Related quotes
Quarrels are essence.
Internal quarrels produce poetry.
Societal quarrels bring out story.
External quarrels adduce theory.
Sexual quarrels reproduce arts.
05.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rake It In
I am here again
Tied up in your torture frame
Printed paper, guilty to blame
The story stays the same
Dry me out
Run me down
Burn me out
And rake it in, you rake it in
Rake it in, you rake it in, yeah
A slave upon your plate
I am your dreams, yeah your life and your bait
Selfish schemes, I proceed, you await
You my indefinite hate
Do you know what my chopping blocks for?
Do you know what my hanging braids for?
Do you know what my chamber maids for?
Can you guess what i, what I have in store for you?
song performed by by Imogen Heap
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Snake Rhymes
I did in my garden see a Snake.
Curled calmly around the gardener's rake.
Knowing that my dear life was at stake,
I beckoned in fright to my son Jake.
"Get the matchbox and fuel for God's sake.
Burn him or precious lives he might take.
Recall the curse that came in the wake
of man's sin for which God did forsake
him in a world he couldn't retake."
But swiftly the Snake made for the lake.
poem by Joseph C Ogbonna (18 June 2016)
Submitted by Joseph C Ogbonna
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The garden is my weeping heart
There is no fertilizer at all
But they grow without any quarrels.
Flowers in different colors
And varieties of fragrance.
I have no fence and restrictions too.
Birds, bees, butterflies and hornets idle.
Some trespassers with strong hands,
Sometimes very cruel.
Please do not pluck in that way as it's painful
And let the flowers wither.
One day I have to abandon the garden
As my soul takes wings.
But you find another gardener there.
* Spring comes and goes, yet comes again.
What a wonderful shuttle the nature is?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It is true, I see it more often
That for the sake of a single rose
The gardener becomes the servant
To a hundred thorns
So let the gardener come
To my house
And I will teach him how to be wise.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pick It Up Or Be Gone
Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Don't try to imitate,
Homemade cake.
Oh no.
And don't ever try to duplicate,
A delicious taste.
Or...
Butter up faked mashed potatos.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's given.
Pick it up or be gone.
What's there.
Pick it up or be gone.
The steak.
Or the rake.
Or the keys,
To open the gate!
Now...
Pick it up or be gone.
Oooow.
Pick it up or be gone.
Yeah.
Pick it up or be gone.
Now...
Pick it up or be gone!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Song of the Garden-Toad
Down, down beneath the daisy beds,
O hear the cries of pain!
And moaning on the cinder-path
They're blind amid the rain.
Can murmurs of the worms arise
To higher hearts than mine?
I wonder if that gardener hears
Who made the mold all fine
And packed each gentle seedling down
So carefully in line?
I watched the red rose reaching up
To ask him if he heard
Those cries that stung the evening earth
Till all the rose-roots stirred.
She asked him if he felt the hate
That burned beneath them there.
She asked him if he heard the curse
Of worms in black despair.
He kissed the rose. What did it mean?
What of the rose's prayer?
Down, down where rain has never come
They fight in burning graves,
Bleeding and drinking blood
Within those venom-caves.
Blaspheming still the gardener's name,
They live and hate and go.
I wonder if the gardener heard
The rose that told him so?
poem by Vachel Lindsay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0013 Pink Without Think
My friend the gardener who manages
to combine romantic or ex-romantic
with realist and fine poet and
loving gardener and teacher
and much else, harmoniously,
points out to me that the pink geranium
swinging gently in its hanging basket
in the late September sun, with
an effusive burst of flowering
which it alternates with exhausted,
barely green recovery and dry stalk,
puts on this display simply (simply!)
to attract insects to accidentally
(accidentally!) aid it to
propagate its species..
so I, who am nothing to it
except perhaps a passing Samaritan
who gives it water in a thirsty summer
and, perhaps irrelevantly, perhaps
from deeper cause,
received just now a shout
of pure pinkness from it so that
my senses thrilled, passed the message uncommented
to what seemed like my purest being,
am indeed attracted, my nature to that of it,
animal or human I’ll leave others to decide,
and from that vaguest of cosmic relevance
intend to see it through the winter
to the birth of Spring or spring of birth
with what - my gardener friend -
may well be love
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Work of Artifice
The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.
poem by Marge Piercy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0018 Man Raking Leaves (re Jim Morrison lyric)
The sound of wooden rake scratching concrete.
walk nearer - rustle of dry leaves.
This, the beginning of a Japanese haiku
or maybe a Japanese film -
dry sound first, then rake, then leaves, then man -
that evokes autumn
too near the heart
to need a title
the sound stops. silence. man leans on rake.
then match strikes, there's almost yes an echo
from the dry leaves not yet fallen from the trees
in the forest all around.
then the first tickle in the nostrils
of burning leaves which
the two-year old scrunching through the trees
hand in hand with older sister
will remember all his life
like the silence between
two lines of a haiku or
the silence of the moment when the seasons turn.
and who can say
what the golden-orange-yellow-brown trees
slowly stripping in a rustle as of silken nightgown
to the tune of, more a whisper than a breeze -
what the trees feel
as the incense of their, their, burning leaves
steals like a last caress
for each such faithful
lover?
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Rake At The Gates Of Hell
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds,
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight
Yigh!
I wish that they could walk forever,
On the earth, alone, unfettered
Til they pray for consolation,
Til they beg for sweet damnation
Then I'll come and bring them water,
Bring them hope, bring them laughter
Raise their hopes so sad and sunken
Slash them up as they lie there drunken
Push them down into the foul mud
Til they choke up on their own blood
Drag them out before their last breath
To take away the mercy of death
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight
Yigh!
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the Gates of Hell tonight
Mother's eyes are sparkling diamonds
Still the moon shows no light
This rose is withered, may God deliver
The rake at the gates of hell tonight
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gardener
The gardener does not love to talk,
He makes me keep the gravel walk;
And when he puts his tools away,
He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row
Where no one else but cook may go,
Far in the plots, I see him dig
Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red and blue,
Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,
And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes,
And winter comes with pinching toes,
When in the garden bare and brown
You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays
To profit by these garden days
O how much wiser you would be
To play at Indian wars with me!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To My Friend - Ode I
TRANSPLANT the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
A happier resting-place
Its trunk deserved.
Yet the strength of its nature
To Earth's exhausting avarice,
To Air's destructive inroads,
An antidote opposed.
See how it in springtime
Coins its pale green leaves!
Their orange-fragrance
Poisons each flyblow straight.
The caterpillar's tooth
Is blunted by them;
With silv'ry hues they gleam
In the bright sunshine,
Its twigs the maiden
Fain would twine in
Her bridal-garland;
Youths its fruit are seeking.
See, the autumn cometh!
The caterpillar
Sighs to the crafty spider,--
Sighs that the tree will not fade.
Hov'ring thither
From out her yew-tree dwelling,
The gaudy foe advances
Against the kindly tree,
And cannot hurt it,
But the more artful one
Defiles with nauseous venom
Its silver leaves;
And sees with triumph
How the maiden shudders,
The youth, how mourns he,
On passing by.
Transplant the beauteous tree!
Gardener, it gives me pain;
Tree, thank the gardener
Who moves thee hence!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Age Time
You have lost the stage of supremacy
So only alternate left is intimacy
You don’t want to loose privacy
Hence tune on suitable frequency
It gets deeps with passing of an age
You may feel confined to cage
You are written off as spent force
Only few may love and others curse
You need strong partner
Who can understand you as gardener?
Gardener may also need support
As it may depend more on good rapport
You know more of your inability
That has already proved as bad quality
You are not wanted by any of the section
It all depends only on your action
You know your limits and hence nurturing
Render the advices and almost tutoring
You may need isolation and safe stay
Not wrong people may be preferred but kept away
It is more of compulsion than necessity
As it has grown out of your inability
It has come to you from sheer time passage
One must think carefully about it and manage
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In quarrels such as these not ours to intervene.
quote by Virgil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seek not the gardener in the flesh
Two maidens walk throughout the forest unknown
Darkened shadows gloom and each fights off
The demons of her insecurities, they stumble across
What seems like naught less than a garden, for all of
The flowers grow in rows creating the impression of design.
One of the maidens claimed that no gardener would come this
Far into the unknown just to create a garden of such wonders.
The other could not comprehend that such a beauty could of
Come across within a conscious will for it’s existence pure.
They each argued in turn and learnt
From each nothing more than the cementation
Of opinion in ignorance towards the other
Yet they agree to test in empirical measures
What force treasures this Garden of wonder.
So they waited and they waited so patiently,
For they had set up fences, and awaiting defenceless they saw nothing.
They heard nothing but the wind as it carried
Upon its song the seeds of springfull joy,
Still the flowers continued to bloom
But no gardener appeared in the form
The un believer was willing to accept.
She that sees the garden knows true the beauty of her surroundings
She knows that it does not need to be measured
For it is a treasure as it is a pleasure in itself,
Yet still her companion points to the weeds that grow,
She point to the dying trees burnt as embers glow.
She can not listen as her friend explains that each is a cycle within the
Medicine wheel, each weed is as worthy of our praise as are the flowers
That catch and dance in Apollo’s radiance.
As the seasons turn we learn
As we grow every second
We are making anew the mould,
Before the kiln of silence awaits.
Seek not the gardener in the flesh
But know that it is he who breathes fresh breathe anew
Into every living being
The gardener unseen is as real as the emotions within which we swim.
poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gardener's Boy
ALL day I have fed on lilied thoughts of her,'
The gardener's boy sang in Gethsemane.
'She is quick, her garments make a lovely stir,
Like the wind going in an almond tree.
She is young, she hath doves' eyes, and like the vine
Her hands enclose me,–hers as she is mine.
'She shall feed among the lilies where I am,
Learning their silver names. When evening grows,
One bower shall hold me and my love, my lamb.
Which shall I clasp,' he sang, 'her or the rose?'
When the palm shadow barred the juniper
He lay at last to sleep and dream of her.
He saw not those who came when night was deep
Up from the city, walking hastily.
One seemed a strong man wan for fear and sleep.
One bore a lantern. One moved stumblingly.
The gardener's boy dreamed on the sunburned sod,
Smiling beside the agony of God.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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