seasons simmering with sparkling sunshine,
Reflecting the sun golden gleam in space and time.
A link to Afro-Asia and Australia, free,
And loads of islands, ships cross this sea earnestly,
The southerly breeze sweeps across this salty spray
And tempers down the heat of everyday.
Fish simmer and silver lies deep below,
Where coral gardens gently grow
While wales softly sing secrets to the tide
In currents where the shadows hide.
Turtles glide with gleams of genuine grace,
Finding solace in this watery space,
Seahorses dance in swaying weed,
Planting warm hopes and sowing seed.
Yet danger lurks, a hidden threat,
To diverse marine species, small and great;
The swirling plastic tide we can`t ever forget
As it may turn into mankind`s regret.
Endlessly, until the end of time
~
Walk with me
on golden fields,
down paths built of love
and we will share
every breath of
this journey
with each other,
step by wondrous step
~
Share with me
and we shall follow the sun
wherever it may lead,
along edges of time,
uncounted minutes,
shadows changing shape,
for this is ours
to keep forever
~
Sit with me
and we will write
poetic gardens
filled with fragrant
beautiful blooms,
leaving petals of our words
scattered about
cobblestone walks
for all to see
~
Wander with me,
bringing smiles and laughter
through forests of
evergreen dreams,
underbrush desires,
finding the next vista
painted in the beauty
that awaits us
~
Stay with me
for there would be no need
for looking back,
we would have each other,
our words, a whole world of
new memories to make
endlessly, until
the end of time
Good night Soupers
The humid air sweats streaming curls down the toddler’s flush cheeks like Fusilli hot from the stove. The golden ringlets cling to her forehead, bouncing like Slinky’s in front of her, blue-agate, eyes. The backyard’s sounds-bat cracks and wise cracks-surround her. Squeals echo from the mounds of loam behind her new house. The homes out back form a red, yellow, blue, green monopoly board configuration.
The sand box she sits in is full of scrap two-by-four blocks. Using a naked purple-haired troll doll, she attacks the pine-block castle, tumbling the battlement. A plank spans the puddle
(created by the leaky green garden hose). The barefoot tike, troll in hand, starts across the board toward the moonscape of mud mounds; where her sister and friends run screeching armed with rotten tomatoes. She almost makes it before falling in and running mud covered to mother.
Polish Catholics, Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics, lived side by side with English Presbyterian’s and we errant, runaway, Jews. The scent of tomato paste, knackwurst and borscht wafts through the same soupy air, where we play King of the Mountain. Big Boys and Plum tomatoes flew indiscriminately through the August air like missiles. The only thing which stopped the action was the distance ringing bell of the Good Humor truck, here on Cherry Tomato Alley. Here where each new neighbor had transplanted themselves: their children, their gardens, their sprinklers, and their cars to fulfill the American dream.
First Published in Melancholy Hyperbole Spring 2015
The time has come to create
the susok of our garden
Two pairs of hands to place the rocks
by waterfall and bamboo shoots
Only one pair of hands now,
as I shift sand wet with tears.
For Debbie Guzzi's Walk Softy Contest
August 20, 2013
"In prehistoric times, Koreans believed that rocks had more power than water and other things in nature. Also, they believed that rocks engendered God's good-will. Therefore, the arrangement of rocks is considered as one of the "essential" elements in designing the traditional Korean garden. Susok or "rock arrangement," gardens are commonly found."
THE NEBULA IN THE MIRROR OF SLEEP
From the blue nebula I fell through bells of haze,
a stranger to the world's hour, through the river that dreams its own face.
Blind planets drifted in the milk of a living silence,
and the blood of light was growing inside ash-gray trees.
I dissolved into shadows with the scent of a shattered moon,
like liquid stained glass on a cathedral never begun.
Through the boundless void swam fish made of memory,
with scales from melted recollections and pollen of no category.
Your soul, a comet with eyelids of green velvet,
stirred its own echo through gardens no one ever loses.
And then I heard time blooming underneath the snow,
like a transparent lily teaching darkness how to see.
I undressed my being of its chimera bones,
and my heart drifted like a white and severe jellyfish.
In temples of melancholy, inverted springs were singing,
and clouds were sewing wings from abandoned glances.
Beneath the mantle of sadness, embroidered with salt galaxies,
our destiny was carrying a bell filled with distance.
I searched for you through the mineral sleep of blue stars,
where forests of angels grow on the skeletons of hermits.
But your face kept becoming smoke in mirrors without contour,
a god of black glass inside an uncertain empire.
Then forgetting — a flower with roots in the infinite —
slowly closed my gaze over everything I had crucified.
And I wandered through centuries like a flute without a song,
with the universe pressed against my chest, like an incantation.
The stars kept deep silence, in funereal levitations,
and shadows were giving birth to ships from sliding light.
I still carry in my blood that perfume of beginning,
when I lost myself in you and made myself lost inside myself.
And the nebula keeps growing in every thought that dies,
like a psychedelic garden of bells and distances.
Empty of life yet full of dream, I flow through cosmic echoes,
toward your unfathomable abyss, from one dusk into another.