Most everyone who enters the Poetic Bloomings blog refers to it as a “garden.” It seems only natural (pardon the expression) to suggest that we return to our roots to write a poem about gardens, gardening, gardeners, or some combination thereof. Not everyone likes gardens, of course: some folks simply hate it and others think that wild nature is preferable to cultivated nature; natural gardens or gardening could be your topic as well, therefore. In any way it seems appropriate to you, write a “garden” poem.
MARIE ELENA’S ATTEMPT
Consider the Garden
What rose
Glances with scorn
At the aster,
Thinking
“I don’t understand,
Therefore I fear.”
Let every gardener
And every passerby
Discover the beauty of color,
Texture and fragrance
As they mingle
And adorn.
© copyright 2013, Marie Elena Good
WILLIAM’S ATTEMPT
I THINK I’LL PAVE IT
When first I went outdoors for planting,
I had myself a burst of ranting:
my thumb was not green; I vented my spleen
and came indoors, angry and panting.
© copyright 2013, William Preston
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Beneath the Frost
Beneath the frost there lies a hidden place,
Entangled in a web of frozen sleep,
Just waiting for a chance to show it’s face,
Just waiting for the warmth to slowly seep
Into its icicle-encrusted heart
And break the heavy, winter bonds that hold
A thousand captives, each a work of art,
Ensnared in slumber, locked in cells of cold;
Beneath the frost there lies a hidden place,
Now dead and brown, devoid of comeliness,
Just waiting for sun to show it’s face
And grant its wish of warmth and loveliness;
But for right now, beneath the ice and snow,
The ghosts of flowers wait for spring to show.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
This sonnet is as lovely as the ghosts you speak of, in my opinion.
Thank you, William. 🙂
Love it Erin. There’s a lot beneath the frost right? “Entangled in a web of frozen sleep”.
“Ensnared in slumber, locked in cells of cold”. You can sense the great potential waiting to be unleased in this one.
Yes. Those are the portions that I found intriguing as well. Lovely poem, Erin Kay!
Thanks, Marie! ❤
Yes, there is a lot beneath the frost. Thank you so much for your lovely comment, Ben!
This sonnet looks like a winner. I love the wording, the imagery, the rhyme which doesn’t seem forced at all, and the theme. Excellent work this week, Erin.
Wow…thank you, Linda! Your words mean a lot to me. 🙂
Lovely!
Thanks, Marian. 🙂
Love it!
Thank you, David!
Your poems are always at the head of the line, and you set the tone for all of us. Beautifully penned.
Thanks so much, Ellen! I’m glad you liked it.
Beautiful…
Good feeling of the winter place.
Garden
My great-uncle raised asparagus
and rhubarb, among other market crops.
He tired of that, moved. My uncle
bought the property: house, piano,
foot-pump organ, walk-in closet, carp pool,
glass tent of greenhouse. By the time
I was of an exploration mind, that
greenhouse was the only artifact of farming.
But you could see the garden in absences.
The lot beside the house was like a man
who never married but has grown bent
around the shape of some lost love.
The phrases you use, “glass tent of greenhouse”; “you could see the garden in absences”; among others, are wonderfully startling, and the concluding lines are heart-rendiing. I loved reading this.
There’s a lot in this one. From growth to wild lots. From sowing to a lost shadow of love.
Ohmigosh … what a portrait you paint. Honestly, I can’t imagine a more uniquely presented, more mood-inducing poem representing a nostalgia I have no business feeling.
Barbara, you are so amazing.
Hugs
This is just brilliant!
Yes… as always…
Wonderful imagery here, Barbara! Love this piece!
I see places like you depict, as I drive the back country road and they bring sweet memories.
[…] for Poetic Bloomings, in the Garden […]
My contribution needs the pictures, hence you will find it here: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/2013/12/15/threnody-wordle-139-2/
Thank you for providing what seems to me to be a lifetime of reflections in words and pictures. Both are wonderful.
Truly.
Though the photos add to the overall picture, your words really are sufficient to paint the scenery and the emotions. Viv, I love that you have beauty in your life, and that you have managed to keep your head up through all the changes.
Viv, I didnt know you had such a green thumb! Nice pictures, actual and poetic.
Viv, It is truly a painful process of letting go of things we used to be able to pour ourselves into so completely. Blessed we are, though that the Lord provides us with ample bounties of His handiwork, as though to assuage our bruised feelings. 😉
This poem is like a story the way it blossoms and unfolds. Very nicely done, Vivienne, and I love the pictures! 🙂
Lovely, Viv…!!
How true – gardens and our steps seen to go apace.
Marie, I am deeply impressed with your offering, especially the first stanza. It could be on a plaque at the United Nations, in my view.
Thank you so much, Bill. “Deeply impressed” just jump-started my heart this morning. 🙂
Lovely offerings William and Marie. The Garden always begins with you!
Thank you, Benjamin! We’ll be watching for Walt to peek in up there at some point as well. ❤
Bill, yours cracked me up! When I read your prompt, I figured your example would be elegant. Instead, you gave me the giggles. Love it!
Thanks, Marie. You’d probably not be surprised that comedians are among my heroes.
The Beauty of the Bloom
Glamorous choice gardens
Splashes valiantly, dances with color
Making noise sounding spring.
Rich budding stems give the signal
Saying “its time, unfurl your coats”.
Long awaited blooms feverishly
Showcase their splendor in sync.
Myriads attend nature’s symphony;
Enamored by the harmony of sound,
Appreciating at length it’s classical varieties.
Those who faithfully tended the garden, all chose the rose, but none chose the root.
Beauty grows in an upward fashion
Stretching green for the open sky.
Toward the expectant eye of the beholder. But where is the beauty of the root?
At the time of life, the glory of the flower is manifested, and we all embrace it’s flame. But roots keep silent, grow whitherward soil lacking jealousy, flare, or shame.
And yet, at another time of life beauty fails the green. Choice blooms take their last breath. Petals wilt, all stems crumble, life flees from its chest.
Peacefulness, silence blankets the garden proper. Blooms lay withered, faded into Earth. The flower has fallen, no soul attends the doom.
Faint buzz of wings simmer at a distance. Winter breezes hastily awaken, so eager to bring a chill. Humbled roots seek warmth, stay hidden, lying still. Waiting for an opportune time for its music.
So is the bloom the issue of beauty from the root? Or is the root the beauty of the bloom?
This is a fascinating and thoughtful piece, in my opinion, and bids me think differently, as good poems do.
Thoughts appreciated William.
‘Those who faithfully tended the garden, all chose the rose, but none chose the root.’ For me, that is the balance point of the whole poem. I love it.
Thank you
Oh, I agree!
Gorgeous, thought provoking poem, Ben! The way you write is so beautiful. 🙂
Thanks Erin, the beauty is mutual!
Very well put in thought and writing
I hope I have not posted this old poem before.
Garden Delights
A cool breeze entices me
as I stray beside the wildflowers,
their blossoms like orange bells.
I hear a lingering melody,
and realize I am audience
to a bird chamber music concert.
Then I glimpse her
as she scampers like a squirrel,
darting in and out,
daring me to find her.
The muse winks.
I can picture this scene as well as hear it.. The winking muse and the music seem to be playing with each other. I enjoyed reading and imagining this.
Thank you, William.
Nice Sheryl, “blossoms like orange bells” is beautiful. I also like the hide and go seek here.
I’m gad you enjoy that image, since I don’t know the name of that flower. 😉
“…blossoms like orange bells” is soo Beautiful!!
Thoughts of the muse scampering and winking certainly belong together. The one sketches the outline, and the other fills it in. All in so few words.
Thank you. I use few words because elaboration is not my strong suit. I’m glad you think that works.
This is sweet, Sheryl! I especially love that second stanza.
Delightful reading
1. ROSES ARE RED
their petals soaked in flower blood
because when they first bloomed
in the first garden that first week
they stood in stemmed rows
asking God the Gardener to give them
beating hearts as He had given
the beasts of land and sea
beating hearts so they would know
life’s painful sacrifice enough
to shed blood when these hearts
would sometimes break
just as He had kindly given them
the dew of tears to shed each morning
as sadly they would long for
the brightness of the dawn
beating hearts to pump blood
that could be shed
this is what these roses asked
and God the Gardener was moved
by their flower prayer
but He wanted that at least
they be spared what pain would come
when Eden was no more
so He compromised and soaked
their white petals in the blood
of His own Son that would be shed
somewhere in time
2. VIOLETS ARE BLUE
as if their petals were open hands
gathering into themselves the secret
of the sky and sea
as if strong-stemmed they stood
despite the wind to say their peace
how much their petals yearned for blue
to capture the wildness of the waves
to embody all of what was heaven
how small was their request from a God
Who could do all things
give us the strength of your heaven
give us the majesty of your seas
simple violets are we
let us praise you
and God the Gardener was moved
by their flower prayer
but He wanted to spare at least
these His creatures from
all that sky and sea entail
and so He compromised
took a painter’s brush
with which He soaked their petals
in the richness of His blue
and when His art was then complete
He marveled at the way these violets
these loving creatures He had made
would bob their blue heads towards
His infinite heaven
how they would bow their blue heads
towards His majestic sea
#
You proffer such vibrant imagery here. Lovely.
Love the building in these Sal – Stirring!
These are sheet genius. I really love the second one, but they are both beautiful!
Oh, I absolutely agree, and I, too, especially Love the second one!!
Very nicely done
BUT YOU DWELL MUCH TOO LONG
you pick the flower moments
in the garden of your life
then watch them disappear
within the clasped hollow
of your now empty hand
they’re gone!
they’re gone!
all those roses you hold
dissipate in thin air
but their lingering fragrance
can be read in creased lines
confessing tomorrow
in the palms of your hands
every rose from time’s garden
fills your eyes with such wonder
but you dwell much too long
with time-wasting questions:
misnaming the minutes
mistaking the truth
for some dark chimera
they’re gone!
they’re gone!
as you pick from the garden
as your fingers touch stems
then close all around them
they’re gone!
they’re gone!
they are minutes too fleeing
A velvet soft-thorny
bright and yet wilting
smell of life but dying
flourishing, floundering,
frittering away
#
I think this is lovely and profound, and the sounds, especially in the last stanza, leave it ringing in my mind.
Yes! Wonderful poem, Sal!
Yes!
Daddy Plants
I can picture him there
In the garden
Acres of garden
Tilling the earth
His back red
Sweating
Planting
Weeding, working
Tending
Calling on his five girls
To pick and gather
Snap, husk, can, freeze
We, often complained
About the work we had to do
The fun we were missing
Not thankful enough
For the love he planted
In each little hill
Thank you for this. It’s a splendid picture of love in action, in my mind.
Yes… “love in action”…
This takes me back in time. Special moments we so quickly took for granted, cherished now. Thanks for bringing me there.
Very nice, Connie, with a wealth of truth outpoured here. Thank you for this! 🙂
….and the memories he planted in five girls’ hearts.
Love this “Daddy Plants”
We are always sowing something into someone, somewhere. Daddy planting love in the hills is very pleasing!
NOT ABOUT MAY ROSES
Not about May roses nor old love letters
nor mint juleps lazily sipped or sweet tea
in the antebellum gazebo, a stone’s throw
from Aunt Ophelia’s magnolia tree;
Nor is this about some long-gone summer,
a poem set in rhyme, a strange quantum leap
out of joint, sad woeful children shaping
dark vengeance in their sleep.
It is deeper than that:
More a gray winding blame that hasn’t a name
by which we can wish it away.
Not about roses in May nor an endless game
of justified means, and nor of running barefoot
through heavy-rain dreams.
It is deeper than that:
Beyond garden and wood, beyond evil and good.
More a gray winding blame that hasn’t a name
by which we can wish it away.
#
Superb!
Some startling images here. Beautiful!
Yes!
In the Garden
By David De Jong
In the garden where time began,
Creation’s glory, a sinless man.
It was not good he was alone,
God gave Eve from a single bone.
They walked and talked with God first-hand,
Naming creatures in Eden’s land.
It wasn’t long before man’s fall,
Taking heed the deceiver’s call.
In the garden where time stood still,
Prayers in anguish searching God’s will.
A perfect Lamb for sacrifice,
None till this time could pay the price.
Promised in Eden long ago,
One to bring death its final blow.
He knew His fate, He knew His time,
Giving His life for all mankind.
In the garden with time reborn,
The Master Gardener’s glory shown.
See the tomb, the stone rolled away,
Sin lost its battle on that day.
Death no longer would have its claim,
Life on earth wouldn’t be the same.
We remember, the words He said,
As we taste the wine, break the bread.
In this garden a simple man,
Struggles through life to understand;
How one could love another so,
Sacrifice His life even though;
I fail His Word, His Trust, His Way,
My selfish path once more astray.
So, on my knees I’ll tend the weeds,
Praying for fruit from tiny seeds.
In this garden where all is grown
May Christ abide, His Love be shown
Lovely, David…
David, this is magnificent! That second stanza – wow!
So true
Our Gardening Genes
For many years after her passing
my grandmother’s friends all raved
about the beauties of her garden
and pointed to flowers they had saved
from seed grown by her own hand.
My father was a gardener, too,
He loved to see things grow.
During the years of WW2 we
Kept a victory garden. I also know
How seeds are started early in their
Pots and to transplant carefully by hand.
Always on a cloudy day and to understand
The mysteries of watering and which
Green up -thrusting sprout
Should be handled carefully and
Which should be weeded out!
Wonderful!
Lovely, Marian. 🙂
This piece is almost instructional as well as a reminiscence. I find it a very restful and peaceful poem to read. Thanks.
🙂
Garden Origins
“Who plants a seed beneath the sod and waits to see, believes in God.”
The wizened bulb,
unremarkable as dirt;
the seed pod, rattling
in dusty husk,
its prattling dots
of promise whispering
what can be, come spring.
Beneath all salty slime,
darting cells split;
specks of possibility,
sun-warmed,
water-sprung
resilience grabs
hold of life. All
origins return to us.
A garden life requires
a hopeful eye,
a willingness
to see the extraordinary
rise from the mundane.
We take a trowel,
dig a furrow, plant
a daydream that grows
in our heads
and in the soil.
We wait, committed
to nature’s time,
to chance and tenacity
so lush and petaled,
so formed, foliaged,
flowered, fruited,
so tendrilled with longing,
so very Eden.
This wonderfully lush picture reminds me of an old song:
http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/I-Know-What-God-Is-lyrics-Perry-Como/0FB415D0843599CD48256AFD002E19FC
Beautiful…
Gorgeous! I love the prayerful aspect of this poem. ❤
I love best you quote – it says it all.
Eden’s Keyhole (a fable)
It’s Springtime again
and I’m peeking through the keyhole
of the Garden of Eden.
From my clandestine vantage point
I see trees,
some wide of girth, some narrow and lithe,
some strong and supple, others barely alive.
Yet in common, all have a tinge,
a new red glow and all a-fringe.
For as the sun awakens them from their winter slumber
naked they stand, and embarrassed blush.
And after learned discourse amongst their number,
en-robe themselves in splendor lush.
Witness they were to mankind’s shame
when they first refused to play the game.
And fearing to share in mankind’s fate,
and thus be banished from Eden’s gate,
they follow this ritual every year—
all trees everywhere—far and near.
And so have remained within the Garden
and continue to plea for mankind’s pardon.
Moral:
Never get so great and proud that you forget
how to blush.
Ellen Evans 12.15.13
write a “garden” poem for PB
Wonderful allusion! It never occurred to me that the trees were blushing.
Love this, Ellen!! 🙂 !
This is so creative, and so beautiful. Love it!
I adore this perspective and opening lines in this! “I’m peeking through the keyhole of the garden of Eden 🙂
Overlooking My Garden
A buddha and llama guard
my garden. When I write
on my swing, they send
positive notes
of hypnotizing music
sailing through
the hinoki tree,
into branches
of my Japanese maple,
and continue weaving
in and out, whistling
a harmony
over heads of pink azaleas,
purple Irish heather bells,
and wild grasses.
When they are off duty,
statues of Alice, The Mad Hatter,
and the White Rabbit
take time out from tea
to oversee the garden’s charms.
Sounds a bit like the United Nations. On second though, no; the U.N. should do so well. I loved this.
The UN would change its tune. Thanks, William.
This sounds like the perfect place for tea and poetry!!
Oh! I so agree!! I Love your little spot, Sara!!
It is, once the dogs stop barking at every living thing going by.
Yeah, that can be a mood-breaker.
Have you seen Ceaser Milan? He has tricks for everything. 🙂
Yes, but I remain a sceptic.
Yeah, he seems to read a lot into their psychology…a few of his methods have helped with my puppy. 🙂
putting the buddha with the Hatter and the rabbit for tea holds some interesting possibilities… sounds like a perfect getaway spot.
It is, Mark. Thanks.
Lovely!
Thanks, Erin!
I wish I had a garden like this. I live in a high-rise. but, at least through your beautiful poem, I can always retreat to yours! Thank you! 😀
This is a wonderful backyard. I lived in apartments most of my life.
I enjoyed this picturesque piece!
That hanks so much, Benjamin!
“I come to the garden, alone… while the dew is still on the roses…” -Brad Paisley, “In the Garden”
B’s Flower
And there I seek
your peace and solitude
in the face of an Iris
that we did Love.
Wonderful, quiet, and tender.
Thank you, William… I Love how you understood the feelings that I had while writing it…
I agree…so peaceful…I love gazing into the face of a flower.
Oh, Hannah… me too… Thank you… !!
ah, we had the same song in mind…very nice
…but, of course… 😀 !! It’s Lovely to see you again, Mark, I have missed your voice!!
And, Thank you!!
So peaceful, so beautiful, so enchanting. Once again, you’ve said so much in so few words. Love it! xx
Oh, friend, I am honored… thank you!!
Beautifully said Hen 🙂
Thank you, so much, friend, it is so Good to see you here!! 🙂 !!
[…] Bloomings-PROMPT #133 – IN THE GARDEN-Most everyone who enters the Poetic Bloomings blog refers to it as a “garden.” It seems only […]
Nurturing Radishes and Progeny, (seeing that there’re no simple miracles and remembering to carry on the learned way called love).
~
Scarlet skinned
with brilliant white centers,
she left them to flower
believing in their wildness
and unquestioning
toward the warmed palm-
calm of Mother Nature;
she relies on her guidance:
provide patience,
instill goodness,
and impart the learned gifts
that’re given so freely
to every generation.
Yes, all of this
and she must wait-
delay her tongue
in the telling’s of the wise.
Life’s wisdom must tarry
till the soil’s ready,
she’ll know when they’re to receive
and in the meantime
radishes have grown deep
and tall with many days,
their ways have become rich-
resplendent in their fullness;
pods have formed
and they hold tiny seeds-
timely miracles.
Tough husks know
precisely when to split
and they understand
that they’re the very means for ending
and the catalyst for a rich beginning.
Crimson hearts
will soon take hold,
taught in the tender soil
held in the nourishing light
and the cycle of love takes root
again and again
and yet again.
~
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2013
I think this is magnificent. The pacing has a back-and-forth quality that fits with the cycles of which you write. Thanks for creating this.
🙂 they do give us miracles. It is keeping the weeds from their way that is the challenge.
Oh, Hannah… !!! 🙂 !
Wonderful! I love the peaceful, thankful attitude in this one. 🙂
[…] at Poetic Bloomings today, the prompt has us contemplate gardening/gardens. Over at Kellie Elmore’s Free Write […]
Here is my contribution… I am not sure if it technically fits the prompt but this NON gardener tried her best 🙂
Organic Thought
By: Meena Rose
No! No! No!
She savagely denied
The news that this
Envelop represented.
It was Nana’s letterhead;
There was no mistaking it;
The jasmine scent, embossed
Seal, the handwriting.
Who would do this to her?
Who could be so cruel? Nana…
Sweet Nana had gone missing;
Declared dead and mourned.
They all moved on – not her;
She hung on wrapping tendrils of
Memory around many a wine glass;
Vines of bittersweet thought
And sorrow. The will. They all
Hated her for it – Nana left it
All to her, the clueless grandchild
In everyone’s eye. She hated them.
The air above the envelop shimmered
Catching her eye just so – perhaps
Just perhaps she allows herself to
Hope – perhaps Nana never died and
It was all a test and she, she wanted
Her back – the only one to have passed
The test – Yes, yes this had to be it
Were her thoughts as she tore it open.
###
Sweet Cassie,
This has been hard on you, sweet child.
The others do not understand what it
Means to be a Fairstrider. You do,
I have watched you since the day you were born.
Outside with you, Cassie. Go to our swing.
Are you sitting down now? Not now, dear one.
Go on, sit. You think I am here watching you.
I am not. I know you. We are of the same mold.
We, the Fairstriders, tend to the gardens of thought.
Not just yours and mine. All thought. We keep the
Soils fertile. We grow the muses on a tree. Some
Will be drawn to words. Some will be drawn to art.
A rare few would be drawn to poetry. Look about you.
Do you see the shimmer? The faintest of glimmers off
To the north east? Yes, that’s the muses growing thirsty.
Don’t hold back or there will be many a poet’s block.
Go out now. Mix and mingle. Laugh and giggle. They know
Pain. Teach them laughter. They know hurt. Teach them love.
They are shy and a skittish bunch. Socialize them.
Befriend them till they can earn a human’s trust.
###
Before her eyes, the letter disintegrated into glitter;
Falling playfully away from fingers, she could not
Resist the smile as she heard them call out
“Look over there! It’s the human muse, herself!”
Entrancing, utterly entrancing.
Oh, yes…!!!
Bless you, Hen 😀
Thanks, Bill 🙂
Wow…I am at a loss for words to describe the enchantment of this poem. Meena, this is amazing!
Thank you, Erin. Sometimes when the “creative” is against the wall, interesting writing emerges. 🙂
What a wondrous piece of winsome imagination! If this is not yet the basis of a short story, it should be!
Hehehe. You are the third person to suggest that this should become a short story. I just might see where this thought thread takes me.
Exquisite! The Rose strikes again
🙂
Thanks, Benjamin.
Winter Garden
Lying fallow now, the ground deceives,
hiding the seeds, the roots deep in the soil,
no hint of spring’s fresh coat of green.
Snow obscures the plow’s furrows,
and cornstalks bend in mock homage
toward the earth. You too must fear
that deep inside, cold as any stone,
my heart lies barren, empty, incapable
of new life. My secret: gestating there
the smallest kernel of my love lives,
awaiting the warmth of your return.
This poem drew me in gently, made me wonder, then set me free. I loved reading it.
yes, we always seem to find a way to regrow love, no matter how frozen the field once seemed.
Yes… we do…(happily)!!
Yes. Beautiful poem, Nancy!
Return to the Garden
I have been too long away
from this garden.
I have forgotten the feel of the living
earth in my hands,
the feel of dew soft on my
fingertips,
the sound of birds greeting
the new day.
Mostly, I have forgotten
the feeling of belonging,
the morning walks
and the conversations,
and the sound of a voice
so sweet,
the birds stop their singing.
The joy, that none other
could ever know …
yes, it is that joy I have
missed the most.
This is a very nice allusion to the old song, or so it seems to me.
it was indeed, seemed to be the only direction i could go once hearing the prompt
Ohh… I Love this!! Welcome back, Mark!!
thank you. not enough hours these days it seems. wish I could be here more
Love it! Those first few lines are so beautiful.
thank you
Mark! Good to see planting here! How’ve you been?
good, thank you, just crazy busy. Writing always seems to take a back seat. Darn kids keep expecting to eat…every day!
Lol!
HIATUS
Under snow
where naught can grow
the roots await the spring;
these denizens of cold and dark
will one day please the meadowlark
with food and covering,
but now, abed
and seeming dead,
they plan the next growth ring.
copyright 2013, William Preston
everything is taking a break, happily with no snow here. Well done.
Yes, amazing they are…
This is magical, William. Looks like we were thinking along the same lines. 🙂
The Flower on the Path
I saw a flower along my path
Beautifully bloomed
With heavenly fragrance
I stopped to touch its petals
And experience its scent
And thought about picking it
For you
I left it where it grew
Undisturbed
Unharmed
For all who walk that path
To enjoy its beauty
And fragrance
For if I had picked it
You would have enjoyed it
For but a day or so
Before it died
And when dead and limp
It would make you sad
That I had picked it
For you
© 2013 Earl Parsons
Wonderful poem; wonderful sentiment.
I agree…
I agree too!
Fine Tuning Trowels to a Vestal Sheen
The garden shines of opaque hunger
and the air is strangely electric. Like a virgin.
You know the sort, they hum and vibrate
when you stand too close. Vestal sirens.
And everything seems to simmer cold
right now. Ice hangs long jowls from limbs
of white-bark birch trees, branches polished
into dazzling bones as the wind
races through the dead and decaying.
It’s a warning of some sort; even stray cats
go quiet, their ears search the air like wings.
The garden is Ligeia’s breath — life
is buried and waiting like small sparks
daring themselves to jump from the fire
and set flame to the world. So I hum the key
of green, fine tuning trowels to a vestal sheen.
I think this is a splendid poem. The allusion to “tuning” the trowels to the hum of the key of green is fascinating, and, to my mind anyway, a bit funny. I loved this.
Glad you liked it, William, and yes, there should be a hint of humour in it. Dark, but humorous.
… yes…
Beautiful!
Thanks, Erin.
Mary, Mary
Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
Right now it ain’t doin’ so well
Under nearly two feet of snow
© 2013 Earl Parsons
I wrote this for all my Northern neighbors. Ain’t no snow down here.
You’re all heart. So’s the poem.
ha, ha, ha… 😀 !!
😀 !!
He He He……….. 😀
This is too CUTE!
[…] P’Blooming “In The Garden” […]
[…] for: P’Blooming “In The Garden”. Photo from […]
Silence Is a Cold Garden
Frost scrapes the air, it rakes
through the greys in my hair.
It tugs at thistle crowns
that once bloomed thick milky down.
Its silence is a cold garden asleep,
buried in mouldy leaf, and beneath
the cold, faint hope persuades
spring into cinnamon strewn roses.
But for now, I am
that French Lieutenant’s woman,
head bowed, hooded and caped, standing
alone on a grey-iced stretched path.
I can but wait for your return. I wait
for snowdrops to bloom white
and jasmine to scent maples slight
with sweet syrup. I wait. As always.
Beautiful.
Yes… Oh so Beautiful…
Beautiful, wistful poem…lovely, Misky!
That garden will thaw out soon enough friend!
Oh, Meg… your Beautiful poem should be engraved on the garden gate of Life… !! 🙂
William… you make me smile… :D!!
IN THE GARDEN OF CHRISTMAS CHEER
It’s almost here,
that time of year where good cheer
and fellowship bloom.
There’s always room for one more
and be sure you will be
welcome to celebrate and reap
what Christmas has sown.
Never overblown, just shown
to have grown in my garden here.
It is Christmas cheer. The seeds
are spread freely, it is really
what every man, woman and child
should find blossoming with very few flaws.
It’s one of my laws! I am Santa Claus!
Wow, some visitors to this garden are out of this world! Thanks for this offering, Santa; it’s needed.
Yay, he’s back! Very nicely done. 🙂
Ditto!
So Nice to see you!!
Yes, my absence will be clearer by week’s end!
Growing Graces
Gardens spring from seeds
Planted firm, erupted germs
Flowering earth free
Spelling bees buzzing
Struggle to describe the art
Of divine design
Young sapling trees stand
Meekly aligned alongside the
Wisdom of the oaks
Sucklings and their folk
Estrange their necks in pursuit
Of the bustling seed
A thousand eyes plead
In greed to seize a moment
Of pulsating bliss
Garden explosion
Of seed strewn in subtlety
Blooms favor in grace
Last line… !!! 🙂 !!
I found this fascinating to read, especially the use of “estrange” in the fourth stanza.
THE GARDEN SLEEPS
The heart of spring lies lost in sleep
nested within the garden’s deep
awaiting the sparrow’s first note
while blanketed by frost and snow.
Specks of color, promises of spring.
Primrose pining to burst with joy,
and crocus braves the blasts of cold
while blanketed by frost and snow.
Buried buds on dormant trees, and
red mid green of holly’s bold leaves,
defy the strength of stormy winds
while blanketed by frost and snow.
The heart of spring lies lost in sleep
while blanketed by frost and snow.
Oh, Lovely, M… !!
Thank You, Hen – Sorry not to comment back sooner – I just seem to be under a lot of busy stuff right now. 🙂
This is gorgeous Marjory. Loved the opening line, repetition. I also love the word “primrose” and the phrase “crocus braves the blasts of cold”. This poem is full of hope!
Gorgeous, indeed. Thanks for posting.
Thanks Bill, am trying to find more time to write, read and comment.
Your writing this week – like your first one the best. 🙂 Fun
I appreciate that – to me poetry should offer what is positive and offer hope. I love my primroses and crocus and love seeing them even surrounded with snow.
Yes…:)
Fruit of the Vine
By David De Jong
I found a garden, growing perfect rows.
Its plants pristine with symmetrical boughs.
Not a blemish shown, canopy to root.
Flawless, yet none could bear, flower or fruit
In a heap, where the sun could barely shine,
Grew an ugly, scraggly, thorn clustered vine.
Its bright blossoms, filled the air with perfume,
The fruit on its vine, so sweet to consume.
I asked the secret of the vine forlorn;
This joy in misery, blessings of toll.
The reply struck me and pierced my soul;
Its tale of pain and great suffering born.
The Master Gardener had sharpened His blade,
Cut the vine to serve its purpose as made,
To fashion a crown, His crown of thorns.
The switch from rhyming couplets to a quatrain at the end helps make this effective, i think. Thanks for posting.
Gardener
I like to watch his face light up
With every shoot his fingers cup,
I like to watch the care that he
Bestows on every flow’r and tree,
I like to see the transformation
In him when he nurtures for God’s creation,
And I like that he’ll do the weeding,
Cause I’d really rather be reading.
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2013
My brother loves gardening, while I frankly hate it. Good thing he’s around in the summer! 😉
There should not be a “for” in line 6.
hanks for this, Erin Kay. I share your sentiments.
Growing Pains
Slip me a pill
And watch me grow,
Fed-ex maturation
From head to toe.
Slip me a pill
And watch me stow,
Bones strapped with muscle,
Yet teach me what you know.
Slip me a pill
Cause me to slow,
A dreamy miracle growth
From head to toe.
For what a man sows,
This he will also reap.
Life spreads evenly in pace
At a price not cheap.
For what is sown is grown
Taken root, born fruit.
Kindness, meekness, love
Thankfulness, patience, humanity
Peacefulness, forgiveness, diligence
Cheerfulness, happiness, purpose
May we mind what is sown,
That we might not weep.
Wonderful!
May we share fruits of that spirit.
Amen
Battle of the Seasons
Snowstorms in August,
Stubborn December roses
November says “times have changed”
As old man winter’s breath imposes
Deep disturbing wintry freezes.
January offers condolences, wishing everyone the best, hoping for a better resolution of heart.
But there stood
A Rose,
Who absolutely
Refused to wilt.
Showing no remorse
Expressing no guilt.
That stiff-necked Rose
Her fighting spirit
Stands yet opposed
To the cold of February.
But she seems to be a dream of dreams
Or…let’s say…of pristine things.
Or even being
An ever-evergreen.
The fight still Marches on…
April, just cries and weeps, cries and weeps, cries and weeps again and yet again.
May exudes toughness, saying “you’d better win this one, cause we ain’t bringing any flowers to your funeral”.
Jolly jumping June bugs hope for joy,
Cheers, still waiting for the verdict…
July boldly declares,
“Fight like hell, for your independence Bring the heat, and don’t let ’em see you sweat”.
In the end that dogged Rose
Stood unopposed singing,
Slightly posed, for the kodaks
Imposing her red with laughter.
I absolutely love this, not the least, being from Rochester, for the use of “kodaks.” That company ain’t what it used to be, but your word recalls the days when it was. Your rose turns out to be stronger than the kodaks.
I still like kodaks, thx.
IN THE CLEARING
Alone.
Desolate.
Left to fend
in bitter disbelief.
Passing days as if they
were parked cars, abandoned,
alone. Desolate. Thinking it’s too late
to feel. To deal with life without a life. Rife
with what other lives discard and leave for refuse.
You choose to wander, hiding in plain daylight, a bright
light hidden, good riddance to the pittance you hold .
But a seed is planted. Covered and watered; nurtured
for future bloom, a room for two where once one existed
You find yourself in a clearing, hearing words spoken
to your broken psyche, imparted to your heart and
you don’t mind that he finds you to be the beauty
you hoped would blossom. Gossamer wings
to take flight and soar to the heights once
reserved for star-crossed souls. Holes
once gaping are taking shape; glued
and repaired. You have been spared,
no longer alone and desolate. Just
a blooming beauty in the arms
of love’s caring gardener.
What was once broken
has been glued, held
until the mends are
seamless. No longer
dreamless, in the
clearing, hearing
words of love
grow on you.
Not desolate
nor alone.
Grown
in love.
For me, the expanded lines in the middle of this poem seem like the clearing, where there is room to see and thus appreciate the coming love. I think this is a splendid piece. Thanks.
A lovely way of looking at a garden! (Nice arrangement on the page, too.)
Gossamer wings…beautiful.
Best wishes to you, Walt.
Santa’s doing great.
WINTER GARDEN
When the clock begins pointing to fall
the old gardener then must install
some new feeders in trees
and new seed, sure to please
the new birds that will soon come to call.
copyright 2013, William Preston
OH, a bird man.
OUTSIDE IN
(a shadorma)
My garden
is limited to
a corner
of my desk
where violets bloom. A bridge
to the outside world.
I have better luck outside than inside – my poor violet is struggling! 🙂
[…] for Poetic Bloomings #133: In The Garden. Also shared at “100 Days of Fall/Winter […]
The Garden Sleeps
The soil rests, slumbering,
snuggled beneath a blanket of snow.
Unyielding and seemingly barren
but the Gardner knows the truth –
as the Gardner plans and dreams of seeds
the garden waits…
anticipating the coming spring
and the loving hands
which will wake her up.
How true, the gardener waits with the garden.
Allis in wonderland
It’s happening again, the demon seed
of what the French call “false friends”
is sprouting its absurd fruit – and how!
I grind towards her, whirring linguistic
gears like my neighbor’s Allis-Chalmers D15
at full throttle. (Yes, he was a farmer. I am not).
She smiles, wide-eyed and trusting, like a baby deer
straddling the dotted line, innocent of the bright
light that will soon scythe her from solid ground.
I’ll be out in the garden, I tell her, with a wave.
But you hate vegetables, she replies, not unkindly.
No, silly – playing football with the grandkids.
You’ll ruin the tomatoes – play on the lawn!
We look at each other. After twenty-five years,
our holy union remains mostly uncultivated.