Monday, June 11, 2012


A friend suggested that Friday's post entitled Picking Flowers  was a poem waiting to happen.  I agree. So, always up for a challenge, I began to think about a poem based on a poet's garden walk. Before I had time to write the poem,  my three-year -old grandson arrived for an overnight stay  and  as the weekend unfolded, my poem took shape.  

  Writing poetry gives me great pleasure, if not great poetry. The joy comes from the satisfaction of capturing a fleeting  moment in words.

                                                 Grandmother's Flowers

                                                 Once she gathered dandelions,
                                                 to carry home to mother
                                                 fashioning a tiny bouquet.

                                                 Soon those yellow treasures
                                                 turned to roadside weeds
                                                 and childhood flew away.
                                                Then came her oldest  daughter
                                                with a bunch of  heady lilacs
                                                on a sunny spring day.

                                                Her daughter  grew up
                                                moved to New York City,
                                                another childhood put away.

                                               Today she wanders
                                               through a garden gate
                                               thinking of that dandelion day

                                               while she helps a little boy gather
                                               pink blossoms and rose buds
                                               the colors of  a summer day.

                                              Now the boy named Henry
                                              carries flowers home to mother,
                                              his own handpicked nosegay.

                                              Grandmother savors this moment
                                              soon to be a memory
                                              another childhood hurries away.


 Do you ever write poetry?                      


  1. Replies
    1. I think this may be a draft. There is more to the poem and I plan to work it out at some point.
      As a writer, Don, you can appreciate that the rewriting is the real work. For me, it is as relaxing as weeding!
      Wow another metaphor! Writing is planting seeds, rewriting is the weeding, the poem is (if you're lucky), the flower or fruit. I like that!
      Thanks for your encouragement, Don.

  2. Writing is planting seeds, rewriting is the weeding ... LOL, Most visitors to my FaceBook page find where I refer to myself as "The grower of the unknown seed." Most think it refers to my organic gardening. In fact it refers to my writing. The poem had it's genisis as an exercise for Mary's class. I plan to read "I am the grower of the unknown seed" on Tuesday the 26th of June at the Bellmore Library's, Tuesdays with Poetry, open mic segment.

    1. Open Mic... that sounds intimidating. Is there really a microphone? Good luck.

  3. I love the truthfully repeated gathering and gift of flowers and growing up. Though the idea of value--dandelions or roses--changes over the years, the cycle of childhood and growing up in humans and flowers and writing and all continues. I thank God for that.

  4. But probably, the dandelions were the most precious gift, in an odd sort of way... Lovely bit of poetic nostalgia.


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