Gardening Poems

“Wow! It’s Christmas, happiness coming
Now for the gift welcoming loving
Then to the church to bow before God
And to the market to buy me a gift
...

I was pegging out your lime-green dress;
you were hoping the last of the sun
might sip the last few beads of drip-dry water
from its lime-green hem.
...

MY father left a park to me,
But it is wild and barren,
A garden too with scarce a tree,
And waster than a warren:
...

O, for that warning voice, which he, who saw
The Apocalypse, heard cry in Heaven aloud,
Then when the Dragon, put to second rout,
Came furious down to be revenged on men,
...

No more of talk where God or Angel guest
With Man, as with his friend, familiar us'd,
To sit indulgent, and with him partake
Rural repast; permitting him the while
...

This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.
...

The last of summer gardening ends.
Hoe and trowel, knee pad and sunbonnet
Hang in the shed with the shears.
The final petals of the rose have fallen,
...

All along, Vincent was under the impression
That Ursula liked him as much as he liked her.
They spent so much of time together
Talking, laughing, gardening, with gestures
...

A plain tilt-bonnet on her head
She took the path across the leaze.
- Her spouse the vicar, gardening, said,
'Too dowdy that, for coquetries,
...

In a little town in Devonshire, in the mellow September moonlight,
A gentleman passing along a street saw a pitiful sight,
A man bending over the form of a woman on the pavement.
He was uttering plaintive words and seemingly discontent.
...

I should be more cordial
You know- take the nice lane
Not mention your darkness
Or your endless spreading of pain
...

Between the Gardening and the Cookery
Comes the brief Poetry shelf;
By the Nonesuch Donne, a thin anthology
Offers itself.
...

I search her face across a hemisphere,
embark on one more journey:

Will you come?
...

An average man was Private Flynn,
Good stuff for soldiering, no doubt;
Troublesome when the drink was in,
A quiet lad when it was out.
...

You can take my hands in your hand
No matter how far Away
I'm from your land
...

There's a looper caterpillar in my lupins,
There are weevils weaving strands about my stocks,
There are throngs of thieving thrips
On my seedlings and my slips,
...

How often you visit museums to view the masterpieces of all those artists of long ago, sit on a tour bus and do not see that lady sitting there, framed with painted face and eyelids shaded cum sfumato, her hair curled with such as those of Leonardo. Ecco her eyes when she smiles.
How often you sit at a restaurant table and blink on pass the flowers dazzling their colors and shouting Van Gogh’s hello with the tableware so neatly arranged side by side and flowered napkin. You did not make to notice.
...

I went by the Druid stone
That broods in the garden white and lone,
And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
...

I didn't write that novel
I've dreamed of for many years
Nor did I climb Mt. Everest
(I'm really scared of heights)
...

The first area to look into is those pillars of American success I identified above: Cheap Labor, Cheap Energy, Cheap Food and a country filled with natural resources.

To this list I will now add, a decent birth rate or immigrant flow, small town and technical green enclave investment, income distribution reform, land distribution reforms, banking and financial reforms and a re-thinking of the purposes of an economy.
...

archeology of doors

principle of architectural dawn into morning is seen through body of poetic fluxus.
...

yesterday is yesterday today is today nested time is labyrith of twisted time-lapse into darkness of ignorance in gardening civic values methods in method of distorted mind macbook is a house of future postfuturistic manifesto of todayness's birthstone on london's eye rabbit on frost rubbish on rotten life of less than nothingness less than emptiness fill up the blanks with contents of broken intelligence mindfulness awareness freedom paranoia schizoprenia hypertextual dreams in fleshy texts openning grassland truths are naturally moved due to truths today is wednesday 14: 23.
tomorrow is thursday.
roadsvare packed with cars.
lions in zoos.
...

gardening reality sprouts ofbdifferent types of fruits
in colourful deconstructives out of flow and flight of texts
...

echo of seasonality of circle of action poetry into a mysterious dictionary of flowers blooming truths in colourful artwork born out of flowing sound of silence openning freedom to kantian late philosophy of nature intertwining beauty and truth in a garden of frequencies of vibrational moves of irrational wordbank drawing a gun of roses to make a poetry of rabbit in wandering moon in a blazing reels of impermanence
on table of contented stars in calmest manner of stilled water atomic-civic realities of births born out of the alchemical beauty of the present tense, the future tense and the future perfect tense in the postcontemporary concept of time in mobile grammar of maturity inside wisdom-womb of resilience-patience-tolerance. mind of good will gardening attitude.
may all beings be healthy.
...

light gardening
no-colour colour
mind-universe
mental formation of act
...

gardening flowers and fruits
mowing mind's dust in the wimd of change.
...

garden
swimming alphabets onwards
''transparent energy is consciousness flow of mindfulness skills
life of gardening anthropocenic beams
...

Lord Jesus can see a garden and knows what must get done,
And it's like a Royal pardon when the gardening war gets won.
The trash gets cleared, then straight away, fresh flowers get their chance,
They blossom there, that very day, with beauty to enhance.
...

Water is flowing. Night is not night is night is not night is night. Day is now day is day. Dawn is not dawn is dawn. Powtry is poetry is not poetry is poetry. Alphabwts are alphabwts are not alphabwts. Powtey is water. Powtry is beam of river. Powtry is resiliance of impossibilities. Surrealiry is reality is surreality. Humanity-ocean is light in the darkest hours of gardening uncwrtain future.
Moments of breaths are poetic bwings of human streams of tenderness.
...

There once was a fat lady named Daisy,
Whose gardening was particularly lazy,
Until one day for a laugh,
She danced nude on her path,
...