I felt like a bit of poetry

[homegrown]

Message of the Green Man
by Robin Greenwood, copyright 2006
I met a man one afternoon, while walking in the wood;
Loam-brown his tunic and his trews, dark-green his cloak and hood.
Antler-tines grew from his brow, his mask was leafy-green,
He was, of all the folk I've met, the strangest to be seen.


Said he, "My friend, would you consent to walk a while with me?
For there are things that I would tell, and secrets share with thee."
I gave him leave, and so we two walked down the forest way,
While I did wait with open ears, to hear what he would say.


But he walked silent for a while, his verdant face cast down,
While I surveyed the wreath of leaves that he wore like a crown.
At length he spoke, but in his voice a note of sadness crept.
And though I could not be quite sure, it seemed to me he wept.


He said "The folk have lost their way! The people of the towns,
The cities, and the lands nearby have cut the forests down.
This wood in which we walk," said he, "is just a remnant of
The woods that were, in days of yore, the Greenwood that I love!"


"And if that were not bad enough," he went on with a sigh,
"They've paved the meadows and the fields, and left them there to die!
Laid asphalt down, and concrete too, in heavy, choking bands,
Till scarce an inch of Mother Earth is free from human hands."


"The streams are running choked with silt, and chemicals besides,
The fish can scarcely swim upstream, against the toxic tides.
The mountaintops they've blown apart, to get at seams of coal,
It's enough to make you wonder if the humans have no soul!"


"Their cars and trucks pollute the air, it falls as acid rain.
You'd think that some, at least, could feel their earthly Mother's pain.
But then, I know that you are one who feels the way I do.
Within your veins, I know right well, the old blood runs, and true."


And as he spoke, I felt the thrill run through me, head to toe,
That he had spoken truth, I knew -- my heart had told me so.
My soul still thrilled to Moon and Sun, the turning of the year,
The hidden mysteries of the groves, the joy that's almost fear.


"You alone can't stem the tide of thoughtlessness and greed;
You may not see the groves reborn, but you can plant the seed.
And you are not alone, my friend, for far more than you know
Across this land have heard the call: the horn sounds deep and low."


"And deep within the hearts of men, there burns a flame of green.
In some, 'tis flaring brightly! In others, scarcely seen.
But though some try to hide it, these words I say are true:
The wood that's in the heart of me, calls to the wood in you."


"There are many ways to answer the horn-call in your heart,
But the job that takes the longest is the one you never start!
So find your path and take your stand and raise your voice on high,
And know the green flame burning deep within you cannot die!"


"You, my friend, have heard the call, long before we met this day,
And I knew you would listen to the words I had to say.
And so to you I give this token, of the bond we share."
And he plucked a single acorn from the oak-crown in his hair.


He laid the acorn in my hand and told me, "Keep it well!
And share what I have shared with you: it's a story you must tell.
For there are those despairing, in a world grown grey and cold,
They do not know the green flame burns as strongly as of old."


"Together, we'll awaken more and more across this land,
And soon the Mother Earth will know a different human hand.
A hand that nurtures, not destroys, a hand that plants and heals,
Strong hands, but gentle, filled with love the heart reveals."


He stopped, and I stood with him, and looked full in his face:
A sudden sense of majesty had fallen on that place.
No longer looked he strange to me; more like an ancient king,
And as I gazed into his eyes my heart began to sing.


He clasped my hand and nodded, then turned and walked away
Into the woods, and vanished, as the sun set on that day.
And as I wandered slowly home, the stars sprang into view,
More ancient than the Earth itself, and yet, forever new.


So join me, friends, and tend the flame that burns within your heart:
Protect the groves, the fields, the streams, for now's the time to start!
And celebrate the joy that comes to all who love the Earth,
The turning of the seasons, from death unto rebirth!


Robin Greenwood, Copyright 2006
Member of the Blessed Order of the Greenman (BOG)
http://bogbrothers.org/

This poem is protected under the Creative Commons
Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs2.5 License
( http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/)


Garden Magic
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.
-MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL

Day's End
The twilight comes to cool the. air,
The shadows lengthen on the sod,
Soft breezes blow the garden through,
The leaves and blossoms sway and nod.

On garden path, in sheltering hedge,
In treetops dark and cloudless sky,
The evening birds awake to life,
To stir; to sing and upward fly.
And flowers, warm with summer heat,
Expand to greet the softened light
And shed, to show their gratitude,
A fragrance in the summer night.
Now all is peace. From meadows near
A cooling mist blows o'er the wall
And strangely lonesome in the night
There comes the thrush's silvery call.
-EDWIN W. PROCTOR

The Glory of the Garden

Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all ;
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks:
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives

There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick.
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hand and pray
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

By: Rudyard Kipling


The Gardener's Morning
The robin's song at daybreak
Is a clarion call to me.Get up and get out in the garden,
For the morning hours flee.

I cannot resist the summons,
What earnest gardener could?
For the golden hours of morning
Get into the gardener's blood.

The magic spell is upon me,
I'm glad that I did not wait;
For life's at its best in the morning,
As you pass through the garden gate.
- Howard Dolf


Weeder's Thoughts
I have raked the soil and planted the seeds
Now I've joined the army that fights the weeds.
For me no flashing saber and sword,
To battle the swiftly marching horde;
With a valiant heart I fight the foe,
My only weapon a trusty hoe.
No martial music to swing me along,
I march to the robin redbreast song.
No stirring anthem of bugle and drum
But the cricket's chirp and the honey bee's hum.
No anti-aircraft or siren yell
But there's Trumpet-creeper and Lily-bell.
With a loving heart and a sturdy hand,
I defend the borders of flower-land;
While high over Larkspur and Leopardsbane,
A butterfly pilots his tiny plane;
But I shall not fear his skillful hand,
My enemy charges only by land.
Would those who lead nations in war and hate
But lay down their guns at some garden gate,
There, bury- their bombs and their bloody deeds,
And join the grand army that's fighting the weeds.
-ALMA B. Eymann

[spitfire]

beautiful prose homegrown, if i typed that much my wrists would be done in, hell typing the 12 days of christmas for the comp was tough for me.

[old tree man]

wow Homegrown, i really love the the green man poem it really spoke to me i know that sounds abit deep but i have never really been one for poetry but i loved it

[homegrown]

Nope not to deep OTM

It is one of my favourites that and the Rudyard Kipling poem (when my Grandfather died he left me a book of Kipling poetry and I've been hooked ever since, Kipling and Dylan Thomas were his favourites, I know predictable for a welshman)

To me poetry is the song of your heart expressed in words and when others choose to share their song we are doubly blessed