Favorite Poems "Garden Related"

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We sow the seed, nature grows the seed, then we eat the seed.

Neil, The Young Ones.

 

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Rhythm of the seasons, the wind and the rain, dryness and heat, and then the wind again, always the wind, and rain, which is the sadness we ascribe to nature, who feels nothing...

Welsh poetry.

 

I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden.

Yank poetry.

 

@Zigs




now ya got me a jigging n a singing

 

Flowers of the Mind

Last winter, when I was in bed with the 'Flu

And a temperature of a hundred and two,

I was telling the gardener what he should do.

You must keep the Neurosis well watered, I said.

Be certain to weed the Anaemia bed.

That yellow Myopis is getting too tall,

Tie up the Lumbago that grows on the wall.

Those scarlet Convulsions are quite a disgrace,

They're like the Deliriums—all over the place.

The pink Pyorrhoea is covered with blight,

That golden Arthritis has died in the night.

Those little dwarf Asthmas are nearly in bloom—

But just then the doctor came into the room.



Reginald Arkell 1934

 

We can mow together,
'Cos we know we're doing it right,
We can mow together,
We can mow all through the night.

 

My version of Arkell's ode.

More Flowers of the mind.


The Hysteria's pulling the support from the wall.

You can't see the Fibroids, they are covered in soil.

The Hepatitis grow better when planted in shade,

And the red Alopecia is starting to fade.

That Colitis is badly infested with twitch,

And the state of the Scabies is making me itch.

The Rubella berries have gone past their prime,

And the Toxaemia refuses completely to climb.

But just when you think it can't get any worse,

I have come to the end of my doggerel verse.


E.G.M. 1999.

 

LUVing this thread folks- for joining in and sharing your POE'ums..... such fun to read

 

Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings.

 

The Glory of the Garden by Rudyard Kipling

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all;
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you'll see the gardners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and to it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
It it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!

The Glory Of The Garden Poem by Rudyard Kipling - Poem Hunter