Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.
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I Will Wait
Behind the tomato fence
I sit as quietly as Sunday
waiting for her to come
and hum me Camelot,
where I have won a showdown
with the red wasps that stole
her ruby nectar.
But the only sound I hear
are the flirty chirps of sparrows,
and the only thing I feel
is air.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
And when I catch sight of her
I know I'll gasp just like I always do.
She steals my heart away in chunks you see,
but she will blow me off
not even noticing I am here
worshiping her shimmer.
Still, I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
Meanwhile fragrant basil
smiles my mood,
and rosemary is drying.
There is an eye full of brightest brilliant blue,
and a crescent of white moon dying.
Here I will wait
behind the tomato fence,
sitting as quietly as Sunday
for her to come
and hum me Camelot.
poem by Sara Fielder
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Sit quiety, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself.
Spring Has Sprung
Spring has sprung
With the abundance
Of blossoming flowers
The feel of affection
With kindling of love
When two souls meet
The spring bring such delight
In the early morning light
With hearts of satisfaction
Spring brings sweet smells
Of lily of the valley
Where the green grass grows
Where the water flows
And children are playing
With fun and laughter
One would say that
Spring has sprung
With such loveliness
That can only be felt
This time of year
With such an exhilaration
poem by Scott Austin
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A Calgary Morn
Sitting on my friend’s deck
soaking up the morning sun
that promise of another wonderful day
while watching the birds at play,
with the only sound to mar the silence
is a lawnmower cutting grass somewhere,
which scents the air
with the sweet smell of newly cut grass.
I sit quietly with my thoughts
wondering what surprises
this Calgary day is going to bring.
Sunshine smiles from my friends
with a hug or two.
This beautiful Calgary morn
holds much to love
and want to cling on too.
(7 July 2011)
poem by David Harris
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Coming Of Spring
Coming of spring over the fields
she sitting there in the tall grass
talking of the effects of art on the
human mind and fragile heart and
you sitting there beside her your
hand near hers as it lay there and
you half listening to her words while
taking in a glimpse of thigh showing
where her skirt rides high out of the
corner of your eye and she saying
without the essence art life would be
a mistake and you lean forward and
kiss her neck sensing the softness of
skin the smell of sweet scent wishing
Rubens or Renoir could capture her
with brush and oils and by stretched
canvas held with the coming of spring
in this green field where songbirds sing.
poem by Terry Collett
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Perpetual Motion
What (said the poet) should we care
For all this mad world's phantasies,
For rumours rife upon the air
Of terrors looming overseas?
If so, the soul were plagued alway
With far-fetched grieving, what of mirth?
For somewhere sorror broods all day;
Yet laughter, too, inhabits earth.
For the sun shines and the grass grows,
And the ferns nod above the stream
That down this placid valley flows;
Then let us rest a while, and dream.
For the grass grows as the sun shines,
And the stream flows and sings a song
To chide the sad heart that repines
Ah, summer, summer, linger long!
What (I gave answer) badgers me
Are not the tragedies of earth.
Despite your gay philosophy
Of seeking joy and claiming mirth
For boon companions as you go,
Oft times these very joys oppress
And suns that shine and streams that flow
May be a source of weariness.
For the grass grows and the sun gleams
To sear the grass and, where they flow,
I must bring water from the streams
To make the blinking grass to grow.
And the sun gleams and the grass grows -
Indeed I know it well enough;
For as it springs where water flows
I've got to cut the blasted stuff.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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New Spring
Spring!
Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring! How wonderful is the
Spring! How majestic is the
Spring! How fantastic is the
Spring! How tantalizing is the
Spring! How glorious is the
Spring! How melodious is the
Spring! How joyful is the
Spring! How breathtaking is the
Spring! How uplifting the
Spring! How happy is the
Spring! How magnificent is the
Spring! How colorful is the
Spring! How tasteful is the
Spring! How memorable was the
Spring! How flavorful is the
Spring! How aromic is the
Spring! How sweet is
Spring! How beautiful is the
Spring!
poem by Mario Saboundjian
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The test of an adventure is that when you're in the middle of it, you say to yourself, 'Oh, now I've got myself into an awful mess I wish I were sitting quietly at home.' And the sign that something's wrong with you is when you sit quietly at home wishing you were out having lots of adventure.
While the storm outside is quieting down
Next to me you lie peaceful and quietly
while we are finding deeper meaning
and no emotion is spilled into words.
Next to me you lie peaceful and quietly
and I see your arm hairs rising
from pleasure like a tree flowering in spring
and next to me you lie peaceful and quietly
while we are finding deeper meaning.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Where the Green Grass Grows
There once was a girl,
walking down the road,
looking for where the green gras grows.
She met a guy,
and thought he was good,
until he left her
for where the green grass grows.
She found a friend
and thought she would last,
until she left her for where the green grass grows.
The girl kept on walking
until she found
the spot where the green grass grew.
She found the guy
and her old, old friend
and then realized
that their happy
world would soon end.
Then the girl ran off
back to the town
and realized
she couldnt be any happier
than in her own little town.
poem by Amanda Marie Harrington
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Life Is Changing
In life everything changes
Winter changes to Spring
Spring changes to Summer
Summer changes to Fall
Fall changes back into Winter
The green grass dies for winter
and grows back in Summer
If there is no struggle there is no progress
if there is no hardship there is no happiness
you can never be through changing
for when you are done changing
you are done living
poem by Athena Macknight
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G.flower
The grass
was very happy
butttefly sitting...
at a time grass
think a flower....
a grass flower...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Apple Blossoms
Apple blossoms, the smell is in the air,
I cast aside my doubts,
The grass is green, the sky is clear,
Spring burst forth in a profusion of colors,
Replacing in its stride the gloom of winter,
The ice around my heart is melting,
The warmth of spring fills me with a rush,
Apple blossoms a spectacle of red,
Falling amid the grass,
Making a colorful array of green and red,
Along with the sunshine,
What more could one ask,
Apple blossoms, spring is here at last!
poem by Marva Seaton
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Flippity Floppity Plop
am sitting by the side of a pond,
the fresh morning crisp,
full of new born oxygen,
waiting to meet my lungs
am sitting watching still waters,
the liquid surface glassy,
thin like gossamer,
unbroken by bulbous eyed frogs
am sitting inhaling the silken fog,
the moist sweetness enlivening
wispy blanket around,
wrapping me in my thoughts
am sitting listening to birds,
deep distant sounds,
some quarreling, others singing,
my eardrums playing along
am sitting giving nature company,
lilies quietly rubbing their eyes
lazy morning stretching her arms,
sunlight plucking his guitar
am sitting by the side of awe,
when a cheery little fish
breaks through the surface
and flips me a good morning plop
poem by Prathap Suthan
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The Nightingale
When grass grows green, and fresh leaves spring,
And flowers are budding on the plain,
When nightingales so sweetly sing,
And through the greenwood swells the strain,
Then joy I in the song and in the flower,
Joy in myself, but in my lady more;
All objects round my spirit turns to joy,
But most from her my rapture rises high.
poem by Bernard de Ventadorn
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The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea
He held one in his hands to sing,
Which filled his heart with glee.
Infants, the children of the spring!
How can an infant die
When butterflies are on the wing,
Green grass, and such a sky?
How can they die at spring?
He held his hands for daisies white,
And then for violets blue,
And took them all to bed at night
That in the green fields grew,
As childhood's sweet delight.
And then he shut his little eyes,
And flowers would notice not;
Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
He now no blossoms got;
They met with plaintive sighs.
When winter came and blasts did sigh,
And bare were plain and tree,
As he for ease in bed did lie
His soul seemed with the free,
He died so quietly.
poem by John Clare
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How Boomer Ruined Our Hunting Trips
For years we have gone hunting.
I've loved sitting next to him in his deer blind
or sitting quietly in my own.
Now that Boomer came into our lives
I see all living animals as having feelings
and I can't stand the thought of hunting.
Boomer is our bassett hound.
He thinks he is human.
I sometimes think so too.
The way he has shown me
that he feels things like we do
has changed me forever.
Now, all I can think of is that
if a dog can feel emotions like we do...
can a deer?
Are they afraid?
Do they know why we are sitting there?
Do they hate me?
I have to explain this to my husband
and pray he understands why
our hunting days together are over.
April Music
I'd like to spend
April, sitting on a hill,
With a mushroom for
a parasol and violets
for a frill. And the
wind for a violin, To
play spring tunes,
And the blossoms in
the treetops, For gay
balloons. I'd like to spend
April sitting on a
mound, Watching for
the flowers to pop out
of the ground. With
their green silk stockings,
And new spring clothes,
Trying to look taller
by dancing on their toes!
1993
poem by S./j. Goldner
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New flower
grass
was
smile
with buuterfly
sitting
on the grass...
open and close
the beautyfull hands
a new flower...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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She Spins Silk
Far up river in Szechuan,
waters rise as spring winds roar.
How can I dare to meet her now,
to brave the dangerous gorge?
The grass grows green in the valley below
where silk worms silently spin.
Her hands work threads that never end,
dawn to dusk when the cuckoo sings.
Li T'ai-po
tr. Hamil