Hiding in the bushes,
nestled in the green.
Slowly turning back and forth,
you calmly watch the scene.
Rustling in the roses,
your head snaps to the side.
Cautiously you step, then pause,
your eyes kept open wide.
Sensing your dark presence,
the prey shivers in fright.
Stealthy, you close in and then–
CHOMP! You take a bite!
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
Teeny, tiny yellow dots
are moving on the plants.
Little pinprick holes in spots
like sticky, icky ants.
These pollen looking pests all
crowd and gather on the stem.
Around the leaves they all crawl
and munch and crunch on them.
What are these nasty vermin?
And from where did they come?
Milkweed aphids have moved in
and made us all feel glum.
How far will this army go
with their full-blown attack?
Stripping leaves to my great woe,
they eat their milkweed snack.
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
It’s quiet in the garden,
and yet I can’t explain.
All of my tomatoes seem
to stay a shade of green.
Some are jade with yellow stripes
and some with darker hues.
Some are trying hard to change
while others just refuse.
On the vine they linger,
a feast for all the bugs.
I gnash my teeth in anger
and watch the slimy slugs.
As one last hopeless effort,
I check back to the day
I planted these tomatoes.
What do the packets say?
When I looked at the pictures,
chagrined, I shook my head.
All were green and yellow striped,
not one of them was red!
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
I look around my garden
and everywhere I spy,
a pile of weeds.
I gaze around my homestead
and suddenly I see,
so many needs.
My veggie patch needs tending,
my roses overgrown,
the vines grow tall.
My vineyard weeds exploded.
The mint attacks the grapes.
I see it all.
And then I hear a giggle,
I walk around the back…
and what a sight!
Two boys are in my garden.
They play a made up game.
Their eyes so bright.
Posted in For the Kids, Garden Stories, Life, Poetry, Writing
The caterpillars climb up high
to make a chrysalis.
They slowly knit,
they never quit,
until they make it fit.
As butterflies begin to fly,
they flutter in the breeze.
They flit and flee
around each tree,
each flower, bud and me.
Yet sometimes plans will go astray,
and transformations fail.
Poor wrinkled things,
with dark wet strings,
and withered soggy wings.
But Mother Nature marches on.
The sun will rise again.
More butterflies
will soar and rise
and float up in the skies.
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
There are too many weeds in my garden, Mom.
I don’t know where to begin.
There are too many weeds in my garden, Mom.
Can we just start over again?
There are too many weeds in my garden, Mom.
I can’t tell a weed from a sprout.
There are too many weeds in my garden, Mom.
Please, can you help a kid out?
There are too many weeds in my garden, Son.
The dock has grown wild and untamed.
There are too many weeds in my garden, Son.
The thistles have made me ashamed.
There are too many weeds in my garden, Son.
If we work together we’ll win.
There are too many weeds in my garden, Son.
It’s too late to start over again!
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
In his little garden plot
Jacob planted seeds.
A flower here, an onion there
and 3 or 4 green beans.
Daily, hourly he would ask,
When will my garden sprout?
Feed them water, chop the weeds.
The sun will pull them out
One day Jacob found a vine
growing way up high.
He pointed and he jumped around
“My beans can touch the sky!”
Posted in For the Kids, Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
“Mom, they’re back! Come here and look at this!”
My heart fell. It’s mid-June, so I knew that “they” could only be one thing. Reluctantly, I went into the boys’ room. I found Joe staring out his window at the rose bushes and my heart fell further.
“See that shiny?”
Yes. Yes I did see that shiny. That shiny, evil, Japanese beetle that so tormented us last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. And–you get the idea.
“Those are the scouts,” I told Joe. “We have to try and get rid of them before they can alert the troops.”
Armed with soapy water and two eagle-eye scouts of my own, we patrolled the roses, the vineyard and the fedge. Thankfully, we found only a few…but I’m sure there are more out there.
“It’s time to start morning and evening patrols again boys.”
“I can get in the small spaces,” said Jake as he burrowed under the vines.
“I’ll hold the soapy water,” said Joe as he squirted dish soap in the water.
And me? I’ll be determined that this year will not be as bad as the last few…my confidence is starting to flag.
Shiny scouts are here
Swarming over the roses
Creeping on the vines
Posted in Garden Stories
Last year, there were kiwi flowers on one of the first vines we planted. There weren’t many, but we were so excited. At last!
But…then the beetles came. In waves. In hordes. A blanket of shiny, greenish, brownish ick destroying our vines, our buds…our spirit.
Now the buds are back. I don’t want to count my berries before they fruit…but they are everywhere on the vines and, with a little luck and milky spore, hopefully the Japanese beetles will not be as bad this year.
Flowers started forming
On last year’s kiwi vines
Teeny, tiny buds appeared
At last! On fruit we’d dine!
But then, in hordes the beetles came
And blanketed the rows
Holding on with sticky feet
Those munching, crunching foes
Our defenses were no match for them
We put up quite a fight
But still, they beat us easily
That horrid, evil blight
Again, small buds are forming
We’re hopeful that this time
The milky spore has done it’s job
And on fresh fruit we’ll dine!
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
May I have a garden, Mom
One that’s only mine?
A little patch is all I need
A corner would be fine
I want to plant 9 carrots
I’ll watch them while they grow
Two broccoli, one cabbage
Are all the seeds I’ll sow
I’ll have to put a path in
And build a little fence
An arch for beans to grow on
A “Welcome” sign makes sense
May I have a garden, Mom?
One that’s only mine?
A little patch is all I need
In the bright sunshine
Posted in Garden Stories, Poetry, Writing
