Just a few poems about my passion

It wasn't my garden

I saw it overgrown lying and forgotten from long ago days
I felt it's need to reach again and revel in the sun's rays
Like an actress remembering her glory from days long past
Even though such beauty can never long last

It wasn't my garden but I knew it's needs

The owner was old forgotten and bitter with hate
I could see the garden just reflected her fate
She would not hear of her garden's soul lost
How do you speak to a heart cased in frost

It wasn't my garden but I felt it's pain

I spoke to her long of making her garden a place
Of life and of color of beauty and grace
I spoke to her daily to ask her if she would
Let me bring this garden to the glory that only I could

It wasn't my garden but I truly cared

She finally relented and told me to do as I wanted
Her expression of anger still left me undaunted
I looked to the job I had set out to do
But I had a secret that she never knew

It wasn't my garden but I had a heart full of love.

For many weeks that spring I worked with delight
I raked and I dug and worked ?'til late in the night
From behind the curtains she peered as I planted
Soon my presence in her garden was taken for granted

It wasn't my garden but I worked so hard

She came from her house with some paint and a brush
As I looked at her the grey face took on a blush
She looked at me with an expression most tense
But I said not a word as she painted her fence

It wasn't my garden but I watched it begin to grow

My work was nearly done as summer's end came on
We both knew that time was coming I soon would be gone
More than the garden I saw again was alive
Her soul inside I knew was beginning to thrive

It wasn't my garden but I brought it to life

I pass there some days to see what there grows
She smiles at me with a face that now glows
I wave as I pass and I realize how much I achieved
The gift that I gave and the greater I received

It wasn't my garden but it helped me grow

DWS 2000

A call to battle

A bright explosion of color
The red of Salvia in full attack

My Snapdragons roar with pink
As the Alyssum bides its time

Dusty Miller guard the border
Mounds of Impatiens lie in wait

Red leafed Wax Begonias wilt
Before the Marigolds yellow wave

Black centered Pansies slowly fight
With Verbenas spreading creep

The Shasta Daisies seem above it all
As the Dahlias simply smile

And through it all one thing is true
The weeds will conquer them all

So striped Petunias trumpet me to battle
As my garden welcomes spring

DWS 2002

It wasn't MY Garden in particular was extremely well done.
Hi, Fedral. Welcome to our home.

A rather nice display, fellow
You have just reminded me once again that there are many ways to make poetry that is worded in a flowery way... without being overdone.

This next poem is of a more personal nature.
My father died when I was 15, it was 12 years before I could bring myself to visit his grave.
When I got home, I wrote this:

Men don't cry

I remember all the things my father taught me

Men don't take advantage of the weak
Men don't tell lies
Men treat ladies with respect
Men don't cry

As I grew up I always remembered

When I was spanked I remembered
When my grandparents died I remembered
When I broke my arm I remembered
Men don't cry

I remember when my father died

I sat in my room in sorrow and remembered
I saw the people around me grieving and remembered
I saw the casket lowered and I remembered
Men don't cry

I look down on his headstone twelve years later

It is cold as dark clouds gather overhead
The raindrops that strike the stone are joined by others
The rain running down my face hides my weakness.
Because men don't cry

DWS 1992