The Dandelion
O dandelion, rich and haughty,
King of village flowers!
Each day is coronation time,
You have no humble hours.
I like to see you bring a troop
To beat the blue-grass spears,
To scorn the lawn-mower that would be
Like fate's triumphant shears,
Your yellow heads are cut away,
It seems your reign is o'er.
By noon you raise a sea of stars
More golden than before.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Related quotes
Dream Flight Tiny Flowers
a dandelion dazzles
bright yellow petals
set among soft blades
green grass carpets
flowers waiting host bees
in pollen quest flights
petals fade to dreams
dandelion transcends
really to harness winds
assumes new dimensions
aeronautical aspirations
tiny flowers bunched seeds
together dream lift flights
to distant diverse fields
dandelion purpose blooms
dream flight tiny flowers
produce seed parachutes
compass aline on heavens
choose navigation stars
rich green grass maps
imagination showers
through blue skies
or grey black storms
watch seasons changes
feelings thoughts minds
souls dance time changes
through wonder ranges
yellow petals subtle changes
one day transformation clicks
into white honeycomb wishes
fades into spectral stems
preparations need seeds
in readiness to roam skies
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Bright Yellow Petal Flowers Imagination Showers
in life I never drank dandelion wine
for sour grapes bitter tastes I had no time
upon rich green grass map child like flowers
bright yellow petal flowers imagination showers
through blue skies or grey watch seasons changes
feelings thoughts minds souls through wonder ranges
yellow petals one day transform into white honeycomb
fade into spectral preparation seeds in readiness to roam
dandelion seeds are spun web silk threads of freedom life
carried away by gust breath of wind or child’s puff glow spice
tiny silk stem parachute flowers, freedom launch breath awaiting
to travel like tiny parachutes, on breeze wind wonder never abating
strong wind can carry tiny flower parachutes, miles away from parent
plant yet freedom seed flying stays, within wonder of any vision heart
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Duplicated Dandelion Diversity
what is a dandelion?
upon examination
a mini map mystery
wind reproductive diversity
multiple magnificent
miniaturized flowers
many tiny flight flower arrows
arranged symmetry reality
each tiny flower perceives
forms composite flower head
hundreds of yellow florets
upper layers raised to sky
butter cup yellow bright light
flower heart warms inflorescence
lower layers enlarge spread
curve down bow in symmetry
bright yellow bewitches souls
set off in contrast rich green grass
delights hearts walking grass blades
delights hearts walking green imagery
leaves form a rosette above central taproot
yellow to orange coloured flower heads spread
open in ray stream daytime close sleep night
flower heads mature spherical clocks spy
soon host birth transformations
real flowers wax dandelion blooms
each single flower head floret prepares
each seed stem attached white threads fluffy
cypselae on dandelion clock ticks
matured capitulum await breezes winds
to disperse in wind seed birth rights
hair-like calyx tissue waits above each ovary
each tiny flower has produced a seed
white spectral seed head manifests
design wonder delights child hands
dimensional layers link preflight mystery
seeds produce asexually by apomixes
where without pollination are produced seeds
offspring identical to the parent plants
resulting in offspring identical genetically
mystery mystery raptures in dandelions
strong breezes winds produce dandelion snows
run in fields as expand lift seed parachutes
seed-bearing parachutes create flower destiny
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Flower Gardener
Gas got me in the first World War,
And all my mates at rest are laid.
I felt I might survive them for
I am a gardener by trade.
My life is in the open air,
And kindly is the work I do,
Since flowers are my joy and care,
And comfort too.
My flowers are a fairy sight,
Yes I'm an ugly, warped old man,
For I have lived in Fate's despite
A year beyond one's mortal span;
And owe my health no gentle toil
From dawn to dark, contented hours,
Of loving kinship with the soil,
A friend of flowers.
My dahlias are my pride today,
And many my creations be.
They're worth a fortune, people say,
But what does money mean to me?
Their glory is my rich reward,
And as their radiant heads they raise,
I dedicate them to the Lord,
With love and praise.
I grieve to think that sullen Powers
On bombs and guns their might depend;
If man had heart for growing flowers
Then would we all be friend and friend.
The glory of the world is his
Who seeks salvation in the sod,
And finds that golden sunshine is
The laugh of God.
poem by Robert William Service
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Two Short Poems
Dandelion
Dandelion in grass
Head cotton ball white
Seeds ready for flight
9 June 2009
Summers Glory Gone
Flowers drooping heads
Petals limp
Summers glory gone
9 June 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Dumb Soldier
When the grass was closely mown,
Walking on the lawn alone,
In the turf a hole I found
And hid a soldier underground.
Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hid my hiding-place;
Grasses run like a green sea
O'er the lawn up to my knee.
Under grass alone he lies,
Looking up with leaden eyes,
Scarlet coat and pointed gun,
To the stars and to the sun.
When the grass is ripe like grain,
When the scythe is stoned again,
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole shall reappear.
I shall find him, never fear,
I shall find my grenadier;
But, for all that's gone and come,
I shall find my soldier dumb.
He has lived, a little thing,
In the grassy woods of spring;
Done, if he could tell me true,
Just as I should like to do.
He has seen the starry hours
And the springing of the flowers;
And the fairy things that pass
In the forests of the grass.
In the silence he has heard
Talking bee and ladybird,
And the butterfly has flown
O'er him as he lay alone.
Not a word will he disclose,
Not a word of all he knows.
I must lay him on the shelf,
And make up the tale myself.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Dent de Lion Sonnet
Dandelion in French means Lion's teeth,
Enchants among the buttercups and grass.
New sprouts shout daily 'whate'er come to pass,
Triumphant see us garland, golden wreath
Destiny will show we grow beneath
Each blade, and never fade, for lad and lass
Learn dreams earned from seeds blown, desires surpass
Imagination as on lawn and heath
Outside we're pride, abide, true joy bequeath,
Never fail to flourish, but, alas
SONgs few are sung to us while orchid, rose,
NET praise in verse and prose which, dandy, flows.'
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Dawn Dance
What do you think I saw to-day when I arose at dawn?
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn!
Bobbing here, and bowing there, gossiping away,
And how I wished that you were there to see the merry play!
But you were snug abed, my boy, blankets to your chin,
Nor dreamed of dancing birds without or sunbeams dancing in.
Grey Thrush, he piped the tune for them. I peeped out through the glass
Between the window curtains, and I saw them on the grass -
Merry little fairy folk, dancing up and down,
Blue bonnet, yellow skirt, cloaks of grey and brown,
Underneath the wattle-tree, silver in the dawn,
Blue Wrens and Yellow-tails dancing on the lawn.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Shepherds All And Maidens Fair
PIPE, shepherds, pipe, the summer's ripe;
So wreathe your crooks with flowers;
The world's in tune to Love and June,
The days are rich in hours,
In rosy hours, in golden hours--
Love's crown and fortune fair,
So gather gold for Love to hold,
And flowers for Love to wear!
Sing, maidens, sing! A dancing ring
Of pleasures speed your way;
Too harsh and dry is fierce July,
Too maiden-meek was May;
But Love and June their old sweet tune
Are singing at your ear:
So learn the song and troop along
To meet your shepherds dear!
Oh, Chloris fair, a rose to wear,
And gold to spend have I--
When all are gay on this June day
You would not bid me sigh?
You would not scorn a swain forlorn--
Each shepherd far and near
Hastes to his sweet, with flying feet,
As I towards my dear.
No maids there be in Arcady
But have their shepherds true;
Must you alone despise the one
Who only pipes for you?
You have no ear my pipe to hear
Though all for you it be;
And I no eyes for her who sighs
And only sings for me!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Sketchy (2)
how dare
am i
sketching flowers
in her garden
and coloring them
all in blue
she cries
when she sleeps
i change my mind
got some colors
put the stars
and a moon
glows of red
and sparkles of light
bursting
petals of yellow and
orange
sun
flowers and
lush of
grass
green and spreading
she wakes up
and smiles
i am no longer there
into the world
of blue oceans
i have
swam
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Flowers for me.
Here, in the green field, yonder the sky is blue
Behind ‘Ramogi" sacred hills, I see it blue
I wade past the tall, spear like flowering grass
To, pink, red, and yellow, I pick the flowers
Up a tree I see two weaver birds building their nest
Flowers I sample, all alone, for me, I'll bring these to my nest.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Spring in New Hampshire
Too green the springing April grass,
Too blue the silver-speckled sky,
For me to linger here, alas,
While happy winds go laughing by,
Wasting the golden hours indoors,
Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night,
Too faintly sweet the first May flowers,
The stars too gloriously bright,
For me to spend the evening hours,
When fields are fresh and streams are leaping,
Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
poem by Claude McKay
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Julie Claire
Oh Julie Claire was very fair,
Yet generous as well,
And many a lad of metal had
A saucy tale to tell
Of sultry squeeze beneath the trees
Or hugging in the hay . . .
Of love her share had Julie Claire
When life was lush and gay.
And then the village wealth to pillage
Came the Teuton horde;
The haughty Huns with mighty guns
And clattering of sword.
And Julie Claire had honey hair
With eyes of soft azure,
So she became the favoured flame
Of the Kommandatur.
But when at last the plague was past,
The bloody war well won,
We clipped the locks of every dox
Who dallied with the Hun.
Each wench with scorn was duly shorn;
Our Marie the shears would weld,
And Julie's head with ringlets shed
Was like a turnip peeled.
But of these days of wanton ways
No more the village talks,
For Julie Claire has wed the Maire
Who clipped her golden locks . . .
Nay, do not try to me I
Must suffer for my sins,
For all agree the Marie must be
The father of her twins.
poem by Robert William Service
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Gust Cotton Seed Wind Snows
dandelion remain herald mystic envoys
empire expand into new territories
honour all seed dispersed ruderals
who restore beauty to poor wastes
where once was barren life emerges
ruderals rapidly colonize wastelands
dandelion colour paint disturbed soils
yellow orange canopy veils delights
poet in appreciation walk restored fields
dandelion bright yellow bewitches souls
set off hues contrast in rich green grass
delights hearts soft walking grass blades
delights hearts walking nature's hue skins
surfaces stretch into infinite possibilities
even after flowering is finished smiles
dandelion flower head multiple rebirths
for entombed day or two flower head dries
is this husk death as fall off petals stamens?
miracles move bracts reflex curve backwards
into full sphere tiny parachute ball opens
expand lift ready seed-bearing parachutes
feathered leaves now cotton seed wind snows
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Tenacity Of Dandelions
Living in a rain forest has its challenges;
Here self perpetuation reigns supreme.
I’m convinced that if we do not fight for every inch of space in this forest of trees our house will be swallowed up in a few short years.
One of the best examples natures self perpetuation is the venerable dandelion, who seems to have a knack for survival second to none.
The war begins;
Although the young tender leaves of dandelions are edible, unless harvested early they quickly turn bitter…so eating all of them is not really an option.
So I attack my enemy with a smoke belching weed eating machine.
There’s a morbid satisfaction in lopping off dandelions at soil level.
Little do I know that the deep tap root remains and within a few days will push new growth above ground.
The ones missed getting whacked by now have gone to seed. I’ve never really taken the time to count the number of seeds that comprise that cute puff ball, but they must number in the hundreds One single plant gone to seed can replenish what others fail to accomplish.
My next assault is the lawnmower;
The whirling blades make short work of these tenacious weeds. Little do I know that some have already seeded the lawn with their spawn and in a short while the cycle begins all over again. The ones that get cut quickly learn to hug the ground just below the mower blades, ready to shoot up stalks that provide flowers that seemingly overnight turn into seed balls. They only need a mild wind to scatter them afar.
There is a local fellow that makes specialty garden tools. He sold me a long handled, pronged weed extractor. Works like a charm, reaching far enough into the soil, that the taproot can be removed. Although I make a valiant effort to remove all the dandelions I miss a few that are hiding beneath ferns or other larger plants. Seemingly overnight yellow flowers reappear.
The war presses on…I’m losing, so spraying with “Roundup” looks more inviting. After considering this option for about two seconds, the idea is abandoned.
Defeated I sue for peace, but the Dandelion King offers no quarter.
Weighing the lessons of my defeat I quickly realize that there are no “weeds”, rather a host of plants that live in harmony and balance with each other. I’m the one that foolishly believed that I could prevail over a primordial cycle of life that I cannot begin to understand, and that will be here long after I’m gone.
Now when I walk across the lawn and encounter a dandelion I tip my weathered cap and acknowledge that in war “To the victor belong the spoils”.
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Morning-Glory
In this meadow starred with spring
Shepherds kneel before their king.
Mary throned, with dreaming eyes,
Gowned in blue like rain-washed skies,
Lifts her tiny son that he
May behold their courtesy.
And green-smocked children, awed and good,
Bring him blossoms from the wood.
Clear the sunlit steeples chime
Mary’s coronation-time.
Loud the happy children quire
To the golden-windowed morn;
While the lord of their desire
Sleeps below the crimson thorn.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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What Is Pink?
What is pink? a rose is pink
By the fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float through.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? why, an orange,
Just an orange!
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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At Day-Close In November
The ten hours' light is abating,
And a late bird flies across,
Where the pines, like waltzers waiting,
Give their black heads a toss.
Beech leaves, that yellow the noon-time,
Float past like specks in the eye;
I set every tree in my June time,
And now they obscure the sky.
And the children who ramble through here
Conceive that there never has been
A time when no tall trees grew here,
A time when none will be seen.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Color
What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Grass stands tall! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
How do raindrops balance on grass blades?
It seemed like stars had descended on glade.
Startled, I watched standing by a lamppost.
Undeterred by clouds, and earth played host.
Overnight the grass had gained inches in height.
I sat and looked despite mosquito bites.
You would have said if you were by my side,
They have tears of joy glistening in eyes.
Does grass have feelings, eyes and ears?
Could it be… music of rain it can hear?
Raindrops, tears or stars… whatever you name,
All I know is we have talked and shared.
For on that moonless, still, cloudy night,
I simply forgot whatever was on my mind.
I bent down, and am sure heard it whisper,
Oh yes, I have no doubt grass can speak and hear.
When I woke up after a fitful, disturbed night,
And wandered out, I was aghast at the sight.
Grass was quiet yet dignified; it had been run over.
By a merciless, noisy and rusty lawn mower.
The stubble reminded of an unshaven face.
, Stoic, no trace of grief or need for solace.
A couple of days later gardener stood exasperated.
Grass laughed and stood tall, wet and animated.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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