I've written quite a bit, some serious and some humorous. I don't claim to be a poet, but it gives me pleasure. I wrote this one in January, 2000.

Dogwood in Winter

Each branch a wondrous work of art
Wrought by a master jeweler's hand,
Diamonds bursting forth that blind
The eye with rainbowed prisms.
The sunlight charges each with fire
For one brief moment, ere its heat
Destroys the frozen fantasy.
And leaves it only in memory's eye.

Biding

The monochrome of summer greens
Gives way to autumn's panoply
Of hues
From richest gold
To deepest, lushest burgundy.
It glows.

A final show, a bold farewell
Before somber shadows rise
To warn
Of winter's cold embrace
And time locked in a silent world
Of snows.

All stilled, the sights and sounds
Of life, wrapped in muted tones
They bide,
The world: a sleeping princess
Waits. The kiss shall come,
She knows.

This describes my garden right now, in the middle of a drought. I wrote it yesterday, and if I don't laugh, I'll cry!

Th grasshoppers are everywhere,
and aphids rule the roost.
The dandelion's gone to seed,
the roses need a boost.

My ferns are wilting left and right,
the grass a cheerful brown.
The platycodon's very tall,
but stretched out on the ground!

My ornamental grass is dead,
it's drought resistant too!
My achillea but three inch high,
why? I wish I knew.

The ground is hard and crunchy,
with all my plants a droop.
Humidity is high and hot,
my hose caught in a loop.

It's summer in the South,
the tropic look is here.
Actually, it's desert dry,
and not a cloud is near!

out on the porch to work
sitting on the cool hip-smooth green glider
fingers and mind
cramped by deadlines and expectations
I stretch to ease a sorrowing ache
pause, relax, and smile.
flowers everywhere! tumbling out of old crockery
plunked in tubs and buckets
some seated primly- some awry
evidence of plunder and extravagance
my life is a poem

I tread softy, quietly here amid this place of natures beauty
It's teeming silence overlaid with pulsing humming activity
Kneeling I join the flying birds and insects working here
All of us God's creatures toiling, if you listen you will hear.

Hummingbirds, iridescent green, cavorting in sunlit air
Darting in and out and around leggy plants of scarlet sage.
Heavy winged, black and gold worker bees, shining
Basking in the sun, drunk on nectar, their summer wine.

Yellow monarchs marked in black wafting on the breeze
rising, falling, fragile living blooms in soaring flight.
Coneflowers stand erect showing purple smiling faces
Among the woven strands of rainbow colors in this place.

Air grown still and heavy with the scent of rose and thyme
Bright eyed daylilies edged in gold, raise up to face the sun
Here among this life and beauty, I am at ease as I toil.
Knowing what beauty will emerge, I work and turn the soil.

Growing gifts amid the tapestry of living colors and scents
Each living creature painted on a palette of summer's gold.
Serene amid golden breezes that make my days a delight
Enjoying his blessing as I bask here in golden rays of sunlight.

do you all compose on the computer? (laughing) perhaps not in a public forum.

I have a desperate wish to erase my post and start over

poems usually lay on my desk for days and I read and rework them every time I pass until they suit me.
The original worn scrap of much edited legal pad is eventually put away for some later "I remember the day I wrote this!" moment.

I am glad I jumped in but it is just as difficult as I imagined. (thank you for the welcome in the other thread)

I wrote this poem 8 years before my dad died, when he was diagnosed with Lou Gehrigs Disease. I read it to him before he died and at his funeral. He was in the garden business and was president of one of the top independentaly owned garden centers in the country. The really strange thing is that I mentioned chimes and birds, and my garden is so alive with that now.

Song for Bo

Waking up from a long sleep,
We hear the earth singing
An eternal melody,
The bass rising up through our feet,
Birds calling one another in the trees,
Calling out
And flying from beech to oak.
We hear the stars revolving,
The tendrils breaking,
Molecules spinning in the wood.
This is the Spring of your life;
You're coming home.

My body breaks open.
A young bird learns how to fly,
Falling from the oak
Into the flowers,
As I watch from the kitchen window.
The baby rabbit munches on clover
As the air gets heavier and hotter.
This is the Spring of your life;
You're coming home.

It's time to take the empty bird's nest away,
Time to pull up baby oak trees from the lawn,
Marvel at the mystery
Of birds and acorns.
The older trees are dying.
We have been running away so long,
And sounds of
Metals and gears
Have sung too long to us.
My body sings,
This is the Spring of your life;
You're coming home.

It feels like chimes
Breaking in every cell.
Staring death in the face each day
While the song
Pushes out the grieving.
Life and Death are one
In the song of birds and chimes
And the drums of the earth.
Hear the roots breaking clogs,
Banishing doubt, and singing
This is the Spring of your life,
And hope is the rhythm of life,
And joy is the root of your days;
You're coming home,
Coming home.

Linda Anne LeBoutillier

out on the porch to work
sitting on the cool hip-smooth green glider
fingers and mind
cramped by deadlines and expectations.
I stretch to ease a sorrowing ache
pause, relax, and smile.
flowers everywhere! tumbling out of old crockery
punked in tubs and buckets
evidence of plunder and extravagance.
my life is a poem
color and sensation transform themselves to words
deadlines disappear.
work becomes a pleasant task of sharing bliss with others
this task begets the currency of life.(awkward)
I think about the "luck" of loving what you do
pause, relax, and smile

( still a work in progress but there is nothing like blackberries and southern comfort for breakfast to rouse a sleeping muse )

is the gauche thing dead? I have a piece about bathtub on the back porch vs hot tub on the deck that I thought might work

(laughing) I feel like I am hollering into an empty room

The room's not empty--I'm here, enjoying *all* poetry, both serious and humorous! Keep it coming!

Yes, Jessie, people are lurking and waiting for more. Keets

here's my humble submission. It's a true story.

"Blind Melon"

Last Fall my melon plant wouldn't die.
It's stubborn strength caught my eye.
It seemed to WANT to stay alive.
So, I decided I'd help it SURVIVE.

I covered the melon plant with plastic clear,
And watered it well through Winter so drear,
Growing slowly, yet green, giving me cheer,
Continuing it's Life with no sign of fear.

When Spring came, it thrived, ahead of all else.
I'd done the impossible, that's how I felt.
Grew a melon plant through Winter, now I would see
Large honeydews vining, great melons for me.

But, upright it grew, which didn't seem true,
All branches erect, not one or two.
Then came the first flossoms, I jumped out of my socks!
My proud melon plant was RED HOLLYHOCKS!

I still get teased,
Junkmanme

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
by men toilin' soil for gold;
The arctic nights have their secret sights
that would make your greenhouse cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights
As they shine upon the fold.
But the strangest thing they ever did see
Was the night I cremated Virus MacAfee.

sorry.......

I wrote this in April when we were all so sick and tired of the snow that took forever to go away. Spring was slow in coming, but this poem came to me as I sat at my computer and started to write a friend a letter. Instead, she got my beautiful poem.

SPRING
Make a wish for the sun to shine-
Let the days be yours and mine.
Flowers swaying in the breeze,
Birds all singing in the trees.

Snow to melt and grass to grow.
Tulip heads in my beds to show.
Geese on wings in the sky above
All living things-- so full of love.

The earth is stirring--my green grass grows
Daffodils blooming in pretty rows.
Robins hop, and sparrows nest--
Which fork in the tree wil be the best?

I scan my garden and hope for the best,
That all will be well, before I rest.
Where soil is now--oh so bare!
My flowers will be fighting for a
place to share.

I worry and fret, I scan the scene,
Will it ever again soon be green?
Will roses bloom and lilacs sway
Their fragrance whafting over my way?

I have to remind me, day by day,
That nature always has her way.
Flowers grow--and seeds they sow,
And where they land....I do not know!

Here's a pansy--there's a mint!
Sunflowers!!!......I had no hint!
Here's a maple--there's a holly,
What's peeking out there?.....
It's Lily of the Valley!

I sit and I savor--on my porch swing I rest,
Again to my Garden, I have given my best.
My eyes and my senses caress all I see,
And, again, it has given it's all to me!

I look at the earth-- I look at the sky,
I see another summer flying bye.
I fear not!--worry not!...for you see,
There will always be another spring for me.

Gitagal April, 2003

Here is a poem I wrote...

Poetry and The Garden

The daughter watched her mother garden as she grew,
But she never thought it important as what she wanted to do.
Playing and talking to friends was her game.
A social light, beauty queenshe could not be tamed.

She was a great thinker, as she learned in school.
She mastered poetry and played by its rule.
Feelings and thoughts rushed through her head,
But when she talked to her mother the conversation went dead.

Her mother was of the silent type.
Born and raised in England, it was her birthright.
Feelings stayed closed inside the mind.
Her mother wished her daughter would be of the same kind.

Her mother tried to teach her to tend to the rose.
To touch, to feel and smell with her nose.
The beauty of the garden was her motherÂs paper.
The emotion poured out of her hands like an anchor.

Once covered with dirt, her mother smiled.
She could carry out her day being calm and mild.
Words about feelings never came easy.
Her mother found dirt and pants to be pleasing.

The daughter could never understand her mother.
As her pen flowed with one thought or another.
And the mother could never understand her daughter.
But soon, she learned she should not bother.

The daughter would do as she wanted.
Through her teens she wrote in notebook, hearted.
She had dreams of going off to different places.
And when college time came, she left England with no traces.

She wrote home as she studied in the west.
Told her mother of classes and her marks on every test.
She joined a poetry group to share thoughts she held dear.
Something she never got from her mother for years.

The daughter soon met the twin of her heart,
A man who was open and honest and loved art.
Together they painted and wrote about life.
They talked through their happiness and their strife.

Finally the daughter had found one of her own.
Soon with her man, a family was sown.
A daughter was the center for all of their care.
They taught her to feel her feelings and share.

As the child grew she became more inwards.
Her lips stayed sealed as she watched the birds.
If it was not the birds then it was the flowers she sought.
One day the child found a shovel and pot.

The childÂs world became the flowers and the earth.
She felt like this had been her calling since birth.
Every petal, leaf and bug seemed like gold.
She knew she would garden until her days became old.

Well the childÂs mother was worried and worn.
ÂSheÂs turning out like your mother, her head forewarned.
ÂTalk to me child, what goes on in your world?Â
On her heels, the child twirled.

ÂOh mother please, I donÂt want to talk.Â
ÂBut child, your feelings should not be blocked.
You should talk to me about boys and friends.
You donÂt want to be lonely in the end.Â

The childÂs eyes rolled as she went out in the yard.
The childÂs mother thought she would have to play one more card.
A trip back to England seemed the right thing to do.
A talk with her own mother would hopefully brew.

With a hug and a kiss the old mother greeted.
Happy to see her daughter back home and pleaded.
ÂSit down dear daughter and have some tea.Â
The mother walked into the kitchen with glee.

The daughter looked around her old home.
Seeing cut roses on the table, she felt curiously warm.
Things were the same and nothing had changed.
This house still felt stuffy and she still felt caged.

As she watched her mother put on the kettle,
Her fingertips slowly traced the edge of a rose petal.
She sucked in some air and bit her lip,
She emptied her lungs to state the reason for her trip.

ÂMother my daughter wonÂt listen to me.
She spends all her time tending flowers and trees.
IÂm scared for her life and her schoolwork as well.
She spends all day with the plants and has nothing to tell.

She wonÂt talk to me about feelings and such.
I donÂt want her using the tending of plants as a crutch.
I wish to know that she is fine.
I want her to find a boy she thinks is divine.

Instead of planting I want to hear her giggle.
With friends and schoolmates, not staring at a thistle.
She is missing school dances and things you see.
Oh, mother what to do, she wonÂt listen to me.Â

The mother slowly smiled and closed her eyes.
ÂDaughter I want you to come with me outside.Â
ÂOh mother please, I have no time for your garden.
My daughter is in trouble, her heart seems to harden!Â

ÂCome now dear, donÂt get upset.
I want to teach you something if you let.Â
Silently they walked into the yard.
The mother carefully checked every plant card.

ÂAh, here it is, this is what I wanted to show.
Mint is my favorite plantÂsee how it grows?
You canÂt tell from the outside that much is going on,
But this plant is busy from dawn to dawn.

ItÂs constantly growing and spreading its roots.
Just when you think itÂs done, up pops new shoots.
As this plant does, so does your child.
Inside she is feeling, alive and wild.

Sometimes you are not meant to see this.
The best you can do is hug and kiss.
Let her go her own way as I did you.
Then you will know her heart is true.

As you came to be when it was your time.
She will in turn have her chance to shine.
She will love you for letting her be.
Just as IÂm sure of your love for me.Â

The daughterÂs tears fell down her cheek.
She for once, did not need to speak.
She learned there was more to feeling then words.
And for the first time she felt a quietness that was all hers.

She got down to the earth and on her knees
With a smile meant for her mother, started pulling the weeds.
The mother got down on her knees as well.
She felt overjoyed and her heart swelled.

ÂI have never been good at speaking,
But that never meant I was unfeeling.
I have loved you forever and will love you still.
As long as you live your life as you will.

ItÂs a lesson I had to learn when you were young.
I would worry about you until my hands were well wrung.
In the end I found our differences great,
But I cannot interfere with fate.

You are as you are and I expect no less.
So go back to your daughter and offer her the best.
Your love for her is stronger then speech.
The greatest thing she can learn is the love you will teach.Â

i posted this somewhere else...but i thought i'd add it here too...

Immortal Queen

Fight the mighty battle,
suffer a great loss
and send a new scout
to count the casualties.
Collect the dead,
present their barren bodies
to your queen.
She can offer them
to her children,
and insure her immortality.

Mechell Arant
(shelly)

ps, those who enjoy garden/plant themes should check out Louise Gluck's "the wild iris"

Hope this qualifies...it was my GardenWeb response (in June) to the question "Are you 'whacker', or a 'yanker', or a 'spritzer'?" I was feeling silly that day. By the way, I love reading other people's poems.

I'm a Yanking-Digger Dandy - a Poem (of sorts)
Dig and yank, yank and dig,
that's what makes the flowers big.
Yank and dig, dig and yank,
Don't you let those weeds pull rank.

Get those weeds, get 'em all,
show them weeds who's on the ball.
If you do, your soil will sing,
And you will grow most anything!

Oh, I'm a yanking-digger dandy, yanking digger do or die...

This fall has been garden poetry in Oklahoma. It doesn't get any better than this.

Paul