Up the Garden Path - 0877 - Acrostic
Up the garden path she led him,
Private joke she told herself,
To sacrifice his precious self
He, half blind went to the brim,
Enjoyed close shave, then cut it trim.
Garden path walks wily woman's whim!
(11 April 1998)
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Garden, The
do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe that he was there
Do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe or do you care
Did he rise from the ashes and lead the sky above
Did he lie in the name of love
....in the garden
Do you believe in the path that you follow
Do you believe it takes you where you want
Do you believe in the lies that you swallow
Do you believe it takes you where you go
See the man. he never lies he never will
Did he fight for the right to kill
....in the garden
....in the garden
There's a little man in a house alone...waiting
He doesn't lie.
He doesn't wait for love to hold on to
He doesn't lie. he doesn't wait...
Johnny's in the garden
I see the err in my ways
....in the garden
Do you believe in the man in the garden
song performed by by Five For Fighting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Garden
Do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe that he was there
Do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe or do you care
Did he rise from the ashes and lead the sky above
Did he lie in the name of love
....in the garden
Do you believe in the path that you follow
Do you believe it takes you where you want
Do you believe in the lies that you swallow
Do you believe it takes you where you go
See the man. he never lies he never will
Did he fight for the right to kill
....in the garden
....in the garden
Theres a little man in a house alone...waiting
He doesnt lie.
He doesnt wait for love to hold on to
He doesnt lie. he doesnt wait...
Johnnys in the garden
I see the err in my ways
....in the garden
Do you believe in the man in the garden
song performed by by Five For Fighting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Garden
Do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe that he was there
Do you believe in the man in the garden
Do you believe or do you care
Did he rise from the ashes and lead the sky above
Did he lie in the name of love
....in the garden
Do you believe in the path that you follow
Do you believe it takes you where you want
Do you believe in the lies that you swallow
Do you believe it takes you where you go
See the man. he never lies he never will
Did he fight for the right to kill
....in the garden
....in the garden
Theres a little man in a house alone...waiting
He doesnt lie.
He doesnt wait for love to hold on to
He doesnt lie. he doesnt wait...
Johnnys in the garden
I see the err in my ways
....in the garden
Do you believe in the man in the garden
song performed by by Five For Fighting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Legend of the Moon People
Two moons circle
a remote garden planet
The moon spirits become restless
and go down to walk the garden path
The Great Fire in the sky
smiles upon them and they
each become small moons
reflecting His day star light
Crossing paths one evening
both are drawn to the light of the other
Hand in hand, they now walk
the garden path together
He is Tortoise Moon
and she is Laughing Moon Woman
He is a gradual receding tide,
kind and gentle.
Passionate and impatient,
she is the rush of tide returning
May two moon people ever orbit
in perfect symmetry,
bound by the inimitable force
of gravitational attraction
poem by E.e. Wilholt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Fraser
Shave his hair and trim his nails,
For i am in the winter garden in search of my lover;
And Fraser came in to guide me on.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Eat Of This Fruit
Men just think…you've always…
Been close to God…
You are HIS first creation…
The vicegerent…
Over the Garden …now that Garden…
Walks on two legs as you…
Just think of the blessings…
God would bestow upon you…
For respecting, that which HE…
Birth from you…and then gave to you…
Your own Garden of Eden (paradise) …
If you will…you, would have never…
Never abused (paradise) as you have woman…
Which is now your personal Garden…
(Paradise, Eden,) you are to protect, love, honor, and
Cherish Her…
So She may acknowledge good fruit…
Can't you see…THAT She is your…
Blessing of all time…
Wake, walk-up my brother or you will surely…
Die…often…
She is yours to respect and protect no matter what…
Level of life she may live…
God…Left Eden in your control…
My…how the mighty (man) forgets…
How he became so mighty…
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mind of Her own
You can be direct...
With or without male contact...
You see the past...
And the future as well...
But still in me you dwell...
Causing me to swell...
You, moan and softly yell...
You are direct...mostly for you
It's costly...
Like that day; you went to explore...
The garden...
Your directness has you and I...
Band to earth's woes...
As man and woman.
All the birds and butterflies...
Cried.
No one knew you had such pride.
Satan evens regret his move...
Satan never consider your...
Direct mood.
Satan touched your softness...
And was hooked.
You shared it with me...
I was well took...
It is all wrote down in the book...
Even God was shook...
Your beauty and wisdom cook...
Your respect...
Made you and I rejects...
Now you secretly rule the world...
Giving your love briefly...
At some moments...
And to the brim at other times...
Directing man, by his spine.
Oh! you are good,
With the garden in you...
Allowing man to plant...
Down the road allowing him to pant.
Then man chants...
A song of your sovereignty...
Which is given by God...
For mans tree.
You woman have a mind of your own...
You are truly mans home...
There is much concerning you...
And your garden, I do not understand...
As Man.
And when my spirit was running...
I understood you not.
Your garden...
Your garden...
Is none stop...
The freedom of your mind...
Holds me ever so close...
And...yet so farrr.
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On That Path
I'm on that path,
So was my mother,
I'm on that path,
Just like my brother.
I'm on that path,
I didn't know my father,
I'm on that path,
And i am the master.
I'm on that path,
upon the good, straying from evil.
I'm on that path-
There is no cheating.
I'm on that path,
God knows i need him.
I'm on that path,
and i hope i'm never leaving ;)
the HEARTbraker
poem by Madina Morr
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The Happy Ending In The Garden
... AND then as it was told
the princess meets her prince in the
Secret Garden
they sow the seeds of love
respect time
soon the flowers begin to bloom
soon the trees bear the fruit
in the garden of love
so private.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My position is that since the non-secular status of my garden is not recognised by the law; by the world of the public, then the garden can only be private. So, I closed the garden to the public.
quote by Ian Hamilton Finlay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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A Path
I ventured down a path
I had walked many years ago.
So much had changed since then.
It was hardly recognisable,
but it was it still the same path
that had been used by countless feet,
and it never lost any of its individuality.
It was still the same old path
I had used in my courting days.
30 April 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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The Fruit Garden Path
The path runs straight between the flowering rows,
A moonlit path, hemmed in by beds of bloom,
Where phlox and marigolds dispute for room
With tall, red dahlias and the briar rose.
'T is reckless prodigality which throws
Into the night these wafts of rich perfume
Which sweep across the garden like a plume.
Over the trees a single bright star glows.
Dear garden of my childhood, here my years
Have run away like little grains of sand;
The moments of my life, its hopes and fears
Have all found utterance here, where now I stand;
My eyes ache with the weight of unshed tears,
You are my home, do you not understand?
poem by Amy Lowell
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Old Man
Old Man, or Lads-Love, - in the name there's nothing
To one that knows not Lads-Love, or Old Man,
The hoar green feathery herb, almost a tree,
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names
Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:
At least, what that is clings not to the names
In spite of time. And yet I like the names.
The herb itself I like not, but for certain
I love it, as someday the child will love it
Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
The shreds at last on to the path,
Thinking perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still
But half as tall as she, 'though it is as old;
So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
And I ca only wonder how much hereafter
She will remember, with that bitter scent,
Of garden rows, and ancient damson trees
Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door
A low thick bush beside the door, and me
Forbidding her to pick.
As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one.
I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray
And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;
Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait
For what I should, yet never can, remember;
No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush
Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside,
Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;
Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end
poem by Edward Thomas
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White Picket Fence
i've cut off the curls
I shaved half my face
Became half the man you asked to replace.
I'm willing to save you
You said you're worth saving
But half of my appetite's lost half it's craving
Stand in the mirror
That's me beside you
The one with the smile, the one who abides you.
Don't mind the madman
The killer, the lover
He's slowly fading one into the other.
Where is that white picket fence
That i painted myself in the late days of april?
Where are the daffodil mountians?
I know that they're somewhere around here by the garden.
You say that you're happy
Well you should know better
I see that you've sewn up that rip in your sweater
That some lover tore off you
That left you both shaking
That bled deep inside you the wound you'd forsaken
Where is that white picket fence
That i painted myself in the late days of april?
Where are the daffodil mountians?
I know that they're somewhere around here by the garden.
Don't fear i will save you
Don't shout you'll awaken
The corpse in the desert staked out beside you
I cut off his wing
And shaved half his face
But i thought that i saw his eyes...move
song performed by by Five For Fighting
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Dark illusion
Walking in a dark path
No help reached out to me
Walking in a dark path
Blind and still can't see
Walking in a dark path
Heart beats no longer heard
Walking in a dark path
Not even the sound of a bird
Walking in a dark path
Where am i is this real?
Walking in a dark path
No, it cant be, I've healed.
poem by Yolanda Salas
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4c
one takes the path
(indecisive yet) between
the house of darkness and
the dwelling place of light
in there
between, amidst
the path is winding
as though between two
mountains
breasts, leak,
bleak, break, slit,
betwixt
alive, one walks through
this path between two choices
black
&
white one sometimes compromises
taking
the other colors between
shades of gray
but until when?
ah, when one loses grasp
of air,
crumpled space, crumbling self,
the die must ultimately be cast
where are you?
there is fence out there
and you are
told to jump but where?
footnote
do not choose what you are
choose what is
right.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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