Backyard Poems and Verses

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Prayer in a Backyard
Right now the world appeared merciless, however night hours
Had been full of fragrance from forgotten flowers.
I noticed once more acquainted filigree
Of moonlight via my lacy Lilac tree;
I heard the robins stirring of their nest;
And noticed the trail that fairy toes had pressed;
Mirrored stars had been in my backyard pool;
On my heat face the breeze was sort and funky.
The silence appeared to talk, my head was bowed,
Then ramblers that had grown right into a cloud
Lifted my eyes that, tear-washed, now might see
The sweetness that at present was misplaced to me.
Expensive god, who’s so close to to flowers, and birds,
Be nearer nonetheless, as I shall seek for phrases
To thank Thee for the blessings evening revealed,
Which via the day discouragement hid.

Wild Orchid
“The flower that walks”, the Indian; mentioned,

And strolling spreads its crown-like roots
By forest glades and upland dales.
Moccasin flower or Girl’s Slipper,
It issues not the identify
Or if or not it’s truthful white or rose or tiny yellow sort
Tis ever uncommon and wondrous there
This woodland magnificence Bequeathed us from one other age.

A Heritage to protect with care
And cherish for posterity
That different eyes in future years
Mav see this Orchid stroll the paths
As did our native Indian braves
And shy eyed maidens of the tribe.

Frivolously fall the Rains
On Heads bowed down in Grace,
And now the Summer season Solar
Dries every upturned Face.

The Distant Bells are glowing
And sweeten Lilac air;
Shiny Rainbows flowing with the Wind-
The Congregation stares.

Daisies, Bluebells, joined in Prayer
One Summer season’s windswept Day,
Understanding God and all his Blessings,
Whereas with the Wind they Sway.
Dave Vahlberg 6-26-2002

Will to Reside
I consider all issues that present a zest
For all times, the dandelion beats the remaining.
The little winged seeds from its white fluff ball
Settle and develop with no urging in any respect.
Settle in impossible locations
And shortly there’s a crop of dandelion faces.

They’re man’s worst pest, however a toddler’s playthings.
Typically I want I had gentle down wings
Like a dandelion seed, and will settle at will
On a velvety garden or a sun-spread hill,
And reside with the eagerness and zest
Of the wanton little dandelion pest.

4 days
Her petals furled
Gainst chilling wind and rain.
Got here sun-and rose disclosed her coronary heart
Purr gold
-Emma Berthelot

Rainbow Treasure
I’ve discovered the treasure
That lies on the Rainbow’s finish;
Wealth past computing
Is mine to present or lend.

Opals of an April daybreak,
Gold of a shimmering midday,
Amethysts of the sundown,
Pearls with the glow of the moon.

Would you prefer to share it?
There’s greater than sufficient for all
In my Iris Backyard
Towards a gray stone wall.

Backyard Magic
That is the backyard’s magic,
That via the sunny hours
The gardener who tends it, Himself outgrows his flowers.

He grows by reward of persistence,
Since he who sows should know
That solely within the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling develop.

He learns from buds unfolding,
From every tight leaf unfurled,
That his personal coronary heart, increasing,
Is one with all of the world.

He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending again an indication
Of grace, and ev’ry bathe turns into
His sacramental wine.

And when ultimately his labors
Convey forth the very stuff
And substance of all magnificence
That is reward sufficient.

Oh, spring got here to my backyard
And caught it unaware
Sporting only a few previous leaves
And a dejected air.

However when spring left my backyard,
Its work so deftly carried out,
Many, many Daffodils
Had been dancing within the solar.
-Velma D. BATES.

Hillside, Narcissus
There’s a grassy slope not distant
The place hundreds of Narcissus bloom,
And I catch my breath, as I watch them sway
Tossing their candy fragrance.

Gaily they nod their expensive little heads
And smilingly welcome me,
As they spring up recent from their winter beds,
Longing for firm.

Their spherical white faces truthful and clear
Are purer than frost or snow,
And I thank the arms, tho’ now unseen;
That planted them, way back.

I’ve had the backyard tidied up,
As she would have me do.
This little pal who couldn’t keep
To see the season via.
The flowers had been her dearest mates,
The backyard was her personal,
I’ve watched her work, however by no means knew
The issues that she had grown.
Her, catalogues maintain coming, and
Her backyard journal;
I run throughout the queerest names,
And examine what they imply,
I learn all of them, from finish to finish,
And when the spring is right here,
I’ll have a backyard identical to hers,
As if my spouse had been close to.

Hen and Chickens
The “Hen” is within the’ backyard,
And the “Chickens” are there, too;
They’ve traveled far to get right here,
Throughout the ocean blue.

In fact, they do no scratching,
The reason being they will’t;
They’re not like different chickens,
For they’re only a plant.

The Backyard
Throughout the street a backyard grew,
And bent among the many flowers,
A spare previous man stooped to his process
Or he sat and dreamed for hours.

He had slaved away his early youth
In a pharmacy day and evening.
A pallid drudge yr in, yr out,
He was starved for shade and lightweight.

He had no time for love,
He grew to shun mankind.
Too stingy to spend emotion,
He closed his coronary heart and thoughts.

He reaped the fruits of frustration,
In that uninteresting spherical of care.
A life outdoor, the realized man mentioned,
May convey surcease from despair.

The homosexual nasturtiums stirred his coronary heart,
Velvet dahlias woke his pleasure
The roses he cherished like youngsters,
The lily was his bride.

He left this mortal airplane lengthy since,
However the backyard calls him nonetheless:
He walks there when the moon is low,
A bent type, dim and chill.

When a gauzy, purple butterfly,
Softly tilts a golden flower,
It’s cool wings ease the summer season flame
As laughter sooths a troubled hour.

Day’s Finish
The twilight comes to chill the. air,
The shadows lengthen on the sod,
Mushy breezes blow the backyard via,
The leaves and blossoms sway and nod.

On backyard path, in sheltering hedge,
In treetops darkish and cloudless sky,
The night birds awake to life,
To stir; to sing and upward fly.
And flowers, heat with summer season warmth,
Increase to greet the softened gentle
And shed, to indicate their gratitude,
A perfume in the summertime evening.
Now all is peace. From meadows close to
A cooling mist blows o’er the wall
And unusually lonesome within the evening
There comes the thrush’s silvery name.

Backyard Overtones
Homosexual guests invade the bordered path;
Some relaxation on ageratum’s downy blue
Some faucet the, honeyed dew
Deep in Dresden cups;
A number of

Float lazily via shafts of summer season solar.
Yellow ones, brown ones,, bronze and midnight blue
Silver stippled, gold edged, In rainbow rendezvous.

One golden day The Artist
Gathered grace and luster and lightweight,
And made in countless shock,

Crape Myrtle
As pretty as delicate bits of fragile crinkled silk,
These rosy blossoms, clustered thick upon the heavy
drooping boughs,
When shaken by a summer season wind,
Drop down in swirling showers,
And drift awhile concerning the floor;
Then gathered into frothy heaps beneath the hedge,
They unfold a frill of rosy lace across the inexperienced lawns

The Gardener’s Morning
The robin’s track at dawn
Is a clarion name to me.Stand up and get out within the backyard,
For the morning hours flee.

I can’t resist the summons,
What earnest gardener might?
For the golden hours of morning
Get into the gardener’s blood.

The magic spell is upon me,
I’m glad that I didn’t wait;
For all times’s at its finest within the morning,
As you cross via the backyard gate.
– Howard Dolf

There isn’t a better loss in life to man,
Than being unaware at early daybreak
Of Earth’s awakening from a silver; mist
Shot via with golden threads of breaking morn.

There isn’t a better sorrow on this planet,
Than eyes unseeing, shade in all places,
Or ears unhearing, softly wafted notes
From Nature’s nice cathedral of the air.

There isn’t a soul so useless as certainly one of these,
Whose voyage leads via empty life, the place hearts
Are veiled in darkness, claiming not the treasures,
Which Nature’s magnificence to the world imparts.

Backyard Sanctuary
You who stroll,
Perhaps with troubled ideas,
Come, enter right here and relaxation;
And will the candy serenity of rising issues,
And the heavenly peace
Be mirrored within the soul.
-Doxis M. Palmer

Who would a rising factor uproot,
Deny it proper to convey forth fruit,
Tears greater than magnificence from the sod,
He rends his bitter in sight of God.

The golden solar has gone, the busy day is finished.
Twilight has come and with it peace attracts close to
To dwell an hour .inside my backyard partitions, whereas in
The lambent sky the primary pale stars seem.
The wheeling shadows that so slowly marked the hours
Have left no impress on the tender grass,
Nor does the air maintain quick the patterns daring and free
That winging birds weave as the nice and cozy days cross.
The crimson pool is stilled ultimately, and Lily buds
Put together to open gently to the evening
And to the questing moth whose fragile, gauzy wings
Quiver too quickly for human sight.
In. this tranquillity, contact, listening to, sight are lulled.
I’m as selfless because the scented airs
That wrap me spherical, whereas daylight’s drowsy flowers
Ship out the perfume of? their vesper prayers.


Our backyard within the morning
Is a show of treasured gems;
One can see the Roses holding
Shining crystals, jewels hidden
By the fleeing evening
Purple folds of velvet.

The Rose
Above Joppa, within the pasture-land of Sharon,
God set, a Rose
It blossomed, even because the rod of Aaron;
The wild bee gathered honey from its cup . .
After which man got here and took the flower up
And labored to enhance it, yr by yr,
A petal there one other petal right here
A shade deeper than the tubes of God
Had furnished, when He set it within the sod,
A leaf extra rank, arid varnished thorn and stem
Till, ultimately, it was an ideal flower,
Match to adorn even nature’s diadem.
And God seemed on, remembering
The hills, of Palestine above the plain
The flower lie set to mark the ages’ daybreak,
Root, brier and thorn; and Autumn’s scarlet hip,
And mentioned: ”’Tis properly! my work man carries on;
Behold the product of our partnership.”

Prize Entry-Flower Present
An odd half-folded Lily, white and slim,
Frail mosses leaning on a white bowl’s rim;
Unique water vegetation and small white shells
Trend in miniature a sandless reef.
A Chinese language Mandarin of whitest jade
Gazes, unseeing, in scornful disbelief.


Winged Jewel
(The Huming, Chicken)
Feathered fireplace of emerald .
A flashing via the air,
Its throat a glowing jewel,
A ruby solitaire.

Intrepid wings are whirring
In ethereal, fairy flight,
Careening via the sunshine,
A scintillating sprite.

Then pendant o’er flower
It dips its dainty hill
And gathers honeyed nectar
From flowery cup and frill.

Now darting, swiftly turning,
It seeks the trumpet vine,
A bit tropic jewel
Aflame with nectared wine.

At Daybreak
I slipped into the backyard
Virtually earlier than ’twas gentle,
Because the lazy solar arose
I glimpsed an enthralling sight…
Purple Poppy flung her cap apart,
Shook out her silken skirt;
The best way she danced with a younger breeze
Advised me she was a flirt!

Weeder’s Ideas
I’ve raked the soil and planted the seeds
Now I’ve joined the military that fights the weeds.
For me no flashing saber and sword,
To battle the swiftly marching horde;
With a valiant coronary heart, I combat the foe,
My solely weapon a trusty hoe.
No martial music to swing me alongside,
I march to the robin redbreast track.
No stirring anthem of bugle and drum
However the cricket’s chirp and the honey bee’s hum.
No anti-aircraft or siren yell
However there’s Trumpet-creeper and Lily-bell.
With a loving coronary heart and a sturdy hand,
I defend the borders of flower-land;
Whereas excessive over Larkspur and Leopardsbane,
A butterfly pilots his tiny airplane;
However I shall not concern his skillful hand,
My enemy fees solely by land.
Would those that lead nations in battle and hate
However lay down their weapons at some backyard gate,
There, bury- their bombs and their bloody deeds,
And be a part of the grand military that’s combating the weeds.
-ALMA B. Eymann

Partitions of gold encircle
Pasturelands and plains,
Rimming hills and meadows, Edging nation lanes.

Skirting cloistered forests,
Girdling fen and down,
Bordering the roadsides,
Shutting within the city.

Concentrated splendor
Of the yr they maintain,
Fortresses enclosing
Summer season’s garnered gold.

Canterbury Bells
Lengthy years in the past devoted folks
Sought Canterbury’s well-known shrine,
That on this church they could invoke
Saint Thomas for a heavenly signal.
And as they trod every rang a bell
For image of their pilgrim intention,
Whereas all alongside the way in which the spell
Of nodding blossoms brought about acclaim.
Right now these flowers nonetheless are true
To the previous title which they bear.
Swinging their bells, pink, white or blue,
With unheard pealings via the air.

Received’t you cease a minute
Whereas I be aware your shade?
Sprint and flutter skinny it;
Trembling makes it duller.

You’re like a petal
Summer season winds are blowing,
Far too gentle to settle-
Ah, should you be going?

The White Trillium
Trillium sleek, Trillium white,
Star of the woodland, Girl of sunshine
Lo, how she proudly
Stands within the glade,
Tri-sceptred sovereign,
Queen of the shade.
Stately she rises,
Slender-stemmed, tall,
Gracious response to Spring’s early name,
Lifting three leaf-arms
Excessive from the sod,
Gazing with pure face lip at her god.
Milena Matcska

A heat and cheery fireplace roars merrily
And shadows dance concerning the darkened room.
Beside the fireside a gardener sits and desires
Of sunny days, of flowers in full bloom.
Some hollyhocks ought to tower close to the fence,
Shiny crimson. ones that the bees can’t assist however discover.
The trellis on the gate once more should put on
Blue morning glories, or the rosy sort.
To lend a little bit of distance to the scene,
Near the rear I’ll plant in shades of blue:
The tall and stately larkspur, double ones­
In fact I’ll put in scabiosa, too.
I couldn’t do and not using a pansy mattress­
Snapdragons make such lovely bouquets­
Frilled zinnias and yellow marigolds
Add simply the right contact to autumn days.
The flowers develop and bloom with loveliness
Till a sound destroys the fantasy­
A burning ember falls and I have to depart
My backyard and my charming reverie.

Interior Meals
I by no means let a full day cross
And not using a contact of leaf or grass,
And by no means sundown goes however I
Should cool my lips towards the sky.

For all times grows acrid as a ‘sloe
As much less and fewer of earth we all know;
And life grows hole as a reed
With out some earth on which to feed.

Earth isn’t any good friend we might neglect.
For she and man are intimate,
And when the years pile up and depart
The little graves at which we grieve,

He, who has saved this nutrient hyperlink
With God, has inside food and drinks;
Has extra of religion and fewer of dearth,
And one true good friend, the fixed Earth.

Timber are joy-inspiring
In these first candy days of Could
Stretching forth their lacy tendrils
To entice the lark to remain.
Timber are gracious, charming
When glossed with summer season sheen
They catch the vagrant breezes
And unfold their shady inexperienced. .
And in some way within the Autumn
When the magic contact of time
Has clad these bushes in russet-gold
We sense a hand divine.
But Timber in winter fascinate
When their gaunt, nude kinds come up
And hint in grotesque patterns,
Silhouettes towards the skies.

Winter Embroidery
The snow upon the hillsides
Makes them like nice flour sacks
On which the birds and animals
Have cross-stitched with their tracks.

What Is a Tree?

What’s a tree”
Nicely probably he
Who dwells in metropolis streets by alternative Could by no means know.
However souls that breathe increasing life outside
Know bushes as brothers, mates; and really feel aglow
With kindred fellowship and customary voice.

Sure, bees do know
And birds have made
The bushes their lifelong properties
And what’s nearer or extra intimately ours than dwelling?

What’s a tree?
The soul of God!
Whose budding leaves and blossoms within the Spring
Bespeak Creation.
Whose shade in Summer season cools
The burning warmth of life and brings us peace;
Whose bronzing colours within the Autumn panorama glow
With pleasure of fruitfulness, God’s bounty, man’s maturity.
Whose naked robust arms in Winter steadfast maintain
Towards- the ice and storms of life when braveness sags
When inexperienced and sap of youth have misplaced their daring
Agency energy and curiosity lags.

What’s a tree?
Oh! Sure, I do know! ‘Tis God.
‘Tis His personal solution to converse His majesty,
His voice, His energy, His love, His thriller..
-G. Thomas DUNLOP

Angels in My Backyard

Amongst my reward begonias
Is one known as “Angel-wing”,
So true to type I fancy
I hear the seraphs sing.
For absolutely greater beings
Impressed the pleasant hearts
Of my new    next-door neighbors
To offer me these “new begins”.

O Angels, hover at all times
About this backyard spot!
Assist- me to share life’s blossoms
With those that have them not!
And out of your shining wing-tips
Shake perfume for the hearts
Of beauty-hungry hundreds
Right now, who want new begins!

He Is aware of No Winter

He is aware of no winter, he who loves the soil,
For, stormy days, when he’s free from toil,
He plans his summer season crops, selects his seeds
From bright-paged catalogues for backyard wants.
When looking upon frost-silvered fields,
He visualizes autumn’s golden yields;
He sees in snow and sleet and icy rain
Valuable moisture for his early grain;
He hears spring-heralds within the storm’s ‘ turmoil­
He is aware of no winter, he who loves the soil.

The Lilt o’ the 12 months

A melancholy mantle rests
Upon the land; the ocean.
The wind in tristful cadence moans
A mournful threnody.
There flits no gleeful insect,
No blithesome bee nor fowl;
0’er all of the huge of Nature
No joyful sound is heard.
In clothes sere and somber
Every vine and tree is clad:
It’s dreary-hearted winter,
And all of the earth is gloomy.

In festal robes, vibrant garlanded;
A-lilt comes laughing Spring;
From aromatic meadow calls the lark;
The butterfly’s awing;
On hill and plain the wildflowers,
To crown the candy occasion,
Have donned, in temper elated,
Their homosexual habiliment;
In clothes viridescent
Every vine and tree is clad­
It’s happy-hearted springtime,
And all of the earth is glad!

Night Hours

The nightfall has little gateways
That result in nice properties
Enveloped within the delicate gentle
Earlier than the darkness comes.

Every house is in a backyard
Alight with vivid blooms,
And there are aromatic posies
In all of the restful rooms.

They’re so cool and quiet,
After the hectic day,
After the crowded hours
That rush us on our means.

They’re the little havens
The place we might flip to take a seat
And relaxation us in a leisure
The day couldn’t allow.
-ELLA C.Forbes

My Alternative
In all my backyard’s size and breadth
I like these widespread issues­
A sturdy, low-branched apple tree
The place, day by day, a finch sings;
The clematis that trims: the fence
With garlands of white lace;
The maidenhair and Ostrich ferns
That fill every shady; area;
The perfume of quaint mignonette
When touched with night dew
And better of all I like grass pinks
Like these my mom grew.

Indoor Gardener

A February wind blows dismally,
The sky is filled with darkish clouds hanging low,
The backyard lies in numbed frigidity
And waits the falling of one other snow.

Right now, I planted seeds regardless of the chilly,
For my tomato vegetation will thoughts it not­
Their tiny leaves will presently unfold
At my south window; in a flower pot!

Backyard: South Freeport
Within the backyard the place your mom
sat mending the torn sail
laundry flaps deliriously.
The boat is in dry dock.

You’re sole mistress
of this place, counting
the deer among the many asparagus,
naked toes heedless of ticks.

Over the porch, a wasp’s nest breeds
whereas an oriole pecks the fallen peach.
It’s summer season as soon as once more,
the season at its fevered work—

small calamities within the grass,
weeds encroaching on dianthus,
ant combating a skeletal bee,
the rock backyard dry and grey.

A trowel gleams within the solar,
however the air is charged with storm.
Gravity pulls the rosy heads down.
It is not going to do to work at present.

From the harbor, unseen, a wind
whips up the speckled iris
and lifts the veiled curtains
of the nonagenarian’s tilting home.

The primary drops dampen
the gardener at midlife,
who hefts a basket of weeds,
pausing to take root and inventory.
-Carol Alexander

By Michael C. Walker

Oh inexperienced, vibrant wealthy thatch of earth, so completely reduce, every blade exact;
As tufts of cyan and amber sprout wild and feral in an unruly tangle.
My hapless endeavor, with software in hand, towards weed and root I wrangle.
The solar on my again, forward drenched in sweat, weariness grows, maybe warmth stroke, or perhaps dying.
To quench my thirst I attain for one tall glass, although, if it had been my druthers, I’d accept a garden stuffed with inexperienced grass.

“A Gardeners Outlook on Life”
by Laurie Jo DeGrave 2003

Take up the spade with track.
Nurture early on.
Be fervent when you plot.
Chart the spot.
Prune with certainty and care.
Progress stops there.
Endurance, persistence, time to develop.
Reap what you sow.
Hardly the Backyard of Eden?
Grateful for one more season.

Free Garden Catalog

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