Losing Myself...
losing myself
amidst plants
caressing a flower here
chasing a bee there
flapping wings with
colourful butterflies
drinking dew from
the cup of leaves and petals
ah, making faces at a kitten
hidden behind a bark
the grass tickling my feet
wind kissing my cheek
my laughter ringing aloud
within me and around my garden...
just me wandering
in my garden
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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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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A Baby Running Barefoot
When the bare feet of the baby beat across the grass
The little white feet nod like white flowers in the wind,
They poise and run like ripples lapping across the water;
And the sight of their white play among the grass
Is like a little robin’s song, winsome,
Or as two white butterflies settle in the cup of one flower
For a moment, then away with a flutter of wings.
I long for the baby to wander hither to me
Like a wind-shadow wandering over the water,
So that she can stand on my knee
With her little bare feet in my hands,
Cool like syringa buds,
Firm and silken like pink young peony flowers.
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Pink Flowers.
Do not text me or think otherwise
I am just picking flowers from my garden.
Last evening I picked a red rose but
Wow! It proved to be too red for my date
Today I visited the same garden
The only flower I found was a white rose.
Where is my favourite pink rose?
This morning I cycled to the market
Sure, to buy my date a pink rose
But the only roses there were yellow and purple.
Tried to enquire where I could get one
But no one knows where to find.
Went to my flower vendor but nowhere to find
Where will I get my pink rose for my date?
Tomorrow, I'll travel far and wide
Only to get this precious pink flower
And if I succeed, my date will be happy
And my heart will find a solace rest
Amidst the residue of love petals
Just with the pink flower petals.
Where will I get my Pink rose flower?
(Dedicated for my pink flower date)
poem by Aron Lelei
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Great is The Heart permeated with Love, A treat is Life!
Pale are both eyes and world,
Only look like empty sketches,
Without love and emotions,
Just like Dariya saheb told!
A heart full with love,
Has that magical paint brush,
Which makes entire world blush,
No hate, no anguish,
Only sees lover even in plants and
bush
Ocean waves look like Kissing the
shore,
Clouds dance encircling
mountains,
shedding tears of
love as rain!
Bees heard singing to flower, To one without Love,
The path is full of scraps and
garbage,
But for a lovers eye,
It is flower bed spread by
nature, strange
Full of apple and grape!
Life is that garden,
Bodies are beautiful plants,
Heart filled with love are
fragrant flowers,
Mind and emotions Are colourful
petals,
Thought and deeds are fragrance,
wisdom and knowledge are
gracious fruits,
When all hearts are full of love,
eyes permeated with love,
Sees love permeate all around, Is home of that cosmic visitor,
Sometimes weary may he look,
Rest a while here and seeker
become one with seeked
Life it self is a treat
when love permeates through the devine garden
Great is that life
Permeate
and radiate Love!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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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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Where the passion flower grows
Lay down on your pillow
and turn the lights down low
let me take you to the garden
where the passion flower grows
Close your eyes and enter dreams
as love's emotion sets the scene
and flitters through the garden
where the passion flower grows
Touch the tender petals
of the flower as she grows
a tentative endeavour
as your feelings overflow
Let me draw you to the place
where ecstasy can be embraced
the beauty of the garden
where the passion flower grows
Feel your mind exploding
in the heavy scented air
experience the shiver
as your captured unaware
A little touch of heaven
where imagination flows
the valley in the garden
where the passion flower grows.
poem by Charles M. Moore
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Leaves Compared with Flowers
A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.
But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.
Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.
I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.
Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.
poem by Robert Frost
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And When Some Of The Butterflies Come And Flutter
and when some of the butterflies come fluttering
over my sweet scented jasmines in my garden
i look for the sunlight from the colossal sun
and the enlightenment from the great Pan
and ask what is there left for me to do
the right solution so i may not be also blue
shall i hide my nectar inside my sepal
or shall i open more the colors of my petal
or shall i choose but be one brittle metal?
a caterpillar, younger sister of the butterflies
intervenes upon a feast on one of my leaves says:
hey you, don't be a crab? open up, spread your petals,
go grab the fluttering wings, these are the lonely ones!
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Self-forgetfulness
....Gentle smooth touch
Of flower petals,
Swallowing the kiss,
An angry buzzing bumblebee
Fluffy and painted
Like in a thousand colors
Leaving the pollen
On the fingertip,
Inhaling the pollen
For tasting the flower,
Sitting in that field of daffodils,
Yellow daffodils,
For dreaming love
Until self-forgetfulness,
For waking up,
The dew shining on the leaves,
The breast caressing,
Tasting the milk,
Caressing the skin,
Long hair touching
The increasing beard
And the flower flavor,
Flooding the mouths,
While kissing
And bearing all these....
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Walk With Me
Walk with me through a cemetery
With old knotted trees
Where the wind whispers
Through the leaves
For eternity.
When I’m gone,
It will be a long time
Without kissing your hand,
Hearing the melody of your voice,
Or quietly watching you stand
Beside flowering garden plants.
If there is no reality
After this one,
I’ll still miss you.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Margaret
I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?
Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.
O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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A Rose And A Blade Of Grass
When rain falls to the ground
from the skies,
Its the Heavens kissing the
Earth,
When they make love-
Flowers, fruits, green grasses
are the offspring,
Dont lets kill these plants,
Cutting them down, classing
them as weeds-
Taking them away from their
mothers breath
After being vivified by tears of
love from their father,
Tears of men are sacred.
The Sun does not choose where
to shine,
Must we choose what plants are
of
More value than others?
A blade of grass I pick for you
In a den full of lions,
Must surely mean more than a
rose
I pick for you in a garden full of
butterflies.
© November 7,2011
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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The Rose Means Peace
In Heaven there is a flower
With petals that never die.
A picture seen near the byway
Where golden pebbles lie.
In Heaven there is a bower
Of plants and leaves that cry:
Cry out with lasting glory
In the Land where angels fly.
A rose means 'peace' in Heaven
In that garden beyond the sky,
And all who enter through the gates
will sense their God is nigh.
poem by Joyce Hemsley
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The Quintessence Of The Flowers
Pensively, come to where the garden is
With your feet sprinting through the brambly sophistication.
Pry - you never did, and you never will - for
The peculiarity of the flowers rouse the tides of your scruple;
The petals are tethered to the body so slender - modest
In a starburst as the malingering shrill of the flower is the
Catalyst of the somersaulting noon-time delight,
Caught by the fancy of this inveigle, the farce has been played out,
Dear agile lover - you dare not pluck this flower for you tremble
In the nullity of its feigned void - there is an augury to be found
In a flower: prolix, sapid and perennial like how the trees
Have witnessed the scowling of the heavens as the mire
Satiates each of the heaven's parcel!
You ask me incessantly now, that you have come to the
Acquaintance of the petals - these wondrous parasols,
The cantankerous thorns cloaking the flower's flagrant body;
These are no more than wry and insidious invitations:
A challenge to the eagerness of your heart to pluck the flower
Out of its perturbed garden as the beasts of the night trample a trifle morose
Anguish all over the tapestry.
Its roots need not an explanation dear love, just open your callow eyes
And there you will see that the petals, the thorns, the curtailed stem,
And the perfunctory silence of the roots are one and the same.
This flower at the cynosure of the garden is a vivid reflection of you,
Conjured, and that is the meaning of the flower:
That forever you are girdled though your thorns
May perforate my entirety, my hands - let it bleed
And that is the meaning of the flower,
That even if the petals - your petals whittle away
I will still hold your reminiscences like that of a multihued petal
Fluttering away into the sea where I look for you.
And your slender body that I will cradle as we sieve
Through everything and anything that will impede
Our inexorable swiftness.
I am the garden, and you are the flower, ceaselessly
I will girdle you until the vale abates into nothingness.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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My Mother's Garden
My mother owns a beautiful
garden of flowers
Where I linger watching them
bloom for hours,
My radio on, Katherine
Jenkins singing, 'The Flower
Duet'
I could explain this like a
picture but I am no poet,
Alas let me try; butterflies
showing off their colourful
wings,
The garden also has an oak
tree with hanging swings-
Roses, daisies, jasmines,
violets, hazels, the divine
camillias-
Flowers so beautiful, their
reflections more lovelier,
As the Sun appears to bud from some petal,
I breathe my first, my heart
falls off its mantle
And in the core it once lay yours takes its place-
The light of the smile that
radiates from my face...
Many wish to see angels, sirens at sea,
But I have seen you, thats all I need to see.
Isunge Mwangase © March 17,2011
poem by Isunge Mwangase
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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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A Picture Of Our Little Garden
The sand mound on the left,
And the colourful Zinnias edging it;
With profuse Asters adjacent,
And the triangular red bricks bordering it;
The wide windows artistic grille,
Below are the bright Cannas to the right;
The pale blue curtain over the window sill,
Over looking the blooming Hollyhocks bright;
The dense green leaves of the Radish,
With intermittent Balsams red and white;
The long stalked nodding Cosmos' swish,
All enchant and cheer the mind and sight.
The smooth and slender butterflies,
Both diurnal and crepuscular;
Of various hues fly, sit and rise,
Flit from flower to another flower.
Their wings are held vertically at rest,
Then when they bask in the sun they out-stretch:
Butterflies are Nature's beauteous best,
They to our hearts joy and delight fetch.
The yellow Sunflowers standing tall,
With the tender Jasmine climber to the fore;
Their white fragrant flowers allure all,
The picture perfect garden all of us adore.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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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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A Death In The Morning...!
A single solitary sun ray
Dashing through the morning dew
Touched the side of the little yellow flower
Trying to wake up spredding yellow petals
A top the green grassy hill...
The birds washing their faces
Whistling little tunes
Glanced at the flower
With a delight in their eyes...
Like the blade of a fencing sword
Racing through the wind
The sharp edge of the grass cutters cutter
Caught the little flower
Chopping it into thousand yellow specks...
Among the green slivers
That showered back on to the grass
Little golden yellow specks
Smiled sadly a last smile
Shattered dew drops
Lazily settled down
Kissing the yellow dust
Trying to feel the flower
Trying to kiss its face...!
poem by Rowving Smith
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The Wind, One Brilliant Day
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.'
'I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.'
'Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.'
the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?'
poem by Antonio Machado
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