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Garden Poems Wanted

purple

 

We would love to see your poetry about gardening

Please send them to: gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

What do you know of Spring – Promote Yourself

hydranger

What Do You Know of Spring?

for Julia

For what do you know of seasons,

child? of long awaited flowers? You

pluck them without thinking, without knowing

an old woman’s joy of looking out

of winter’s monochromatic gloom

each morning to find that, yes! the flowers are

in bloom! How could you know

that daffodils and tulips peeking

through green ribbons nod assurance that spring

is here and will stay until the blossoms

fade, dry to brown, and crumble

to dust? But you, in your unbridled lust

for the present, in the wastefulness of youth,

have thoughtlessly, and thoughtfully,

ripped every flower from its stem

and now, with triumphant smile, offer

them—already in the stages of death—

to me as if they were a secret only you

had discovered, but wanted

to share. I turn to hide my tears. Forcing

all of spring into a single vase for a single

day, I feign delight, then you, having done

your good deed, bounce

away. The next morning I hear you call, “Granny!”

I drag my weary bones up, and look out

at the gray yard. Only barren stems and leaves

remain. But then I see your beautiful face, precious

child, smiling at me as if to say . . . I

am Spring.

Published in From the Depths of Red Bluff, A Collection of Poems by Wynne Huddleston

—————————————————————————————————–

Before Breakfast

 

Day rips off night’s blanket, leaving

a chill in the air. Before sky awakens

to fire up the gas oven and cook his egg,

easy-over for breakfast, I race

to the garden then tiptoe through grass

taking its dewy bath. Blue morning

glory yawns open and reaches out

to shake my hand, while bees pronounce

apple trees “husband and wife,”

then set out on a trip for the honey. I pick

the pink-eyed purple-hull peas and proceed

to the corn, twist off the mature

that have lost their soft, golden hair,

and are pleasantly plump. The big boy

tomatoes wearing green crowns

are about to jump off; I take them before

they split, and roll down the hill like Jack.

I pick up the baby squash, lying nearby

in its bed of straw, underneath

a canopy of enormous green hearts.

Published in The Green Silk Journal, Spring 2011

Wynne Huddleston
Mississippi Poetry Society 2014 Poet of the Year
available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Dear Gillian and Thomas,

I enjoy reading your posts and poems. Here are two poems about gardens/flowers. I hope you can use one or both. They were both previously published. Although I am not what I consider “old,” “What Do You Know of Spring?” is from an old woman’s point of view. The poem is based on a true incident in which my granddaughter picked all the blooms off my hydrangea. But I realized that she was more important than the flowers, and I can never read the poem without tears. The second poem, “Before Breakfast” was inspired one summer when I was working in my parents’ garden. They would get to the garden so early (and I, not an early riser) had to struggle to get there in time to help them!

Bio: Wynne Huddleston is a poet, musician, teacher, and author of From the Depths of Red Bluff (Mississippi Poetry Society, Inc., 2014). Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including Birmingham Arts Journal, Four and Twenty, Orange Room Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and The Mom Egg. Ms. Huddleston was workshop leader for the 2011 Mid-South Poetry Festival in Memphis, TN, and has served as board member for both the Mississippi Writers Guild and the Mississippi Poetry Society. More info at http://wynnehuddleston.wordpress.com/

Thank you,

A DIFFICULT DECISION

history
 
History has so many lessons to teach us
So many truths that we can discern
We might be concerned with events in the past
But it is the future which should be our main concern
 
This future will depend upon the preparation we make
The willingness to use the skills that we possess
To hone them to the peak of perfection
And not to adopt the attitude of those who couldn’t care less
 
There are some who think the world owes them a living
And that others should provide the benefits they crave
That a good pension will be provided for them in their old age
And that there is no need for them to save
 
But recent revelations have shown this to be an illusion
And that the country cannot afford the sums involved
That the number of people drawing pensions is increasing
It is a problem that must ultimately be solved
 
Otherwise the future for the older generations will be bleak
As they struggle to survive on what others can afford
If the poor cannot save for their old age
Then the Government will need to do something we can applaud
 
How much longer can the problem be ignored?
Can we continue to bury our heads in the sand?
It is a serious problem with which we are confronted
One which demands that the solution is carefully planned
 
Unless taxation is going to be dramatically increased
Then better use must be made of the revenue they currently take
Either way this will involve sacrifices by those enjoying a good standard
It’s a difficult decision that any future government must make 

Ron Martin

My Garden

gog

My garden is a place i love to be

It’s like an island set in a tempestuous sea

Where i can withdraw from the problems of life

From a world torn with trouble and strife

It’s a place where contentment can be found

In appreciating the beauty which is all around

Above the silence there can be heard

The buzzing of the bee or the chirping fo a bird

It’s a place where many colours catch the eye

I can behold the beauty of the butterfly

If one looks closely there can be seen

Signs of where the aphis and slugs have been

Sometimes i get the feeling that i am not on my own

And that other power seeks to make its presence known

The fragrance of the flowers provides the air

And god seems to be speaking to me there

When i contemplate the power of the one in control

Peace and serenity descend upon my soul

I ask myself how did all this come to be?

And without god it must remain a mystery.

Ron Martin

Under The Greenwood Tree by William Shakespeare – Famous poets

tree2

Under the greenwood tree
     Who loves to lie with me,
     And turn his merry note
     Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
   Come hither, come hither, come hither:
     Here shall he see
     No enemy
   But winter and rough weather.      Who doth ambition shun,
    And loves to live i’ the sun,
    Seeking the food he eats,
    And pleas’d with what he gets,
  Come hither, come hither, come hither:
    Here shall he see
    No enemy
  But winter and rough weather.

  by William Shakespeare 
YOUR  FAVOURITE  POEM SENT IN BY YOU
WHATS YOURS ?
SEND TO  : poetreecreations@yahoo.com

COASTWISE BARGES- YOUR FAVOURITE POEM

Barge logo

 

Poem, origin unknown, found in handwritten notes of the late Frank Willmott.Buxom barges drifting,
Outward with the tide,
Outward, onwards, seawrad,
Where buoys and beacons guide.
Bound with Grain for Yarmouth,

Ghistong down the Swin,
Hasting, winding, storming,
From Lowerstoft to Kings Lynn.Every port and haven
From Tyne to Cawsand Bay,
Still sees the barges trading
With fresh cargoes every day.Laden deep with sugar,
with barley, sand or coke,
Spritties keep on sailin,
They were built of English oak.But their day is passing,
Fewer with each tide,
Grace old London’s river,
Long may their rare charm abide

YOUR FAVOURITE POEM 

SENT IN BY YOU

WHAT’S YOUR’S

Pat the cat

Pat was a pussy cat

Who was very  fat

Pat got stuck in the cat flap,

They rang the Police

And the Firebrigade,

And the Ambulance too,

But no-one  knew what to do

The policeman asked the fireman

The fireman asked the ambulanceman,

So they pulled his head and then his tail

This made the cat wail

Then they didn’t feed him

So he became quite thin,

Then he popped out of the cat flap

With a smiley grin

By Brendon Wakefeild

 6 years old

With a little bit of help from gran and grandad



Grandad’s mate made a video

It’s on YouTube under Gillian Sims

IT’S GREAT!!!

Money madness

One day I found a spider
And trapped him in a jar
Hoping he would bring me luck
Without me looking far
He was a money spider
I hope he brings me some
There’s nothing in my wallet
When do you think it will come?
I ask him everyday
To help me grow my tree
He doesn’t seem to want to help
Or bring anything for me
Maybe I should let him go
Then he might give in
I think I’ll let him live in peace
And see what he will bring
But as I go to release him
I notice the web he made
Has turned into a paper bill
Which to me he gave
He seems to enjoy his new home
And so I keep him there
And each and every single day
He makes money which he shares.
 
       Abbe Cutforth

ANOTHER LITTLE DITTY

writingxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
ANOTHER LITTLE DITTY
I’M TOLD IT SHOULD BE TRUE
TO STOP WOULD BE A PITY
THE THOUGHTS THEY MUST BE NEW

I’LL NEED A LITTLE TIME
TO FIND THE WORDS TO FIT
FIRST OF COURSE THERE IS THE RHYME
AND NEXT A LITTLE WIT

BUT MORE I THINK IS NEEDED HERE
THAN JUST A PHRASE OR TWO
A LITTLE FUN, A LITTLE CHEER
TODAY THAT’S ALL TOO FEW

SO THAT’S THE WAY I’LL WRITE THIS ONE
I’LL DO THE BEST I CAN
WHEN ALL IS SAID AND ALL IS DONE
THAT ALWAYS IS THE PLAN

WELL THEN I GAVE IT MY BEST SHOT
YOU CANNOT SAY I LIED
EVEN THOUGH I NEVER FOUGHT
AT LEAST THEY’LL SAY I TRIED.

NOW ANOTHER DITTY

NOW ANOTHER DITTY
IS FLOWING FROM MY PEN
I GUESS I’M JUST TOO WITTY
WITH THIS MY SECRET YEN

TO MAKE THE WORDS ALL RHYME
WITH SUCH A SILLY BEAT
THE LONGING MUST BE STRONG THIS TIME
JUST WATCH ME STAMP MY FEET

I KNOW NOT IF I COME OR GO
BUT I’LL NOT LOSE MY SMILE
LIFE’S TOO FUN FOR ANY WOE
AND I’LL NOT SUFFER VILE

SO INSTEAD I ACT THE FOOL
AND MAKE THE OTHERS LAUGH
HUMOUR USED IS JUST A TOOL
WITH WHICH TO MAKE A GAFF

AND NOW THE STORY’S TOLD TO YOU
I REALLY SHOULD BE GONE
I’LL LEAVE BEHIND THIS SILLY ZOO
BUT PLEASE I BEG DON’T YAWN.

SILLY DITTY

THE TIME HAS COME TO STOP THIS DITTY
THE WRITING IS SO SILLY
BUT YET AGAIN I’LL SHOW I’M WITTY
AND PEN ANOTHER DILLY

THEN EVERYONE WOULD KNOW
THE GENIUS THAT I AM
NOT FOR ME THE CASE OF WOE
I MEAN TO LEAVE THIS JAM

I’D WING ALOFT TO PLACES FAR
FOR FAMOUS I WOULD BE
NEVER FEAR I’D BE A STAR
THEN ALL THE WORLD WOULD SEE

BUT HERE PERHAPS I THINK I’LL STAY
A SILLY SCRIBE AT HEART
THE WORLD OF WEALTH I’LL KEEP AT BAY
AND FEAR A REAL GOOD START

NOT THE LAST THIS DITTY IS
I’M SURE I’LL POSE ANOTHER
SURE TO HOPE MY MIND WON’T FIZZ
I’LL STILL BE HERE FOR TOTHER.

 

SILLY LITTLE DITTY

THIS SILLY LITTLE DITTY
IS JUST TO MAKE A POINT
WORDS TO PROVE I’M WITTY
I REALLY MUST ANOINT

A PERSON AS MY SPEAKER
I’M SUCH A HUMBLE SOUL
THE FULLNESS OF MY BEAKER
I THINK I’VE HIT MY GOAL

IF THINGS WERE ANY BETTER
I COULDN’T STAND MYSELF
PERHAPS I NEED A FETTER
TO KEEP ME ON A SHELF

SO I END THIS LITTLE RAMBLE
THROUGH PHRASES SO DIVINE
NEVER ONE TO GAMBLE
GOODBYE JUST SUITS ME FINE.

WITTY DITTY

THIS DITTY WRITING REALLY
IS JUST TO PASS THE TIME
I KNOW IT IS QUITE SILLY
THAT EVERYTHING MUST RHYME

THAT’S THE WAY I AM I GUESS
I’VE HEARD IT SAID OF ME
I HAVE MY QUIRKS I MUST CONFESS
BUT THEY’RE WHAT MAKE ME, ME

I’VE BEEN TOLD THAT I AM DRIVEN
I HOPE IT ISN’T SO
I’M JUST A PERSON, THAT’S A GIVEN
WHO KNOWS IT’S TIME TO GO.

 

YET ANOTHER DITTY

YET ANOTHER DITTY
I CANNOT STOP IT SEEMS
TOO SOON I’LL LOSE MY WITTY
AND MUST RESORT TO TEAMS

PEOPLE ALL AROUND ME SURE
THAT I WILL FALL AT LAST
BUT TO MYSELF I’LL STILL BE PURE
AND GIVE A LITTLE BLAST

I’LL GET MY MOTORS GOING STRONG
AND THEN I’LL BE MORE BRIGHT
WHAT CAN I SAY I MAY BE WRONG
BUT WAIT I MAY BE RIGHT

THAT’S ENOUGH TODAY I THINK
IT REALLY WAS QUITE FUN
I DO NOT WISH TO SEEM A FINK
BUT NOW THIS DITTY’S DONE.

Pamela Read

‘My upside down inside out girl’

You’re my upside down inside out girl.
Left is right and right is left.
‘It’s toast on cheese and toast on
egg’;
stop it falling with a peg!
It’s inside when you mean outside
and outside when you mean inside.
So you are out when you you’re in
and in when you’re out!
It’s no wonder I start to doubt.
Go down when you mean up
and up when you mean down.
Such information makes me frown;
especially when we arrive in the wrong
town!
‘Is it left or right?’
‘I don’t know!’
Well it makes life interesting,
wondering which way to go.
‘I know being dyslexic
means you can’t be specific
but I think one of these days,
we’ll end up in the Pacific!’
by Simon Icke
More of Simon’s poetry can be found at
:
www.forcespoetry.com
www.footballpoets.org
www.poetreecreations.org

THE GARDEN OF THE LORD

purple

When the Lord takes a walk in his garden,

He surveys all the beauty around,

There are so many beautiful flowers,

Colours that carpet the ground.

In one corner of the garden,

Protected from wind and storm,

Are Gods little Children?

Just waiting to be born.

He decides when they are ready,

To be born upon this earth,

He will choose their parents,

The mother to give birth.

He then will pick that flower,

Then send it on its way,

To experience the material world,

On which that child will stay.

So remember when you see a new born child,

It came from the Lord with love,

For its parents to love and cherish,

Sent from the Lords garden above.

Malcolm G Bradshaw     

Natures rest

scarcrow

Whilst the lilies blaze

In the summer rays

The butterflies dance

In their summer romance

The robin awaits

The fresh worms to escape

From the ground

They tease, until they are found

Where gardeners sow

Fresh veg to grow

Potatoes, leeks and marrow

The scarecrow stands so proud

Thankful for the sunshine now

He watches with an evil eye

When the birds reluctantly pass by

Roses parade along the fence

Flirting with the bees,

Soaking up their heavy scent

Capturing the moment

Of this summer scene

Gillian Sims

Send your poetry to gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

Four Poems by Philip Larkin

DOCKERY AND SON

“Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn’t he?” said the Dean. “His son’s here now.”
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. “And do

You keep in touch with—” Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
“Our version” of “these incidents last night”?
I try the door of where I used to live:

Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and college subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In ‘43, when I was twenty-one
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn

High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much…How little…Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong

Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of…No, that’s not the difference: rather, how

Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They’re more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we’ve got.

And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son’s harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.

HOME IS SO SAD

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery
The music in the piano stool. That vase.

REFERENCE BACK

That was a pretty one, I heard you call
From the unsatisfactory hall
To the unsatisfactory room where I
Played record after record, idly,
Wasting my time at home, that you
Looked so much forward to.

Oliver’s Riverside Blues, it was. And now
I shall, I suppose, always remember how
The flock of notes those antique negroes blew
Out of Chicago air into
A huge remembering pre-electric horn
The year after I was born
Three decades later made this sudden bridge
From your unsatisfactory age
To my unsatisfactory prime.

Truly, though our element is time,
We are not suited to the long perspectives
Open at each instant of our lives.
They link us to our losses: worse,
They show us what we have as it once was,
Blindingly undiminished, just as though
By acting differently, we could have kept it so.

MCMXIV

Those long uneven lines
Standing as patiently
As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,
The crowns of hats, the sun
On moustached archaic faces
Grinning as if it were all
An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached
Established names on the sunblinds,
The farthings and sovereigns,
And dark-clothed children at play
Called after kings and queens,
The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs
Wide open all day;

And the countryside not caring:
The place-names all hazed over
With flowering grasses, and fields
Shadowing Domesday lines
Under wheat’s restless silence;
The differently-dressed servants
With tiny rooms in huge houses,
The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,
Never before or since,
As changed itself to past
Without a word—the men
Leaving the gardens tidy,
The thousands of marriages
Lasting a little while longer:
Never such innocence again.

By

Philip Larkin

ONE OF MY FAVOURITE  POETS

TAKE A WALK IN YOUR GARDEN – Promote Yourself

dafs

As I a walk through my garden,

I see wonders to behold,

The beautiful colours of nature,

All these to me unfold.

We all take nature for granted,

For the things we gaze upon,

For the sound of birds on the wing,

For the melodious trill of their song.

Who creates a beautiful garden?

What power surrounds all within,

Who places peace in that garden?

We should know, for it comes from him.

The creator of the universe,

Is instilled within every flower,

Giving out love and harmony,

Giving out compassion and healing power.

So next time you walk in your garden,

Be aware of the things that you see,

For all the things in your garden,

Were created for you and me.

Malcolm G Bradshaw

In My Garden – Promote Yourself

robin_red_breast_bird_on_log

When I work in my garden

I feel the sun on my face

I listen to the birds singing

For my garden is a magical place

When I start to dig in my garden

The worms are tossed around

The robin sits down beside me

Eating the worms from the ground

When I cut my lawns with the mower

There’s a sweet aroma from the grass

Patterns made by the mower blades

Through time they will not last

I find peace within my garden

For there is so much beauty around

The sound of the songbirds singing

Creating such a melodious sound

Next time you are working in your garden

Remember you are not alone

Thank Mother Nature for her bounty

Allowing you to be working in her home

Malcolm Bradshaw

Gardening Poems – Promote Yourself

maze 2 

Nothing has grown yet
in my one-week-old garden

I wonder will the little seeds
make it through early Spring’s late frost?

did I plant too soon?
was I over-anxious to begin?

I stick my finger in the ground –
it feels warm inside, underneath,

just half an inch deep where my seeds
rest – I think they will survive.

April 19, 2015

the garden is my primary place
for meditation these days,
in these majestic mountains,
in this place of serenity and beauty

I inherit an abandoned plot –
weeds have overgrown
last year’s plantings
and perennials –

preparing the beds for planting
i dig up old carrot roots,
unfound potatoes, decomposing,
and sundry forms of organic life

I crumble the good earth
with my fingers – I feel
the power in the soil
to sustain a new growth

with a shovel and a rake
I turn the old soil over,
exposing its underside
to sunlight and fresh air

then sprinkle a little mulch
in the furrows that form –
spread the mixture slowly,
evenly, to form a flat bed

it’s like an open wound,
exposed, that heals quickly
with sunshine and oxygen –
it’s time to place the seeds –

I punch holes gently, gently
in the heaping, heaving mound
and drop two or three seeds
into each little womb, and wait . . .

weeds grow like, well, weeds,
and must be plucked, removed –
and on dry days there is watering –
& waiting & hoping

today’s meditation is complete –
my body is tired from digging,
raking, bending, touching the soil –
I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

another gardening poem – June 26, 2015

we are
the invasive species.
Like weeds,
our broad green leaves
block out sunlight
to the seeded plants –
our well-adapted root system
drains away nutrients
from below.

 

Raymond Maxwell <raymond.maxwell@gmail.com> P.S. A couple more gardening poems from Mountain Verse (copyright 2015): gardening – June 2, 2015 gardening has given me a different relationship with the environment than what I had before – weather

 

Sunday Afternoon

 

Jan 1 (5)

 

I walk to find

 Peace of mind

By the water’s edge,

River bursting from the rain

Still it feels the same

White feathered friends

Swim by my side

Like a dedicated friend,

Creating ripples

Causing no harm

Creating ripples of calm,

A window of still life

Walking by the waters side

A gust of wind now picks up my hair,

I’m in a place where I really don’t care

We should all take the time

To go somewhere tranquil

Searching that  peace of mind

 

Gillian Sims

Top 10 Poems

cpawordpressheader

What are the world’s most popular poems?

Between May 15th 2007, and March 21st, 2008, Classic Poetry Aloud had some half a million downloads from across the globe. This shows the most downloaded poems, and so the world’s most popular poems, to be:

  1. She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron
  2. Ode to Autumn by John Keats
  3. If by Rudyard Kipling
  4. Sonnet 18: Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day? by William Shakespeare
  5. Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
  6. How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
  7. O Captain! My Captain! by Walt Whitman
  8. Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley
  9. Death by John Donne
  10. Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats
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