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Category Archives: Gardening poetry

What do you know of Spring – Promote Yourself


What Do You Know of Spring?

for Julia

For what do you know of seasons,

child? of long awaited flowers? You

pluck them without thinking, without knowing

an old woman’s joy of looking out

of winter’s monochromatic gloom

each morning to find that, yes! the flowers are

in bloom! How could you know

that daffodils and tulips peeking

through green ribbons nod assurance that spring

is here and will stay until the blossoms

fade, dry to brown, and crumble

to dust? But you, in your unbridled lust

for the present, in the wastefulness of youth,

have thoughtlessly, and thoughtfully,

ripped every flower from its stem

and now, with triumphant smile, offer

them—already in the stages of death—

to me as if they were a secret only you

had discovered, but wanted

to share. I turn to hide my tears. Forcing

all of spring into a single vase for a single

day, I feign delight, then you, having done

your good deed, bounce

away. The next morning I hear you call, “Granny!”

I drag my weary bones up, and look out

at the gray yard. Only barren stems and leaves

remain. But then I see your beautiful face, precious

child, smiling at me as if to say . . . I

am Spring.

Published in From the Depths of Red Bluff, A Collection of Poems by Wynne Huddleston


Before Breakfast


Day rips off night’s blanket, leaving

a chill in the air. Before sky awakens

to fire up the gas oven and cook his egg,

easy-over for breakfast, I race

to the garden then tiptoe through grass

taking its dewy bath. Blue morning

glory yawns open and reaches out

to shake my hand, while bees pronounce

apple trees “husband and wife,”

then set out on a trip for the honey. I pick

the pink-eyed purple-hull peas and proceed

to the corn, twist off the mature

that have lost their soft, golden hair,

and are pleasantly plump. The big boy

tomatoes wearing green crowns

are about to jump off; I take them before

they split, and roll down the hill like Jack.

I pick up the baby squash, lying nearby

in its bed of straw, underneath

a canopy of enormous green hearts.

Published in The Green Silk Journal, Spring 2011

Wynne Huddleston
Mississippi Poetry Society 2014 Poet of the Year
available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble

Dear Gillian and Thomas,

I enjoy reading your posts and poems. Here are two poems about gardens/flowers. I hope you can use one or both. They were both previously published. Although I am not what I consider “old,” “What Do You Know of Spring?” is from an old woman’s point of view. The poem is based on a true incident in which my granddaughter picked all the blooms off my hydrangea. But I realized that she was more important than the flowers, and I can never read the poem without tears. The second poem, “Before Breakfast” was inspired one summer when I was working in my parents’ garden. They would get to the garden so early (and I, not an early riser) had to struggle to get there in time to help them!

Bio: Wynne Huddleston is a poet, musician, teacher, and author of From the Depths of Red Bluff (Mississippi Poetry Society, Inc., 2014). Her poetry has appeared in numerous publications including Birmingham Arts Journal, Four and Twenty, Orange Room Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and The Mom Egg. Ms. Huddleston was workshop leader for the 2011 Mid-South Poetry Festival in Memphis, TN, and has served as board member for both the Mississippi Writers Guild and the Mississippi Poetry Society. More info at

Thank you,

Natures rest


Whilst the lilies blaze

In the summer rays

The butterflies dance

In their summer romance

The robin awaits

The fresh worms to escape

From the ground

They tease, until they are found

Where gardeners sow

Fresh veg to grow

Potatoes, leeks and marrow

The scarecrow stands so proud

Thankful for the sunshine now

He watches with an evil eye

When the birds reluctantly pass by

Roses parade along the fence

Flirting with the bees,

Soaking up their heavy scent

Capturing the moment

Of this summer scene

Gillian Sims

Send your poetry to

In My Garden – Promote Yourself


When I work in my garden

I feel the sun on my face

I listen to the birds singing

For my garden is a magical place

When I start to dig in my garden

The worms are tossed around

The robin sits down beside me

Eating the worms from the ground

When I cut my lawns with the mower

There’s a sweet aroma from the grass

Patterns made by the mower blades

Through time they will not last

I find peace within my garden

For there is so much beauty around

The sound of the songbirds singing

Creating such a melodious sound

Next time you are working in your garden

Remember you are not alone

Thank Mother Nature for her bounty

Allowing you to be working in her home

Malcolm Bradshaw

Gardening Poems – Promote Yourself

maze 2 

Nothing has grown yet
in my one-week-old garden

I wonder will the little seeds
make it through early Spring’s late frost?

did I plant too soon?
was I over-anxious to begin?

I stick my finger in the ground –
it feels warm inside, underneath,

just half an inch deep where my seeds
rest – I think they will survive.

April 19, 2015

the garden is my primary place
for meditation these days,
in these majestic mountains,
in this place of serenity and beauty

I inherit an abandoned plot –
weeds have overgrown
last year’s plantings
and perennials –

preparing the beds for planting
i dig up old carrot roots,
unfound potatoes, decomposing,
and sundry forms of organic life

I crumble the good earth
with my fingers – I feel
the power in the soil
to sustain a new growth

with a shovel and a rake
I turn the old soil over,
exposing its underside
to sunlight and fresh air

then sprinkle a little mulch
in the furrows that form –
spread the mixture slowly,
evenly, to form a flat bed

it’s like an open wound,
exposed, that heals quickly
with sunshine and oxygen –
it’s time to place the seeds –

I punch holes gently, gently
in the heaping, heaving mound
and drop two or three seeds
into each little womb, and wait . . .

weeds grow like, well, weeds,
and must be plucked, removed –
and on dry days there is watering –
& waiting & hoping

today’s meditation is complete –
my body is tired from digging,
raking, bending, touching the soil –
I’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

another gardening poem – June 26, 2015

we are
the invasive species.
Like weeds,
our broad green leaves
block out sunlight
to the seeded plants –
our well-adapted root system
drains away nutrients
from below.


Raymond Maxwell <> P.S. A couple more gardening poems from Mountain Verse (copyright 2015): gardening – June 2, 2015 gardening has given me a different relationship with the environment than what I had before – weather


The June Garden


The Foxgloves now have risen to five feet or more
Attracting buzzing visitors from far and wide
And watching them, a sight I watch from grassy floor
It gives me a warm feeling deep inside

As Roses open blooms of radiant colours
And speak of further beauty yet to come
I make my pilgrimage to watch them flourish
In warm and humid days of summer sun

Garden Magic

magic garden
This is the garden’s magic,
That through the sunny hours
The gardener who tends it,

Himself outgrows his flowers.

He grows by gift of patience,
Since he who sows must know
That only in the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling grow.

He learns from buds unfolding,
From each tight leaf unfurled,
That his own heart, expanding,
Is one with all the world.

He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending back a sign
Of grace, and ev’ry shower becomes
His sacramental wine.

And when at last his labors
Bring forth the very stuff
And substance of all beauty
This is reward enough.

Please send your poetry

Wild Orchid – Promote Yourself

“The flower that walks”, the Indian; said, 
And walking spreads its crown-like roots 
Through forest glades and upland dales. 
Moccasin flower or Lady’s Slipper,
It matters not the name
Or if it be fair white or rose or tiny yellow kind
Tis ever rare and wondrous there 
This woodland beauty Bequeathed us from another age. 
A Heritage to guard with 
And cherish for posterity
That other eyes in future years
Mav see this Orchid walk the trails
As did our native Indian braves
And shy eyed maidens of the tribe.

The Spring Equinox -Famous Poets


Now is the pause between asleep and awake:
Two seasons take
A colour and quality each from each as yet.
The new stage-set
Spandril, column and fan of spring is raised against the
winter backdrop
Murrey and soft;
Now aloft
The sun swings on the equinoctial line.
Few flowers yet shine:
The hellebore hangs a clear green bell and opulent leaves
above dark mould;
The light is cold
In arum leaves, and a primrose flickers
Here and there; the first cool bird-song flickers in the thicket.
Clouds arc pale as the pollen from sallows;
March fallows are white with lime like frost.This is the pause between asleep and awake:
The pause of contemplation and of peice,
Before the earth must teem and the heart ache.
This is the child’s pause, before it sees
That the choice of one way has denied the other ;
Must choose the either, or both, of to care and not to care;
Before the light or darkness shall discover
Irreparable loss; before it must take
Blame for the creature caught in the necessary snare:
Receiving a profit, before it holds a snare.

The Awakening


As winter gives way to spring

There is a miracle at hand takes place

For Mother Nature awakes from her sleep

As she casts her spell with haste


Stirring within the ground beneath

A signal for all nature to bloom

Awaiting in anticipation for her beauty

That we all should be experiencing soon


A kaleidoscope of exhilarating colour

That will carpet the fertile earth

It’s a signal that Mother Nature

Has returned to create new birth



The warmth of the sun returns

All creatures start scurrying by

The sound of bird’s melodious music

As a rainbow appears in the sky


All these gifts of nature

Have been given for all to see

For Mother Nature is very generous

That gift to all of us is given free

Malcolm Bradshaw





The Mandarin is covered

in little orange globes

and in among the greenery

a tamarillo glows


the loquat is still budding

feijoas lie in piles

all around the orchard

and down the grassy aisles


there are red and yellow guavas

to give the birds a treat

and some fruit I do not recognise

that isn’t nice to eat


there are beans on the shelf

and pumpkins in the shed

as winter comes to Northland

and summer days have fled


Maureen Sudlow
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