When Gardens Begin To Die
When gardens begin to die
In these scorching sun and times
Where shall we go to smell flowers sweet?
When gardens die for a season
I do not see a change, I see only an end.
Some one ordered me to be pessimistic.
A flying bird comes down to my abode
And asks all of a sudden, `How are you friend? `
I tell her a lie, ` I am happy in my garden`.
The clouds have a promise to fulfill
They must break into water drops.
To let our plants live in a garden.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Green Fingers
People have gardens, both large and small,
Whilst flat dwellers have no garden at all.
Some people love to surround their homes
With comical-looking, little garden gnomes.
A few gardens boast fantastic water-features,
Or a large array of stone, woodland creatures.
To make their garden nice, some folk really do try,
Whilst other gardens really are a sight for sore eyes.
Some folk really wish their garden was just not there,
And, about them, they, very obviously, just do not care.
Without a garden, some people would feel really lost,
And they keep them looking nice, whatever the cost.
Some people are blessed: they have green fingers,
And, in their gardens, for hours, they love to linger.
When some people pull on their gardening gloves,
They tend their gardens with such heartfelt love.
People love to spend their time sowing seeds,
Trimming their hedges, and pulling up weeds.
Some tend flower beds, upon bended knee.
Some grow delicious fruit upon their trees.
The gardener's nightmare is the garden pest:
To eradicate them all, they do their best.
Some people love to escape to their sheds,
Where they can think, and clear their heads.
In their gardens, people love to spend time,
But they like it best, when the weather is fine.
When all of their gardening chores are done,
Some people love to sit and relax in the sun.
Time spent in the garden, always really flies;
The benefits of gardening cannot be denied.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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112
THIS IS A VERY LONG POEM AND I WANT IT PRUNED:
I used to like gardens, putting flowers on the row,
Tending the soil, cutting the grass,
Removing the weeds,
Pruning the lush greenery of trees
And making the flor-de-luna vines
Create a certain impression
Of a landscape,
A certain motif
A theme of gladness
Something to cherish
I take a good look around my
Little garden
And then I would sit under the shade of flowering champaca trees throwing fragrance
Sprinkling perfume
The neighbors say that the scent of ylang-ylang even reaches their houses
And the white sampaguitas so exuding
I used to dirty my hands putting soil on the flower pots
Designing landscapes of love
And patience, curves and hills,
And tend to all the colors mixing in space,
I used to
I am telling you I stopped
When I married,
My wife comes to my garden
And rearranges everything
She puts what she wants
And pulls what she
Thinks repels her
She cuts the flowers
Puts them on the vase
And uproots some species
That I love
And soon the garden has not become mine
Crowded, and strange
And what used to be my little garden
Green Bermuda grass and patterns
Red Anthuriums heart shaped
Pink Dahlias praying to the sun
Orange Gumamelas dancing in the wind
And yellow dancing ladies beaming with pride
Olive Palms waiving to passers by with all cheers
Violets so assuming
White lilies in pure dignities
Lotuses in meditation moods
Husky Cactuses confident with thorns
Finger Ferns so fine and cool
My garden
Now is a forest
The wanton chaos
My garden is gone
All the patterns changed
Drastically
And she asks me
She asks me
Why I don’t tend the garden anymore
She asks me
If something is wrong
If everything has gone wrong
She asks me if I still love my garden
She asks me if I can begin planting some seeds again
She asks me if I still love her,
AND THIS IS HOW I PRUNED IT:
I like gardens
I don’t tend the garden anymore
I still love her,
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pruning A Very Long Poem
THIS IS A VERY LONG POEM AND I WANT IT PRUNED:
I used to like gardens, putting flowers on the row,
Tending the soil, cutting the grass,
Removing the weeds,
Pruning the lush greenery of trees
And making the flor-de-luna vines
Create a certain impression
Of a landscape,
A certain motif
A theme of gladness
Something to cherish
I take a good look around my
Little garden
And then I would sit under the shade of flowering champaca trees throwing fragrance
Sprinkling perfume
The neighbors say that the scent of ylang-ylang even reaches their houses
And the white sampaguitas so exuding
I used to dirty my hands putting soil on the flower pots
Designing landscapes of love
And patience, curves and hills,
And tend to all the colors mixing in space,
I used to
I am telling you I stopped
When I married,
My wife comes to my garden
And rearranges everything
She puts what she wants
And pulls what she
Thinks repels her
She cuts the flowers
Puts them on the vase
And uproots some species
That I love
And soon the garden has not become mine
Crowded, and strange
And what used to be my little garden
Green Bermuda grass and patterns
Red Anthuriums heart shaped
Pink Dahlias praying to the sun
Orange Gumamelas dancing in the wind
And yellow dancing ladies beaming with pride
Olive Palms waiving to passers by with all cheers
Violets so assuming
White lilies in pure dignities
Lotuses in meditation moods
Husky Cactuses confident with thorns
Finger Ferns so fine and cool
My garden
Now is a forest
The wanton chaos
My garden is gone
All the patterns changed
Drastically
And she asks me
She asks me
Why I don’t tend the garden anymore
She asks me
If something is wrong
If everything has gone wrong
She asks me if I still love my garden
She asks me if I can begin planting some seeds again
She asks me if I still love her,
AND THIS IS HOW I PRUNED IT:
I like gardens
I don’t tend the garden anymore
I still love her,
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Conspicuous by its Absence
While tending to the garden one balmy November,
Helping my mother wash the leaves of the dust,
And gently cut off the dead branches and flowers,
Spraying the ones still seeming bright and robust…
She picked some reeds lying by her side,
Puzzled, I asked what are these for mother.
They are for the infants of the garden my child,
They need support to grow and are called climbers.
Sweet pea is one garden flower of such a family,
So I am going to use these reeds to make a trellis.
By January, despite chill the flowers will be smiling gaily,
Soft hues, translucent, capricious and sweet scented...
They are really my favourite as they have no flamboyance,
Growing them is like meditation and needs a lot of patience.
Now, in gardens, they are conspicuous by their absence,
Perhaps because we like things with zero maintenance...
To thrive, plants or relationships need love and nurture
No wonder, they wilt and have an uncertain future....
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Plucked A Rose From A Garden Green......
By Murtaza Abt
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
Of beauty never felt or seen,
Hoping that it would never wilt,
And always be as always been.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
with a happy blissful heart,
And promised i would hold it tight,
And never would we part.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
But little did i know,
That not in endless love and care,
But gardens do they grow.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And took it home with me,
But little did it stay the way,
The way t'was meant to be.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to grieve,
Over gardens green and meadows lush,
As it was sad to leave.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to wilt,
And wither in that unknown land,
it filled my heart with guilt.
I plucked a rose from a garden green,
And it began to die,
For happiness i had only asked,
But i began to cry.
....................................
I have p L ucked y O u from a garden green,
Your beauty i VE never felt or seen,
Hoping that YOU will never wilt,
And always be as always been.
09/Nov/09
poem by Murtaza Abt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Rain Drops
Here comes the grey clouds
rolling in,
Spreading rain all over the
town.
Rain drops help to moisten
the earth's beautiful green
grass.
Sidewalks once dusty are
washed and cleaned.
Rivers and lakes are given
plenty more water.
Fishes swim around happy
beneath the rain drops,
creating millions of ripples
upon the water.
Flowers and plants no longer
Thirst,
Even trees and bushes seem
to dance after a good drink
of water,
Animals get their fill of
water too.
Just Like a shower,
Rain drops clean and
cleanse everything,
Leaving the earth refreshed
and renewed.
After the storm has passed,
The sun shines spreading its
warmth.
Rain drops that are left behind
on Flowers, plants, trees and
grass,
It is like heaven for many insects
to fill their thirsty little
mouths.
Without clouds we would have no
rain drops,
Without rain drops everything would
never be the same.
poem by Derek James
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Culture Flowers
We’re all lashed
to Cultural Helms
besodden
ingrained eyes
narrowed to squinty plane
seeing;
not seeing
only mine;
and not mine
blind.
Culture is the Gardener's Death
who’s kind to only one flower;
other's bloom in the garden darkened
by blindness over-powered.
Strain some may
against the mast
yet they most times
cultivate only their own gardens;
time and the past
cause other flowers
to bloom and wither
before our very countenance.
Tempted we may be
by soul's desire
to look beyond the garden walls:
But few cannot,
but lift the spade
and plow the same furrows,
which etch our brow
contain our lives
until our death
we having known
only one garden flower:
grown beautifully
in straight
and narrow furrows.
A few sometimes
smell other blooms
thereby open up
genius
which is
simply
being willing
to sip and know
Not Like We-Ness.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Spring: New Beginnings
I have always loved the heralding of spring,
When the spell of youth is cast upon everything.
Gardens everywhere awaken from their sleep,
As the sun, from behind the clouds, does peep.
Leafy green shoots begin to sprout.
Flowers begin to pop their heads out.
Yellow daffodils stand proud and tall,
But, sadly, are gone in no time at all.
The sweet smell of blossom on the trees,
Wafts down from above on the gentle breeze.
Buttercups and daises are abundant everywhere
And the buzz of flying insects fills the warm air.
The season heralds a bright new dawn.
Baby birds and animals are being born.
The days are beginning to get progressively longer
And the sun's rays are beginning to shine stronger.
There's a sense of hope at this time of year,
Bringing with it, some much needed cheer.
It's heartening to know that summer is around the corner,
When the weather will grow increasingly warmer.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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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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In This Garden
In this garden
In this beautiful garden
The flowers and the grass
The stones and the water
The sculptures and all art
Sing a song
A song of beauty
A song of harmony
A song of hope
The wind whistles gently
Is it to the east?
Or is it to the west?
I don’t know and I don’t need to know
All is so beautiful
Hush…
Hush humanity
Hush…
I can feel the scent on y nostrils
The scent of the flowers
The sound of the water nearby welcoming
Peace
In this garden
In this beautiful garden
With beautiful flowers
Where art lives
Hush
Play the music
Let the flowers live the music
Let the drums be heard
Let the music come to life
Play the music
Let it be heard here today
In this garden
In this beautiful garden
With very beautiful flowers
Where art comes to life
poem by Jack Shaka
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Time To Turn Over A New Leaf
The Plant Kingdom isn't all sweetness and light.
Some plants digest animal life
And destroy buildings and spread diseases.
However, these Godmade creatures
Have their place in the Universe
And deserve to be protected.
That's why trees are continually planted
To replace the ones we use.
Plant a Tree is part of our culture.
It isn't some politically correct philosophy,
It's an essential revitalisation of Nature.
We breathe out carbon dioxide
Which the plants absorb and exhale oxygen.
We act in symbiosis.
We exist by the Grace of God,
The Creator of all things.
Plants can't create us with our fantastic thoughts
And developments as we ourselves
Live and die and are replaced by our offspring.
Plants remain at their peak
As if no further developments are required.
I do not see any plant as superior to me.
I never will. Even when buried,
I await a resurrection promise to be fulfilled.
I will live again. I will walk upon the land once more.
This promise is not extended to plants
That they will live forever.
I see plants as living creatures full of wonder.
A humble microscope reveals
The tiny algae and their secrets.
The flowers are tended by Man,
Cultivated, nurtured like babes in the wood,
Fertilised orchids treated as preciously as diamonds.
Even the amateur gardener admires
The perfumed garden outside his home
And reflects upon his neighbours' gardens, too,
With a sense of community pride.
God Himself set Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.
A Paradise on Earth, without blemish,
Without a briar or a thorn in sight.
It was Man and Woman who succumbed to temptation
And we abide now upon a fallen world.
We owe the plants no apology, no response at all.
We need not talk to the trees or the lilies of the field.
We need to make our peace with our Patriarch,
Our Heavenly Father. We need the Saviour.
We need to turn over a new leaf.
We need to drink the rivers of Heaven.
We need the outpouring of Cosmic sunshine, Celestial love.
Only then, can we have eternal souls and spirits
That blossom like the rose...
As it is written in the NEW TE-STAMEN-T...
poem by Denis Martindale
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Do Not Go To The Garden Of Flowers
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O Friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,
and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.
The Garden
A Garden contemplation suits,
And may instruction yield,
Sweeter than all the flow'rs and fruits
With which the spot is filled.
Eden was Adam's dwelling place,
While blest with innocence;
But sin o'erwhelmed him with disgrace,
And drove the rebel thence.
Oft as the garden-walk we tread,
We should bemoan his fall;
The trespass of our legal head
In ruin plunged us all.
The garden of Gethsemane,
The second Adam saw,
Oppressed with woe, to set us free
From the avenging law.
How stupid we, who can forget,
With gardens in our sight,
His agonies and bloody sweat,
In that tremendous night.
His church as a fair garden stands,
Which walls of love enclose;
Each tree is planted by his hand,
And by his blessing grows.
Believing hearts are gardens too,
For grace has sown its seeds;
Where once, by nature, nothing grew
But thorns and worthless weeds.
Such themes to those who Jesus love,
May constant joys afford;
And make a barren desert prove
The garden of the Lord.
poem by John Newton
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Seed-Time And Harvest
MY hollyhocks are all awake,
And not a single rose is lost;
My wallflowers, for dear pity's sake,
Have fought the winter's cruel frost;
Pink peony buds begin to peer,
And flags push up their sword-blades fine:
I know there will not be this year
A brighter garden plot than mine.
I'll sow the seeds of mignonette,
Of snapdragon and sunflowers tall,
And scarlet poppies I will set
To flower against the southern wall;
Already all my lilies show
The green crowns baby lilies wear,
And all my flowers will grow and blow,
Because Love's hand has set them there.
I'll plant and water, sow and weed,
Till not an inch of earth shows brown,
And take a vow of each small seed
To grow to greenness and renown:
And then some day you'll pass my way,
See gold and crimson, bell and star,
And catch my garden's soul, and say:
'How sweet these cottage gardens are!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Be a part of me
as the fish swims into the sea and find its way to
feed and happy, the water Lilies breathe in the dirty
pond to grow into a beautiful flower, of where the
bird wants to sip its sweet drops of crystal water
gland
as the wind blew, thrown into the big ocean and the
clouds swings beneath the golden sun; the wave
roll on to the dazzling seashore, waiting each
pebbles to dance in the sand; rumble, sizzling,
goggling under the hot sunny day
as the perfume smell in every corner of your
body, the door that open makes my day complete,
the food that taste so sweet leaves every memories
of who you would be in the heart that is free, your
the passion that hovers in my knee, you’re the star in
every night in the sky I see, for everything my dear
you believe in me, you’re the one I always die with
thee
now the roses have fully grown in the garden its
residue and the flower bloom so beautiful, as you
can touch and smell as you catch, believe that I am
always in the end waiting for you in every command
I remain so true, wonder you bring me through, as I
love you, for you’re always be part of me in
everything I will be, my true and dear
WIFE......I love you
poem by Antonio Liao
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Little Sparta is a garden in the traditional sense. It is perhaps not like other modern gardens, but I think that other times would have had no difficulty with it.
quote by Ian Hamilton Finlay
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Kentish Garden
THERE is a grey-walled garden, far away
From noise and smoke of cities, where the hours
Pass with soft wings among the happy flowers,
And lovely leisure blossoms every day.
There, tall and white, the sceptral lily blows;
There grow the pansy, pink, and columbine,
Brave hollyhocks, and star-white jessamine,
And the red glory of the royal rose.
There greeny glow-worms gem the dusky lawn,
The lime-trees breathe their fragrance to the night,
Pink roses sleep, and dream that they are white,
Until they wake to colour with the dawn.
There, in the splendour of the sultry noon,
The sunshine sleeps upon the garden bed
Where the white poppy droops a drowsy head
And dreams of kisses from the white full moon.
And there, some days, all wild with wind and rain,
The tossed trees show the white side of their leaves,
While the great drops drip from the ivied eaves,
And birds are still--till the sun shines again.
And there, all days, my heart goes wandering,
Because there, first, my heart began to know
The glories of the summer and the snow,
The loveliness of harvest and of spring.
There may be fairer gardens; but I know
There is no other garden half so dear;
Because 'tis there, this many, many a year,
The sacred, sweet, white flowers of memory grow!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The seeds of the garden
I grew a garden with seeds brought from some. I alone know from where I got those seeds.
I do not know to which gardens have gone
The seeds of mine for growing plants of theirs.
13.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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