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Posts Tagged ‘garden’

SLICES OF MY LIFE

In a journal on my table
Beside my favorite pen
You will find revealing verses
Where only lines had been

I’ve filled the pages with the muse
That touches deep inside
And you can read what’s written there
When the book is opened wide

There is verse about my children
And some about my mate
There are even odes about my pets
And one about my weight

There are lines about my garden
And butterflies and birds
Deep rhymes about life’s symphony
In most expressive words

There’s muse about the sun and rain
And also winter’s snow
A poem about a rainbow’s arch
With its translucent glow

A sequined sky and harvest moon
That makes the heavens shine
And one about our U.S. flag . . .
All, from this heart of mine

God’s blessings fill some pages
And this is not a whim
For I would not be writing now
Without this gift from Him

This well-worn journal lying here
Fulfills a pleasant role
Recording slices from my life
From my heart and soul

10/24/01 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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GARDEN GUARDIAN

Tired old scarecrow, tattered and torn
Looking shabby and quite forlorn
His clothes are ripped from summer wind
Gaping where they once were pinned

Months ago, in summer sun
He proved his worth with job well done
While flapping arms in disarray
He made the crows stay well away

But now birds perch upon his hat
And snow piles high to smash it flat
He’s seen to shiver more and more
Freezing to his very core

We’ll bring him in where it is warm
Where he’ll avoid the winter storm
I’ll fill his sleeves and sew his rips
Of course I’ll repaint eyes and lips

And when the winter weather’s gone
Just as birds break into song
He’ll take his place as garden guard
And keep the crows out of the yard

11/14/04 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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SEDUCING MY SENSES

What was it that I saw?
A bird fluttering to the ground?
No, just a leaf that released its hold.
But, oh, what a leaf, to deceive
my aging eyes.
I should have known,
with such pungent scent in the air.
Burning leaves casting their aroma
on the gentle breeze that tickles
the hair on my arms.

What was it that I heard?
The wings of a bumblebee?
A faint hum, unlike the hurried
buzz when touring my garden’s bouquet.
I feel the fan of his tiny wings
as he lights upon my arm
to investigate my perfume.
He spreads tired wings to the sun,
then after a few false starts
he soars off in his last flight.

What is that fragrance wafting by
on a current of autumn air?
Sweet and beckoning.
Brilliant carmine jewels
hanging from bare umber arms.
Their succulent sweetness teasing
me to bite into their aromatic
jackets. A rivulet of juice slips
over my lips, as my pallet is bathed
in rich drops of nectar.

Autumn, seducing my senses.

4/28/96 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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BEYOND MY WINDOW

I have a colorful garden
With flowers in great array
Wild beauties in rich profusion
So vibrant in display

I didn’t plant a single thing
God placed them where they grow
Just beyond my pristine lawn
So I enjoy their show

There is lupine and pink primrose
And beautiful shooting stars
There are daisies by the dozens
I place in old fruit jars

I have tall Indian paintbrush
And cardinal flowers, too
Coneflowers stand majestically
As arbutus trails through

Daylilies in their brightest orange
And deep-hued violets
I have columbine and trillium
And tiny white bluets

There’s lobelia, blue to purple
Some morning glory banks
And sunflowers bowing heavy heads . . .
Now I bow mine in thanks

9/5/01 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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HAIKU

Monarch catafalque

       hiding colorful surprise

              garden’s winged beauty

11/14/04 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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Sweet Perfume

HER GARDEN

Work in her garden every day
To her was just like child’s play
Shallow rows to hold the seed
Paper pads on which she kneed

Spade and shovel by her side
A length of string as her guide
Flats of flowers, packs of seeds
And things to battle all the weeds

She loved the smell of spaded soil
And did not mind the daily toil
Then when her flowers were in bloom
We all enjoyed the sweet perfume

7/17/05 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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MAMA’S PRECIOUS HANDS

Her hands were small and wrinkled
The veins large and blue
They had toiled long and hard
As mothers’ hands do
In years they were less agile
And so, moved rather slow
A sad part of growing old
I wish it were not so

They loved to write a story
To draw and write a rhyme
But it didn’t happen often
As they could not find the time
For they made almost all my clothes
And how that needle flew
They cooked and baked and canned
And made a garden, too

They milked the cow twice a day
Culled eggs from the nest
Scrubbed the floors and washed the clothes
Her hands could find no rest
And even if she found some time
That freed her just to sit
Her hands were busy mending clothes
I said, they never quit

And when I journey back in time
With memory’s sweet recall
I feel those hands on fevered brow
When I was very small
They also had a magic touch
When tending scraped knees
Or burns or cuts or bruises
Putting frightened child at ease

When death finally stilled them
They were folded in repose
They looked so small and fragile
As they clasp a single rose
I bent and kissed those precious hands
For all they’d done for me
But I still see them full of life
In frequent memory

3/8/89 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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