En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Garden in my inner square

I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural
and next to it there are flowers that only in the morning hour
spread their cups and spiral up against every side,
where it finds a holding place and grow hillock on hillock
over every thing with purple flowers that only last a short time.

I planted a vegetable garden
in the inner square opposite a mural,
where mountains tooth out blue in the background
and field after field of purple lavender bushes stand at the front
and there’s a shop owner sending his servants on bicycles around
and at the bottom in fruitful red sand
a vegetable garden was planted by me.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Weed

There was an old woman
that planted a garden.
And in the garden
there grew a weed.
The weed grew next to
a beautiful flower.

The flower had grown
from a tiny seed.
The weed was strong
and would not bend.
The wind did blow
and it did send

the seeds from the flower
into the air.
They circled around
and landed where
the weed was growing
next to the flower.

Soon the weed was
surrounded by flowers.
It loved where it was
and looked by the hours
at all of the beautiful
colorful flowers.

The old woman who planted
the garden one day
decided that she would
make a bouquet.
She went to the garden
to cut the flowers.

But when she got there
down came the showers.
The raindrops that fell
made the weed shine
which made the old woman
change her mind.

She left them alone
in her garden and knew
that the weed belonged
with the flowers that grew.
She'd planted the flowers.
God planted the weed.

The garden was perfect.
No bouquet did she need.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Carnations in the garden

There are carnations in the garden
in colours of ruby red,
pure white and blossom pink
and some pink with deep purple inside
and others purple-blue.

I smell the sweet fresh flowers
and look at colours
hue as if by magic
into each other.

Some grow in flowering pots,
some are planted in flowerbeds,
others even in the rock garden

and the flowers at places are mixed
to catch the eye
and everywhere there’s care
and a lot of love
that went into the tending of it.

poem by Gert Strydom
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It is Spring Time

It is Spring Time

It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.

It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.

It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.

It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.

It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.

It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.

It is spring time.

poem by Crystal Chown
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I like blue

I like blue
and my motorbike is that colour
and some of the clothes that I wear.

If I am happy,
my eyes changes colour from grey
to bright blue.

The lavender bushes in our garden,
are rather blue
than purple to me.

When the sun sets behind the hillock
there’s a wonderful scent in the early evening air,
that comes from the blue bushes.

a Blue sky with a hot sun
can do miracles to me
and I cannot get enough of summer,

but Monday or any other day
must please stay away
from that colour.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Sage

I planted some sage along
with other herbs
and got small bushes
with blue-purple flowers
and greyish-green leaves.

We used the sage
in the cooking
and sometimes in salads
to flavour it,
but in my mother’s garden
at the front gate
a gigantic blooming bush of sage
greeted me
as if I was setting my foot
into Eden itself.

It was almost a metre high
and twice that breadth
and almost similar in shape
as the neighbour’s rondavel
across the street
and I rubbed some leaves
between my fingers
and it smelt like mint to me.

[Reference: rodavel = a type of round brick hut with a grass roof.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Little-oh dear

See, what a wonderful garden is here,
Planted and trimmed for my Little-Oh-Dear!
Posies so gaudy and grass of such brown -
Search ye the country and hunt ye the town
And never ye'll meet with a garden so queer
As this one I've made for my Little-Oh-Dear!

Marigolds white and buttercups blue,
Lilies all dabbled with honey and dew,
The cactus that trails over trellis and wall,
Roses and pansies and violets - all
Make proper obeisance and reverent cheer
When into her garden steps Little-Oh-Dear.

And up at the top of that lavender-tree
A silver-bird singeth as only can she;
For, ever and only, she singeth the song
"I love you - I love you!" the happy day long; -
Then the echo - the echo that smiteth me here!
"I love you, I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!

The garden may wither, the silver-bird fly -
But what careth my little precious, or I?
From her pathway of flowers that in spring time upstart
She walketh the tenderer way in my heart
And, oh, it is always the summer-time here
With that song of "I love you," my Little-Oh-Dear!

poem by Eugene Field
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The Fish Pound and Violin

My grandpa stay in the house
Near the river
Where its water flow end in the South Ocean

His garden hedged with Bamboo trees
In front of the garden planted three tuft trees
The children like to climb the tuft tree
Pick up the fruits and eat on the tree
Glad and laughing
My grandpa was silent and said nothing
He just smile subtly, and gaze at far away

There is a fish pond in the backyard,
In its edge planted pineapple and banana trees
My grandma always give brand and papaya leaf to the pound
Giving food for the fish like Gurame, Sepat dan Nila,
While my grandpa make a biola, gitar and bass
In the litlle studio, near the kitchen
I passionatedly gaze the fish jump around
And glad
While they don’t know their destiny
Decided by mothers in the cities
On the frying pan, roastibng, caserate,
With imagine to ecpanced their plan on the rice filed
Near the road forgeted how farmer produce,
Fish, rice and vegetable,
And actually
Their Self conscience.

poem by Prasetya Utama
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Vegetable Man

In yellow shoes I get the blues
Though I walk the streets with my plastic feet
With my blue velvet trousers, make me feel pink
Theres a kind of stink about blue velvet trousers
In my paisley shirt I look a jerk
And my turquoise waistcoat is quite out of sight
But oh oh my haircut looks so bad
Vegetable man how are you?
So Ive changed my dear, and I find my knees,
And I covered them up with the latest cut,
And my pants and socks all point in a box,
They dont make long of my nylon socks,
The watch, black watch
My watch with a black face
And a big pin, a little hole,
And all the lot is what I got,
Its what I wear, its what you see,
It must be me, its what I am,
Vegetable man.
Ive been looking all over the place for a place for me,
But it aint anywhere, it just aint anywhere.
Vegetable man, vegetable man,
Hes the kind of person, you just gonna see him if you can,
Vegetable man.

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rosemary

Boots were of leather, a breath of cologne
The mirror was a window she sat by alone.
All around the garden grew scarlet and purple and crimson and blue.
She came dead and she went, and at last went away, the garden was sealed when the
Flowers decayed.
On the wall of the garden a legend did say, no one may come here since no one may
Stay.

song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Come to my garden

Come to my garden
when purple irises flower perfectly,
morning glories summit over every thing
and be speechless by the glory
of sunspots that trumpet their beauty purple-blue
and violets that rise up everywhere.

Come to my garden
when purple irises flower perfectly,
see roses from crimson to auburn
and find no words and become dumbstruck
by odours and colours that my plants trumpet forth
and come and look at every thing, come my most precious flower,
come to my garden.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Emerson

I saw the bee!
But when i came around to your garden, it turned into a butterfly;
Yes, in the land of your muse where you have a beautiful garden.
For, true love brought me closer to you.
This is about the wonderful garden of your love! !
And of all the things planted in this garden;
But, your magical works tranformed this bee that i saw into a butterfly,
However, i will always like to visit this garden of love.
I am Emerson and, this bee that i saw attracted me to your beautiful garden;
And like the muse of true love in the land of beautiful flowers,
But, this magical touch will always be in my mind.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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When You Define A Thing

when you define
a thing, you limit it,
it is like fencing
your garden
the garden becomes
a set of exclusive
flowers, and anything
not like it becomes
a weed, and anything
that moves
becomes a pest

it is not that you
do not define, we do
it sometimes
only to understand
the limits of
understanding,

but we must be open
to other possibilities
of a garden,
a garden of stones
a garden of sand
of mud, of water
a fountain, a garden
of winds, of clouds

a garden of memories
like a poem
for instance, a garden
of words,
words with arms open
to the magic
of further creation
words still trying
to define themselves
in the garden
of the unknown

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Planted A Flower

I planted me a flower
Though my friends say a weed
In my garden from a forgotten seed.
So I planted it deep
And around it I hoed
So someday my flower would grow.
But my flower never came
From the sunshine or the rain
That GOD placed above its head.
And so my friends would just laugh
Every time that they would pass
My garden, my plant and I.
Gardeners were them all
As though they have been called
To bring beauty upon our sight.
And a gardener wasn't I
Just a poet in disguise
And for that reason I sat and cried.
More care to my plant I gave
And more affection to it I showed.
While praying one day my flower would grow.
And my friends would just laugh at me
When they saw me on my knees
And to my flower when they heard me speak.
To ignorance they did blame
Its a weed they would exclaim
Then they would walk away.
For a madman I must be
Trying to create a flower out of a weed
Then I would bow my head to weep.
And every night that I went to bed
I dreamt of a rainbow in my head
Which was my flower I planted with my own hands.
And every morning when I awoke
I ran to my garden, but I was torn
For my flower was still unborn.
And I could hear my friends laugh at me
Hidden behind an old oak tree
And I could see them shake their heads and walk away.
But then came one magic morning
When in my head my dreams were forming
While in my garden, my dream, had awoke.
I awoke, to gasps and jeers
I arose, to shouts and cheers
Then in my garden, I walked in bitterness and fear.
Then I saw a rainbow with a halo
I saw my friends with a child's glow
And then I heard the wind, as she softly spoke to me.
You had faith in a weed,
A weed, had faith in you.
And nature, had faith in you two.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Color Purple

a friend of mine is obsessed with purple
she says it's a royal color
fits for kings and queens
and she feels like a princess
on her purple hair
her purple dress
and purple bra and
purple shoes
the walls of her house are painted
the railings of the stairs
the windows
the doors are all purple now
the flowers in her garden
and the leaves of her trees
the grass
all purple too
her speech is purple too
the movies she watch are all in the shade of purple
her car turned purple too
royal color that is what she says

i tell her bluntly, ' You are boring, purple! '

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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At Springs

I am trying to get a job
at Springs
and wonder why people live here
away from Johannesburg
and Pretoria

and what fountains
spring out at this place
and all that I find
is rotten smells
rising from the Blesbok river
where sewerage is flowing in freely.

The town lies stretched out
up to Brakpan
and has two internet cafés
that I know about
and a computer shop
where the people
know less about computers than I

and my animals
may not come into the house
and I must explain why
they are barking at the gate.

One of my cats
Lurks in the a storm water drain
against the road

and I am tired and fed up
with lifting concrete blocks
with a crowbar
to free the Persian cat
on his cries for help.

The mines are stripped bare
and at places there are pans
with poison
that has accumulated there for years

and at times there are friendly neighbours
with whom I talk
and virtually every second day
the weather is overcast
with falling rain
and thunderbolts
hitting outside around my animals

but mother’s garden
is a real idyllic spot
with hollyhocks bursting out pink
over fallen trees
in a rock garden,

geraniums of all colours
growing very rampant,
flame lilies blooming orange,
morning glories coming up anywhere
and a much larger vegetable garden
than I could plant in Pretoria

and over the yard
the Creator spreads His hand
and there are new flowers
sprouting almost every day

and I am astonished
at how easy
things grow here
and how high
the plants are suddenly

and the yard is so big
that the animals
almost play in a field
and it’s actually past lovely
to stay for a time
with my mother
as she loves me very much.

poem by Gert Strydom
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In the Garden, With My Father

It is spring.
As in my garden, I stand.
In the garden -
My father is there;
... though long since gone...
He IS there.
I tend to the weeds,
The veggies and flowers...
He is there.

I never understood him
(as I should have, could have) ...
Until now,
Here, in the garden.
Where I, like he, work the soil.
I've come just recently
(these last few years)
To enjoy and love my garden so.
- I am not as surprised afterall, as I would have thought,
To find him here.
Here, in the garden.
He loved his garden very much.......
I - at that early age of restless youth - had no use
For such slow moving things.

But now, I see, and myself move, at a much slower pace.
Therefore, it is him I am here and now able to see,
In the garden.
Watching it all grow, so peacefully.

It is somewhat sad, that now,
When I can no longer tell him,
I understand.
For I have come to find... I love the garden too,
Just as much as he;
And we both always will.
My father - standing in the garden -
I now know.
After all these long years.
And I've missed him so;
But, how wonderful to find,
He IS here...
In the garden, our garden,
Always, with me.

poem by Smoky Hoss
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When It Comes

when it comes
it comes
and i am ready
to go

what place is that
i do not really know

but it is definite
there is no coming back

when will i see you again?
i will never know

you see, i realize
everything has always been

uncertain
what they give us was

exactly the opposite
of what is here with us

everything has always been
an image of what is

and what ought to be
was not what was ever done

you see i am leaving this place
without regret

you see this is not my place
that is not really my house

that is not my garden
and that tree had never been mine

even from the moment
when i planted it as a seed

that flower that i love
i only touch for a while

its petals fall from my fingers
and then what i have is nothing

but a stem and a leaf
and this old ruined self

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A blooming poem

A blooming poem
~
all the flowers in the garden
those wild in every field
the pallet of the sky and clouds
each a picture of beauty
does touch the soul
with all that is good
inspire the mind to think
only great thoughts
it is nature which nurtures
the way the world does grow
like the seeds in every field and garden
let the be sowed into every soul

poem by Matthew Holloway
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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
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I Planted A Seed

I Planted A Seed

Written by: Wilfred Mellers, Monday, April 26,2010 @ 1: 22 AM

I planted seeds and watched them grow

Each day I fertilized, pesticide, and watered the seeds

Weeds couldn’t strangle my seeds I made sure

They flourished in fertile soil gaining strength by the day

I tended my garden daily without fail

At night I made sure comforted they were

Kept them safe from the elements to flourish

Strong they grew so proud I was of my seedlings

Exquisite blossoms grew from the seeds I sow

Blessed was I my garden full of life and magnificence

Gracious flowers from seeds bloomed respectfully there

Rare colors of light bloom in my plot

Flourished flowers came and went in seasons due

Now fully mature they need tending no more

Their colors now turn a pale winter blue

Scornful now my flowers turn a shadowy brown

Fields I no longer tend dry from disuse

Efforts made gallantly on unappreciative ears they are falling

Ostracized be by flowers lacking in devotion

Buds turned left the farmer to burn in summers heat

One seedling still cares and is always there

Never far fledged the one daffodil looms

In shadows bloomed now to a spectacular delight

In sorrowed fields once a daffodil is now in full bloom

In loving care suffered they not from abandonment

Tender the care giving for the farmer was driven

Success was a must for crooked the journey was laid

Apples of my eyes for I planted seeds and watch them grow

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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