I came to these mediums through having the garden, and of course, people who have designed gardens have always worked in collaboration, and never made their own inscriptions.
quote by Ian Hamilton Finlay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Green Fingers
People have gardens, both large and small,
Whilst flat dwellers have no garden at all.
Some people love to surround their homes
With comical-looking, little garden gnomes.
A few gardens boast fantastic water-features,
Or a large array of stone, woodland creatures.
To make their garden nice, some folk really do try,
Whilst other gardens really are a sight for sore eyes.
Some folk really wish their garden was just not there,
And, about them, they, very obviously, just do not care.
Without a garden, some people would feel really lost,
And they keep them looking nice, whatever the cost.
Some people are blessed: they have green fingers,
And, in their gardens, for hours, they love to linger.
When some people pull on their gardening gloves,
They tend their gardens with such heartfelt love.
People love to spend their time sowing seeds,
Trimming their hedges, and pulling up weeds.
Some tend flower beds, upon bended knee.
Some grow delicious fruit upon their trees.
The gardener's nightmare is the garden pest:
To eradicate them all, they do their best.
Some people love to escape to their sheds,
Where they can think, and clear their heads.
In their gardens, people love to spend time,
But they like it best, when the weather is fine.
When all of their gardening chores are done,
Some people love to sit and relax in the sun.
Time spent in the garden, always really flies;
The benefits of gardening cannot be denied.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When Gardens Begin To Die
When gardens begin to die
In these scorching sun and times
Where shall we go to smell flowers sweet?
When gardens die for a season
I do not see a change, I see only an end.
Some one ordered me to be pessimistic.
A flying bird comes down to my abode
And asks all of a sudden, `How are you friend? `
I tell her a lie, ` I am happy in my garden`.
The clouds have a promise to fulfill
They must break into water drops.
To let our plants live in a garden.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Marriage Is Our Garden
Our marriage is our garden.
I want our garden to be beautiful.
With lush green grass,
With fragrant and colourful flowers.
A place of solace.
A place of peace.
A place of love.
Our garden must be watered.
Not watered too much.
As that would saturate the ground.
Not watered too little.
As that would leave the plants wilted.
And our grass barren.
But regularly.
So the flowers can stand tall
It must be weeded.
It must be maintained.
It must be loved.
We will plant seeds in our garden.
For new life makes any garden more beautiful and diverse.
We can harvest the fruit trees, but our harvest is limited
If we eat all the fruit too quick,
Then we must wait until the next harvest to eat again.
If we don't pick the fruit when it is right, it will spoil.
Our harvest is for our family.
If I eat all the fruit myself, then they will starve.
If we eat too much we will get sick.
If we eat what we are supposed to, then we will be healthy.
If we do not monitor the fruit,
Then someone might eat more than their share.
If we do not stand guard in our garden,
A thief might come into the garden to steal our fruit.
The fruit for our family.
For their garden must be barren and their crops have spoiled.
Our garden will stand the test of all seasons.
As all gardens do.
Another garden will also experience the same seasons.
Just at different times.
All gardens face rain.
All gardens get sun.
It is the rain that nourishes the garden and helps it's life to grow.
But our garden must be maintained regularly.
Only artificial things require no maintenance.
The artificial has no life.
It is fake, it is plastic.
Our garden needs to be real.
So life may grow and continue to grow.
So one day our children can enjoy a garden of their own.
For them and their children.
May their garden be overflowing with life and love.
And be the most beautiful garden in the world.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Childhood Garden
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
lush and green
it was so happy it made me scream
my joy and hopes
and all my mopes
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
with the ups and downs
when i jumped i could not touch the ground
with my purle ponys
it made it homey
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
flying high
with the little lies
the grass fine
up in the sky my kite
my childhood garden
my childhood garden
now in the past
i now know that it can never last
now as i get taller
it was differnt when i was smaller
my childhood garden
poem by Danielle Eager
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Plucked A Rose From A Garden Green......
By Murtaza Abt
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
Of beauty never felt or seen,
Hoping that it would never wilt,
And always be as always been.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
with a happy blissful heart,
And promised i would hold it tight,
And never would we part.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
But little did i know,
That not in endless love and care,
But gardens do they grow.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And took it home with me,
But little did it stay the way,
The way t'was meant to be.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to grieve,
Over gardens green and meadows lush,
As it was sad to leave.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to wilt,
And wither in that unknown land,
it filled my heart with guilt.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to die,
For happiness i had only asked,
But i began to cry.
....................................
I have p L ucked y O u from a garden green,
Your beauty i VE never felt or seen,
Hoping that YOU will never wilt,
And always be as always been.
09/Nov/09
poem by Murtaza Abt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Garden
A Garden contemplation suits,
And may instruction yield,
Sweeter than all the flow'rs and fruits
With which the spot is filled.
Eden was Adam's dwelling place,
While blest with innocence;
But sin o'erwhelmed him with disgrace,
And drove the rebel thence.
Oft as the garden-walk we tread,
We should bemoan his fall;
The trespass of our legal head
In ruin plunged us all.
The garden of Gethsemane,
The second Adam saw,
Oppressed with woe, to set us free
From the avenging law.
How stupid we, who can forget,
With gardens in our sight,
His agonies and bloody sweat,
In that tremendous night.
His church as a fair garden stands,
Which walls of love enclose;
Each tree is planted by his hand,
And by his blessing grows.
Believing hearts are gardens too,
For grace has sown its seeds;
Where once, by nature, nothing grew
But thorns and worthless weeds.
Such themes to those who Jesus love,
May constant joys afford;
And make a barren desert prove
The garden of the Lord.
poem by John Newton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Guilt
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
Oh how I wish I could undo the things I have said and done to you.
It's all my fault.
I'll take all the blame hand to god.
Every time you cried I claim it as my own.
And now I'm living a shallow life all alone.
Their is some things you just can't condone.
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
To move on is so hard.
Love has retarded all my movements.
Slow has slow can be.
A distinguished defeat.
A gallant retreat.
Is never full of such deceit.
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
The people have spoken.
Capital punishment for a capital crime.
Maybe not in your eyes.
But most certainly in mine.
Grinding the steel down to tip so fine.
A brutal way to inflict the pain.
I do this to myself in your name.
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
How can I defend my actions.
How could I have walk down this road of hate and rage.
How can I claim to even be a poet of this day and age.
Mere ramblings that now feel so fake.
Everyone I've written was for her sake.
Everyone was just another page of mistakes.
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
Making another promise I can never keep.
Wounding and broken.
I'm of the god forsaken.
Please don't come near me.
I'll just hurt you.
The same as always.
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
Just push everybody away.
For I can no longer stand the pain.
It has driven me to the brink of insanity.
This is just a sun shiny day.
A wooers moment, but I'm no longer in that kind of mood.
What would you conclude?
I still look upon the stars
They're still forever changing and rearranging.
A musical collaboration.
A fantastic sensation and it is with out you.
Is it just another interlude to something ever greater?
Am I to be another wannabe be saviour.
I hold my petty sword and shield.
Ready to defend but to what I don't know.
I let everyone I loved go.
Burn the flag and let it wave.
For their is nothing left to save.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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And, as I have said, it's made me think twice about the imagination. If the spirits aren't external, how astonishing the mediums become! Victor Hugo said of his voices that they were like his own mental powers multiplied by five.
quote by James Merrill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Small People!
it is then...
the small people,
common men and women,
who by their hands built this dream,
who plowed the fields,
paved the roadways...
who picked your fruit,
who built your small businesses.
who worked your factories and mills.
who built your homes and churches.
who drove your trucks, who fixed your cars,
who made your clothes and your furniture.
who worked for too little
to make you too rich....
who hauled your trash,
who wiped your asses.
who worked as cashiers, clerks, and salesmen.
who covered for you when you were sick,
yet worked when they were sick.
who laid your bricks, who cut your logs,
who stocked your grocery stores.
who dug your graves and fought your damn wars,
the small people, that you throw away!
no jobs, no work, no benefits, no insurance...
no medical care, no cars...
no lights, no rent, no food, no shelter...
no name, no reason to be!
the small people...
too old, too tired, too angry, too used up.
self taught, no degree, experience doesnt count.
the small people....
pushed into a corner,
stacked in the alleyways.
broken wheels turning on broken glass.
the small people....
staring back from your mirror,
from the darkness outside your window.
the small people...
who are not going
to take it anymore!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Work To Do!
i came from a generation
that worked.... was born to
work, daylight to dawn,
for everything we had.
we grew our own food, we
cut firewood, we worked
with our hands.
we were taught to work...
we built houses, bridges,
paved roads... worked on
farms, worked in sawmills,
worked in factories...
whatever it took for food
and shelter...
and if a neighbor got hurt,
or sick, and couldnt work...
we helped him and his family
till he could.
those of us left who can work
are still working, a lot of us are
out of work, and cant find work!
and so the world has changed...
it seems like a lot of people
spend more time avoiding work
than working... a lot of people
look for the easy way out...are
dependent on society...
still a lot of good and willing people
just need help.
they call this progress...based
on technology, and looking out for
number one. seperated, almost islands...
greed has taken the place of the bent back!
so when it all falls apart, and that will
be soon, what happens? who knows how
to survive? who has the backbone?
things to think about, and yes...
work to do!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No doubt these rocky islands have suggested the idea worked out in gardens, and they have been well imitated.
quote by Robert Fortune
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Who Made The Law ?
Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ?
Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ?
Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards ?
Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains ?
Who made the Law ?
Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village ?
Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,
Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,
Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves ?
Who made the Law ?
But who made the Law ? the Trees shall whisper to him:
'See, see the blood - the splashes on our bark !'
Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle,
And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark.
Who made the Law ? At noon upon the hillside
His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath,
And all along the valleys, past gardens, croft, and homesteads,
HE who made the Law,
He who made the Law,
He who made the Law
shall walk along with Death.
WHO made the Law ?
poem by Leslie Coulson
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A Thorn Between Two Roses
Talking to a friend last night,
they were saying how
inspiration had deserted them.
I suggested several methods
of how to get it back.
Most of them they had tried,
but with no avail.
Then I suggested collaboration.
They were not to sure about that.
We write in different styles
came the reply.
Therefore, what I said
we could only give it a try.
Reluctantly she agreed.
I dug out a few miss tries
and sent them through.
In the meantime,
I was talking to another friend of ours.
Told her about the collaboration
and she asked if she could join in too.
Of course, I said
I was only too happy
to have her on board.
So the three of us set about to work.
JoAnn, Meggie and me.
And today our first poem was born.
No title yet,
but it has been posted
for the world tom see.
Under the name
JoJo Bean, Dodgy Dave & Meggie Gultiano.
A thorn between two roses.
The poem is seamless
and is difficult to see
where one poet finishes
and another poets starts.
This is our first collaboration
and by no means our last.
Each of us has enjoyed doing it
and is looking forward to the next.
6 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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I worked with people I admire; Josh Lucas, who I'd worked with many many years ago on a pilot called The Class of 61 and Kurt Russell, and so there were a variety of different people that I enjoyed working with.
quote by Andre Braugher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The cottage garden; most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute.
quote by Charlotte Smith
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My People
My people want a flower to grow,
They want their country a solution;
The fluid flows and the hearts combine
So as to discover victory and happiness.
My people want the whole garden to burst
Into life. So a solution has come:
The arrival of a priest, a just man
Whose only longing is peace for generations to come.
Actions are not just words but acts,
They divide the camp into plain areas;
My people have a desire to gain miracles
From the priest, yet without success.
The man of understanding supplies words to complement actions,
Making changes to the people
And avoiding harm for the people,
The people start to play in their beautiful garden.
The understanding is great, the achievements are made,
The people continue in the country’s quest.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Education Here
i agree that this educational system
is another kind of factory
persons of the same age at packed
in batches
designed for a common end
some have to be discarded as
nothing but useless commodities
others are displayed priced high
and for sale,
there is no more that person
so considered for his innate qualities
there is no more collaboration in solving a problem
lest it be considered by the university rules
as cheating
all minds think the same
on standardized testings
those that think otherwise shall be junked
by the system
and so there is no other Einstein
nobody original
all mass produced
certified for mass consumption.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.
quote by Clifton Fadiman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Glory of the Garden
Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all;
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you'll see the gardners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and to it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
It it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Lost In My Garden
Across the way and around the bend
my world comes to an end.
I do not venture further than that
but there's a garden there I tend.
Beyond the garden there is a fence,
a fence that keeps me here.
I'm not allowed to go anywhere.
I cannot disappear.
For I'm watched and guarded all the time,
never let alone.
But I made up my mind so long ago
that this place is my home.
I have no friends for I've been told
they're all afraid of me.
I must have done something terrible
but it's not in my memory.
Someone brings me out in the sun
and later brings me in.
I see people staring at me
as I lower my head and chin.
What was it I did? I can't recall
and maybe it's better that way.
When I'm in my bed with one bulb on
it's then I always pray.
'Please don't let me remember God.
Please let me stay this way.
For who will take care of my garden
on every sunny day? '
poem by Edwina Reizer
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