Applegarth
There is a garden where the sun
reflects from rough cast whitewashed walls.
Close by the quiet river runs
here you can hear the soft bird calls.
The scents of lavender and sage,
which grow near to the lilac trees.
Compete with fields of blue borage
ich draw to them the questing bees.
The lawn of moorland turf is neat
and everywhere the flowers bloom.
The honey smell of meadowsweet
is mingling with the perfumed broom.
This garden is a sheltered spot.
Where old and tired from the fray
I sit and doze when it is hot
and ponder in my quiet way.
I think about the things I’ve seen
and well loved people I have known
The many places I have been
in travels ‘fore I was full grown.
My wandering feet have carried me
to distant lands of snow and ice.
Some lands without a single tree
and tropic isles like paradise.
I always yearned to go back home
but there was always more to see
When I was young I had to roam
across the world by land and sea.
My questing mind gave me no peace
hard lessons I was forced to learn.
Wisdom granted me release
a truth I found I had to earn.
The fire of youth burns low with age.
springy step turns to measured tread
I learnt my quest was a mirage
and came back to where I was bred
Although it’s changed it’s still the same.
I see it now through different eyes
and seek no more for fortunes fame.
I realise to my surprise
I need not have travelled at all.
As all the knowledge I’ve obtained
I could have gained within ths walls
of this small garden.Now maintained
by younger men in their full strength.
Who serve me with touching awe
As one who’s seen the breadth and length
Of the whole world.As he sought for
the secrets other lands could show.
Whose been to Canada and Rome.
Seen desert lands and fields of snow
But has returned at last to home.
A field stone house with roof of thatch,
a garden sheltered from the wind.
There was nowhere else could match
the dream he carried in his mind.
Of Applegarth, old Applegarth
a house that’s filled with memories
It’s been his family’s home and hearth
for nigh on seven hundred years.
There’s little left of the wide lands
This proud family used to own
but what there is Is my homeland.
belongs to me and me alone.
This quiet garden in the sun
the Rowan tree that provides shade.
I know my race is nearly run
and wonder if I made the grade.
Each morn I wake and greet the day.
Determined that I will enjoy
Whatever treats may come my way
As carefree as a little boy
The little boy I used to be
Before my wanderlust took hold
and drove me overland and sea.
I only learned as I grew old
That I could live contentedly
at Applegarth and only here.
Where I was always meant to be
a message I was slow to hear.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
Peace Everywhere
Peace, everywhere, peace today!
Peace in lands of scruffy trees and pine,
Peace in lands of olives and wine,
Peace in lands where peaks are white,
Peace in lands where fields are bright.
Peace in lands of oasis and sand,
Peace in lands where people band,
Peace in lands where children play,
Peace in lands where people pray,
Peace in lands in the thick of the fight,
Peace in lands ruled by force and might.
Everywhere, everywhere, peace this day!
Pray that all world leaders lead the way,
Encouraging moral people to stand proud and tall,
No government too great, no nation too small.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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At Parting II
AND you could leave me now--
After the first remembered whispered vow
Which sings for ever and ever in my ears--
The vow which God among His Angels hears--
After the long-drawn years,
The slow hard tears,
Could break new ground, and wake
A new strange garden to blossom for your sake,
And leave me here alone,
In the old garden that was once our own?
How should I learn to bear
Our garden's pleasant ways and pleasant air,
Her flowers, her fruits, her lily, her rose and thorn,
When only in a picture these appear--
These, once alive, and always over-dear?
Ah--think again: the rose you used to wear
Must still be more than other roses be
The flower of flowers. Ah, pity, pity me!
For in my acres is no plot of ground
Whereon could any garden site be found,
I have but little skill
To water weed and till
And make the desert blossom like the rose;
Yet our old garden knows
If I have loved its ways and walks and kept
The garden watered, and the pleasance swept.
Yet--if you must--go now:
Go, with my blessing filling both your hands,
And, mid the desert sands
Which life drifts deep round every garden wall,
Make your new festival
Of bud and blossom--red rose and green leaf.
No blight born of my grief
Shall touch your garden, love; but my heart's prayer
Shall draw down blessings on you from the air,
And all we learned of leaf and plant and tree
Shall serve you when you walk no more with me
In garden ways; and when with her you tread
The pleasant ways with blossoms overhead
And when she asks, 'How did you come to know
The secrets of the ways these green things grow?'
Then you will answer--and I, please God, hear,
'I had another garden once, my dear'.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Envoy For "A Child's Garden Of Verses"
WHETHER upon the garden seat
You lounge with your uplifted feet
Under the May's whole Heaven of blue;
Or whether on the sofa you,
No grown up person being by,
Do some soft corner occupy;
Take you this volume in your hands
And enter into other lands,
For lo! (as children feign) suppose
You, hunting in the garden rows,
Or in the lumbered attic, or
The cellar - a nail-studded door
And dark, descending stairway found
That led to kingdoms underground:
There standing, you should hear with ease
Strange birds a-singing, or the trees
Swing in big robber woods, or bells
On many fairy citadels:
There passing through (a step or so -
Neither mamma nor nurse need know!)
From your nice nurseries you would pass,
Like Alice through the Looking-Glass
Or Gerda following Little Ray,
To wondrous countries far away.
Well, and just so this volume can
Transport each little maid or man
Presto from where they live away
Where other children used to play.
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see if you but look
Through the windows of this book
Another child far, far away
And in another garden play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is still on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away;
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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In Memoryt Of Saretta Deakin
_Who Died on October 25th_, 1899.
THERE was a day,
A horrible Autumn day,
When from her home, the home she made for ours
And that day made a nightmare of white flowers
And folk in black who whispered pityingly,
They carried her away;
And left our hearts all cold
And empty, yet with such a store to hold
Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out,
And, falling on all fair things, they wither these.
Tears came with time--but not with time went by.
And still we wander desolate about
The poor changed house, the garden and the croft,
Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft
Intolerable pervading memories
Of her whose face and voice made melodies,
Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love--
Dear songs of all the little joys that were.
We see the sun, and have no joy thereof,
Because she gathered in her dying hands
And carried with her to the fair far lands
The flower of all our joy, because she went
Out of the garden where her days were spent,
And took the very sun away with her.
The cross stands at her head.
Over her breast, that loving mother-breast,
Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed.
It seems a place for rest,
For happy folded sleep; but ah, not there,
Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed,
But in the house made empty for her sake.
Here, in the night intolerable, wake
The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong
To fight with death the bitter slow night long.
Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay
Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day
With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings,
And drags us out to common cruel things
That sting, and barb their stings with memory.
O Love--and is the price too hard to give?
Thine is the splendour of all things that live,
And this thy pain the price of life to thee--
The sacrament that binds to the beloved,
The chain that holds though mountains be removed,
The portent of thine immortality.
So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we
Endure our bondage, and work out our time,
Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb--
Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free.
Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord--and she--
Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold,
Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold,
Till the far day when it shall draw us near
To the sight of her--her living hands, her dear
Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face?
And we shall hold her, in the happy place,
And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew--
'Ah! children, I am tired of wanting you!'
Or, in some world more beautiful and dear
Than any she ever even dreamed of here,
Where time is changed, does she await the day
She longed for, and so little a while away,
When all the love we watered with our tears
Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years?
Dreaming through her new garden does she go,
Remembering the old garden, long ago,
Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow
In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow;
And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot,
Training her flowers to perfect branch and root,
Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower
To wait a little for its opening hour?
Can you not hear her voice: 'Ah, not to-day,
While my dear flowers, my own, are far away.
Be patient, bud! to-morrow soon will come:
Ah! blossom when my little girl comes home!'
But now. But here.
The empty house, the always empty place--
The black remembrance that no night blots out,
The memories, white, unbearable, and dear
That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear?
The resistless riotous rout
Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day?
Love is immortal: this the price to pay.
Worse than all pain it would be to forget--
On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set.
Love is no niggard: though the price be high
Into God's market Love goes forth to buy
With royal meed God's greatest gifts and gain,
Love offers up his whole rich store of pain,
And buys of God Love's immortality.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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My Trees
The tree has branches so full of life’s teaching,
Anyone stays inside this house of wood.
My trees are in my garden of roses,
They are full of beauty, my garden tries hard
To learn and grow like humans and animals.
Your knowledge survives, my garden lives on
As it deserves to, my harder gardening is a concept.
Trees increase us in numbers, plants normally learn
Outright, their infinity is greater than ours.
poem by Naveed Akram
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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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Garden Of Peace
Written by dewey bunnel and gerry beckley, 1994
Found on hourglass.
I look inside at the scarlet room
Places to hide in the dusty gloom
A noisy clock and a silver spoon
A china cup on the mantlepiece
Gathering dust as it did in the east
And just outside lies the garden of peace
Oh, tell me is this really true
Can it be, peace has come to me and you
Tell me over, over and over
Tell me is this really happening
Inside this world its beautiful
Peace in this garden has come true
A mirror pond reflects the dawn
Over the banks, cross the emerald lawn
A breeze has come and Im carried along
So follow the path through the knowing trees
And each time you laugh, it is love you release
That love will come back in the garden of peace
So, tell me is this really true
Can it be, peace has come to me and you
Tell me over, over and over
Tell me is this really happening
Inside this world its beautiful
Peace in the garden has come true
Oh, tell me is this really true
Can it be, peace has come to me and you
Tell me over, over and over
Tell me is this really happening
Inside this world its beautiful
Peace in the garden has come true ...
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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A Song of Her Garden
She builds her pleasant garden
Where the winds are not so strong
The sun sometimes relenting
Becomes her companion
The garden spreads its arms to her
Thick shoulders, fragile hands
The creepers and the vines that bear
Her flowers from many lands
There is shade upon her shadow
And a path of leaves and stones
That were inlaid imperceptibly
Through years of life alone
There's a trickle of river water
Breaking on a precipice
An ornately painted corner
Where she sees the light of bliss
Papaya trees and lemon trees
That the hurricanes forgot
The garden is her mirror
It reflects her, then does not
Wind chimes in the moonlight
Songbirds awake till dawn
She cultivates the seasons,
Leaves the garden to be born.
poem by Frank Bana
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Truly Great
My walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that's small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.
A little gold that's sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.
A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.
Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart--
Show me a man more great.
poem by William Henry Davies
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A Monumental task for My grandaughter Chitra
A garden walled in rose red brick.
Which traps the sun and holds the heat
our forbears did not miss a trick.
Few modern gardens can compete.
Fruit trees espaliered to the walls
and cultivated carefully
The garden echoed to the calls
of children playing happily.
And so it was for centuries.
But family fortunes rise and fall.
We must endure what fare decrees
we have no choice no choice at all.
The garden fell into neglect
with weeds self seeding where they chose.
There’s little else you could expect.
As any good gardener knows.
.
The garden now belongs to me.
I have the means I have the will.
I will restore it perfectly
I can employ the men with skill.
To do all that needs to be done
a task that I will supervise.
It is too much for me alone
So I must listen to advice.
I will create a paradise
concealed within the rose red walls.
That is well ordered and precise.
The man who pays the piper calls
the tune.I can afford to pay
and what I seek is harmony.
A formal garden which today
is something of a rarity.
A cherished dream I can make true
Restore it as it used to be.
It’s something which I have to do.
In my ancestors memory.
My great grand father twice removed
created it originally
I am convinced it was well loved
by him and all his family.
This garden will be loved again
when restoration is complete.
My work will not have been in vain
I complement I don’t compete.
I followed carefully the plan
of how grandfather laid it out.
A monument to the old man
He would approve I have no doubt..
28-Feb-09
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Garden
The Garden
By: Adam M. Snow
The garden blooms to your delight;
to and from this very night.
When you are but one;
this garden blooms until you're done.
Keep that in mind but out of sight;
this garden is full of roses so white.
Open up and let shine the sun;
for Springtime has only begun.
Show off your garden so bright;
for there is no need to fight.
Now go on, no need to run;
when you're in your garden my son.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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My Dream Home
My dream home would be a log home in the city
Downstairs would be the kitchen with the laundryroom in it
And a storage area
Also there would be a family room with a living room
The log home would have 4 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms
In the hall of the log home would be the linen closset
At the front of the log home there would be the stone driveway
But at the back of the log home there would be the indoor garden so that We could use it all year round
The floor in the log home would be wood
And the walls in the log home would be beige
There would be Ikea furniture inside of the log home
Also the neighbourhood would be a well established neighbourhood
But very quiet indeed
Not too much traffic
The parks nearby would be very sophisticated with colorful
Flowers and beautiful trees
poem by Aldo Kraas
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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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The Wrong House
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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The Ant Explorer
Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-
To fare away far away, far away from home.
He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent
To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went
Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone,
Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone,
Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high,
Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky,
Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss,
Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across.
'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread,
He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed.
His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent,
And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-
Back away from desert lands feet and feet across,
Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss,
Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky,
Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high,
Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone,
Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone.
A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam,
He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Inner Garden
*
Autumn has come to rest
In her garden
Come to paint the trees with emptiness
And no pardon
So many things have come undone
Like the leaves on the ground
And suddenly she begins to cry
But she doesnt know why
Heavy are the words that fall through the air
To burden her shoulders
Caught up in the trees
Her soliloguy,
Dont leave me alone
**
Rome now comes to sit
In her garden
Mingling the breeze with memories
Of a time when
There was a room in pale yellow hues
Her room with a view
Where love made a bed of happiness
In muslin and lace
Sweet is the voice from far away
That speaks sotto voce and
Is lingering there in the golden air
To quiet the day.
( * inner garden i, ** inner garden ii)
song performed by by King Crimson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ruined Cottage
None will dwell in that cottage; for, they say
Oppression reft it from an honest man,
And that a curse clings to it. Hence the vine
Trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground;
Hence weeds are in the garden; hence the hedge,
Once sweet with honey suckle, is half-dead;
And hence the gray moss on the apple tree.
One once dwelt there, who, in his youth,
Had been a soldier; and, when many days
Had passed, he sought his native village,
And sat down, to end his days in peace.
He had one child, a little laughing thing,
Whose dark eyes, he said, were like her mother's,
She had left buried in a strange land.
And time went on in comfort and content;
And that fair girl had grown far taller
Than the red-rose tree, her father planted
On her first English birth-day. He had trained it
Against an ash, till it became his pride,
It was so rich in blossom and in beauty.
It was called the tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal
To all the finer feelings of the heart
To mark their quiet happiness; their home,
In truth, the house of love; and, more than all,
To see them on the Sabbath, when they came,
Among the first, to church. And Isabel,
With her bright colour and her clear blue eyes,
Bowed down so meekly in the house of prayer;
And, in the hymn, her sweet voice audible.
Her father looked so fond of her, and then,
From her looked up so thankfully to heaven.
Then their small cottage was so very neat,
Their garden filled with fruits and flowers and herbs;
And in the winter there was no fireside
So cheerful as their own.
But other days
And other fortunes came - and evil power;
They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped
For better times; but ruin came at last,
And the old soldier left his dear home,
And left it for a prison. 'Twas in June,
One of June's brightest days; the bee, the bird,
The butterfly, were on their lightest wings;
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light;
The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad;
But the old man looked back upon his cottage,
And wept aloud. They hurried him away,
And the dear child, that would not leave his side!
They led him from the sight of the blue heaven
And the green grass, into a low dark cell,
The windows shutting out the blessed sun
With iron grating; and, for the first time,
He threw him on the bed, and could not hear
His Isabel's good night.
But the next morn
She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on whom it closed, and her sweet voice
And sweeter smile made him forget to pine.
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers,
But every morning he could mark her cheek
Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones
Get fainter and more faint; and a cold dew
Was on the hand he held. One day he saw
The sun shine through the grating of his cell,
Yet Isabel came not. At every sound
His heart-beat took away his breath;
Yet still she came not near him. One sad day
He marked the dull street, through the iron bars,
That shut him from the world. At length,
He saw a coffin carried carelessly along;
And he grew desperate. He forced the bars;
And he stood on the street, free and alone.
He had no aim, no wish for liberty;
He only felt one want - to see the corpse,
That had no mourners. When they set it down,
Ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave,
A rush of passion came upon his soul;
He tore off the lid, and saw the face
Of Isabel, and knew he had no child.
He lay down by the coffin quietly -
His heart was broken!
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Let's Walk Through This Garden
Come, my beloved, let us walk through this garden
Where lots of bees enchanting with the nature
Life of bees has got the life in the heaven
And placed it on the peach and citrus tree
Let us follow the footprint of those bees
Who has walked miles over the mountain?
The mountain to draw nectar high above the cool plain
Let us go into the fields, my beloved,
For the time of those who left to harvest
Seed of love has sowed into this garden
As the spirit nourishes the grain of joy with love in burden
Let us hear the melodies of the wind touch the wings
Let's sit beside this flower and pursue their exchange of the sweetness of kisses.
Let us go into the next field, my beloved,
Let's us not fill our heart with joy of sadness
Bees are yet to shed tears for those who have already lost their heavies
Under the forced of the whispering wind
Let us tend the bloom of the earth
Let us make the flowers our happiest heaven
Let us relax after the day's toil,
And listen to the murmur of the provoke bees
Rather parting with old acquaintance.
Oh! Let us return to our dwelling, my beloved!
For the wind has caused the yellow leaves to fall;
And shroud the withering flower that whisper elegy to the bees
Come my beloved, come close to me since nature has just wearied
And bidding her enthusiasm farewell.
With quiet and content sorrow
Come close to me beloved; come too closed to me.
Let us speak glory of our heart,
For that is greater than the sorrow of the bees
Lost her heaves in the flower garden
Under the force of the merciless whispering wind.
poem by Kezang Dawa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Today I sat…
Today I sat
By a quiet lake
Listening to the water lap upon the shore
I let my mind wander on lands and things yet to explore
Today I sat
Sheltered by an ancient pine
Bent and cracked by a long forgotten storm
I closed my eyes and let my spirit transform
Today I sat
On an old stone wall
Watching the birds fly by
And I did and thought nothing at all
Today I sat
And watched the children at play
Carefree and happy no worries around
No better way to spend the day
Today I sat
And watched the flowers grow
Their quiet struggle to survive
Made my heart glow
Today I sat…
© JPM 7/2/08