The Garden
Weary and downcast, carrying the many heavy cares of the day I enter the garden.
Picking up the patient rake, with steady rhythm I gather the last of withered autumn into damp brown pools.
Green grass glistens and parts.
There is life’s new shoots poking through beneath the pear tree.
With easing breath and straightening limbs I bear the fallen leaves to the compost heap.
A gossamer spider’s web stretches, perfect and taut against the wooden frame.
The resident robin contemplates my movement.
Sitting in the familiar chair in which I have spent many idle hours I look out over the garden.
Peace descends slowly like the gathering night.
poem by Diana Rosser
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Related quotes
0195 Autumn Gardener
Gathering rosebuds with my rake;
the wooden tines scraping
over the gravel path
bringing a token of order
to the autumn of a life;
rosebuds, nipped at the neck
by frost; dead leaves
curled like begging or covetous hands,
coloured like rich memories, red, orange, brown,
dry husks, spilt seed,
now crisp, eager to surrender to the fire,
its scented smoke curling like a pyre against
a cold blue sky now welcoming
a tidy offering up;
how clean, how sharp the autumn air
darker under the trees
the leaves still wet
limp and flat as hope defeated,
pressed together as
words not meant, or
something missed;
next year the leaves
will remember innocence,
the tree broader, eager,
brown as wisdom tipped with exploratory green.
gathering rosebuds with my rake
the season with its woodsmoke, evocative,
tempting to metaphor, hovering,
a garden of lost meaning;
no longer, this cooling autumn, a construction,
but speaking its own seriousness.
how clean, how sharp the autumn air
scented by surrender
poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the spring garden
In the spring garden
~
In the spring garden
Birds sing and chatter
While flowers raise their heads
To greet the morning sun
A garden filled with colour bright
A garden which now fills with life
The bee and the butterfly hover
From flower to flower gathering nectar
Seeding the flowers blossom
Throughout the spring garden
The dew glistens upon the grass
While the wind gently rolls in the tree
All the world slowly waking
Soon to this bounty of great beauty
Every hue from natures pallet
Is here free for all to see
In the spring garden
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Chimes of twilight
Chrysanthemums are flowering in autumn and the faded leaves of flamboyant trees blown with the autumn winds.
The time has come to whitewash the churchyard tombs and I can hear my chum's silent song like a chirping.
A far smoke is carrying off from a chimney.
This gloomy evening an old lady is picking some fallen leaves in the garden and the sun's last light focused on my window.
Suddenly I closed as the mosquito soldiers try to invade my room.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Late Walk
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
poem by Robert Frost
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Three green snakes
I was gathering dead branches
and rotting leaves
and mowed down grass
and with my bare hands,
scooped it up
into a wheelbarrow.
From there I carted
it away to where,
a trailer attached
to my car waited.
The leaves and grass
felt humid and hot
in my hands
and a compost smell
hang in the air,
but suddenly three
deadly green snakes twisted
out where my hands
had been seconds before
and in dismay
I jumped away.
My little white dog
ran around the heap
of leaves and grass
and barked excitedly
and although did not
want to I had to
kill them all,
before they brought
death and trepidation
to my door.
The lawnmowers petrol
splashed like water
down on the brown heap
and a match,
flicked onto it
made bright orange flames
leap into the air.
Suddenly three snakes
twisted in agony
and it was like
driving the gods
of the dark earth away
and although every thing
was well,
it was quite sad
to kill three living creatures
with the flick
of a match.
[Petrol=> gasoline.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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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
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The Lime Tree
That lime tree on the distant rising ground
(If it was a lime tree) showed her yellow leaves
Above the renewed green of wet August grass--
First Autumn yellow that on first Autumn eves
Too soon was found.
Comfortless lime tree! Scarce an aspen leaf
Like a green butterfly flitted to the ground;
There was no sign of Autumn in the grass.
Even the long garden beds their beauty brief--
Their mignonette,
Nasturtium and sweet-william and red stocks,
And clover crouching in the border grass,
And blood-like fuschia, eve's primrose and white phlox
And honeysuckle--waved all their smell and hue
Morn and eve anew.
But that far lime tree yellowing by the oak,
Warning oak, elm and poplar and each fresh tree
Shaking in the south wind delightedly,
And clover in the closeness of the grass,
Warns also me.
And now when all the trees are standing still
Beneath the purple and white of the west sky,
And time is standing still--as stand it will--
That early yellowing lime with palsied fingers
Cannot be still.
poem by John Freeman
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Aunty Anna's Orchard
it was the largest house
next to it an orchard
full of apple and plum trees
and one lonesome old pear tree
in the corner of the backyard
this was
where she spent several summers
most of her time
leaning against
the gnarled trunk
she could dream
she could hide
she could feel free
for a few minutes
or all day
she could watch
the growth of the leaves
creating a green roof
it was a shelter
if some rain fell
the glorious pear blossoms
and it's private perfume
filled her room
for a while
the blossom leaves disappear
with the wind
more than a few
stayed behind
for coloring a carpet
on the floor
sometimes
nothing happened
nothing changed
all though she was not being patient
about the growth of the pears
out of reach
high in her old tree
still standing on her toes
she needed to be tall
she stretched every day
and grew too
at last
picking that first pear
enjoying that view above
showing she would reap
very soon
so much more
she just had to wait
for the pears to fall
poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Beautiful Autumn
Beautiful autumn
Before night's winter fall
Slowly with its strum
In frosty nights call
The dreams of darkish play
From evenings in the night
Each winter’s icily play
In lost longing's flight
Beautiful yellow red
Leaves of the falling decay
Each peeling blossom bed
That gives the night its day
Their garden going to brown
When life is in its sleep
Like evening in winters gown
In tinctures not to keep
Beautiful dreams going
Flowing the last of autumn
With all its golden glowing
And drowning of river’s hum
The dreams of the cloudy sky
In days of the fallen leaves
Questions to ask for why
The world is of smile and greaves
poem by Peter S. Quinn
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A Little Note Of Her Life
she is my wife
she is not a little note of my life
she is occupying the full page
of my ads
for one thing
she keeps cutting all the leaves of the palms in my garden
and it is getting hot in here
when some of the bushes begins to flower
she cuts them all again
leaving my garden empty
except for the bleeding twigs of the tree
leaving the little life of others in misery
she is my wife
when she dies she will still be my wife
that little note of my life
my garden shall be full of flowers
my bushes shall bear more
and all the leaves of the palms in my garden
shall be green till the end of their
spans
opps don't take this against me
she is my wife
and she will always be my wife
a little note of my life
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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George Edmunds' Song
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around he here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
How like the hopes of childhood's day,
Thick clust'ring on the bough!
How like those hopes in their decay-
How faded are they now!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here;
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
Wither'd leaves, wither'd leaves, that fly before the gale:
Withered leaves, withered leaves, ye tell a mournful tale,
Of love once true, and friends once kind,
And happy moments fled:
Dispersed by every breath of wind,
Forgotten, changed, or dead!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, lie strewn around me here!
Autumn leaves, autumn leaves, how sad, how cold, how drear!
poem by Charles Dickens
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When Life Is But A Round Of Crushing Care
When life is but a round of crushing care
And, a great heap of stones, lies heavy on us,
There suddenly, God knows how, why, upon us
A joyous mood descends... Of balmy air
A breath comes from the past and, o'er us drifting,
Invades the heart, its fearful burden lifting.
At times with autumn's coming is it so,
When empty lie the fields, when bare the groves are,
And paler turn the skies - and of a sudden, over
The darkened earth a damp wind starts to blow.
A fallen leaf it chases with elation
And to our hearts of spring brings a sensation.
poem by Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
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A Thread scrawled in Timely Autumn
I watch thousands of leaves drift underneath trees,
while in a tree I sat observing
timely autumn air fetching birds –
to gather above the vegetation high up in the blue
birds rise and utter messages
as timely autumn descends on our…?
On our befallen part globe.
To hear the beauty of innocence across
the damp fall ground;
vibrating, that autumn is
going to flee away and…?
And in comes the disturbing winter breeze –
bring out a smile gloating out
on the stricken faces.
Nations fall dead from autumn exhaustion.
Oh timely autumn has come to soon –
to bear a reason of befallen:
sleeping illnesses
on our old earth.
Red, brown, orange, yell a glow
Buried in leaves is our part globe.
And stricken faces
of shadows
flee away into the nest of warmth
as worrying winter breeze crawls
in, regretfully not,
but gleefully.
Swirling around, sneaking in?
In ajar windows.
Oh season is it time
for timely autumn colour to leave
our autumn colour world into
winter darkness?
Not welcomingly the
winter nips at my thin nose
as I watch above
high in this forlorn tree
with no leaves! But what?
Empty branches of crystal snow.
poem by Celine Berghmans
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My Drug Dealer
Today-
I asked myself.
Why are the oak tree’s purple?
And the grass blue?
Why is the sky green?
And the leaves hot pink?
Why is that gravel red?
And the rocks of that garden yellow?
Then I thought
and thought over again
a million times
and realized...
I’m high.
I’m up higher than the orange clouds in the green sky
My heart is as bright as the rocks of that garden
My thoughts are as eccentric as the hot pink color of the leaves
that fell from the purple tree
My eyelashes flutter flirtatiously like the way the wind
blows the blue blades of grass around.
Love is a drug,
and I’m high-
You happen to be my dealer.
poem by Breanna Schwartz
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Robin Redbreast
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer's nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our Thrushes now are silent,
Our Swallows flown away, --
But Robin's here, in coat of brown,
With ruddy breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin singing sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian Princes,
But soon they'll turn to Ghosts;
The scanty pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough,
It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
'Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And welaway! my Robin,
For pinching times are near.
The fireside for the Cricket,
The wheatstack for the Mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house;
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow, --
Alas! in Winter, dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
poem by William Allingham
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The Idea Of 'Pear Tree
for Robin Blaser
a pear tree forgets only itself as
an audacity
limbs recall themselves
appear to reach
one cannot see them
reaching
they may be silent but
we cannot know that toward
later sweetness they yearn
then seed a still dirt around
content to lie down
the idea of 'pear tree'
reduces to all sparks
yet
no illusion of darkness
hastens the pear
but O it tastes
poem by Warren Falcon
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Beautiful Leaves Of Autumn
Lovely memories of the Autumn
Appears once again in life
With yellow, brown, red and green
Leaves of life that scattered and survived
When bitter sweet nostalgic story of life
With shadow and shine appears
And spreads its beauty and its grace
Under which the long path of life disappears
Disappears under the joyful burden
And loads of the beautiful fallen leaves
That dance all around and sing with smiles
The lovely song of Autumn brief
For God has made this lovely season
A source of love, peace and cheer
In which we get another chance
To shed the burden of pain's layer
And this is the magical and pretty season
In which we can joyously gather sunshine
And enjoy lovely breeze that blows all around
And call it the gift and bliss of divine
For the lovely dry leaves of Autumn bring
Beautiful colors like the blooming Spring
Where red, yellow, brown and green is seen
With God's grace and love and beauty's ring.
**Inspired By the beautiful changing colors of the Autumn in Cape Breton, Canada.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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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
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The Toad Not Raken
Now that the frost has gone its rimy way
there’s the matter of that long grass
that meets the undergrowth
at the end of the garden;
time to take steps to tidy it.
two rakes awaited my decision:
there’s the metal one, which makes hard work
but scarifies the moss and aerates the top soil as well –
and the wooden one, slightly Japanese looking,
its tines further apart, and easier on the arms,
which combs the long grass rather than removes it,
setting it up for the strimmer when the grass dries off.
But I remembered how last year’s early raking
disturbed a sleepy toad and, to my shame, partially dismembered it.
These little choices make our road and name us.
I took the gentler wooden rake, and dragged it careful-slow;
the reward, a scuttling movement in the grass ahead.
Two rakes were there for me to make my choice;
I’m glad I took the one less often used, the gentler one.
Though looking at the grass, it's hardly made any difference.
(For all respectful but mischievous poetry fans)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My autumn [2]
Around me trees are stripped
rigid, bare and totally naked
and heaps of leaves lie fallen
already colouring
from yellow to red and into brown.
Everything is lifeless,
like my life in pieces
and still there are thunderstorms
that repeatedly falls in this winter
out of season
and I am almost blinded by the thunder
as if it wants to devour everything about me
and still there’s new life
that this rain brings
and it’s clear
that my autumn is coming too early
and although my body still feels young
the greyness are creeping in
and you write words
of keeping yourself in vain,
of a child
that never will be born
and about everything becoming rotten
like a compos heap
and that love has also receded
as if everything this autumn
has elapsed for once and all.
Yet the grass is still green,
some trees are covered with leaves
and I wonder where you and I stand
when this season disappears
and the coming winter ends?
Still you are in my heart,
as if you are part of me
and I know that life without you
is totally meaningless.
poem by Gert Strydom
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