looks like a meadow,
And if she mows the place
She leaves the clover standing
And the Queen Anne's Lace.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The pale grass, gasping faintly in the sun.
I shall be dead, long, long ere day is done,
That you may say: "The air, today, was sweet."
I am the mown grass, dying at your feet.
Margaret Gilman Davidson
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
The grass is home to nature's creations,
Crawling creatures and buzzing sensations.
Busy insects flit to and fro,
Pesky ones, I wish you'd go!
Grasshoppers hop in our gardens green,
Butterflies! I'm oh so keen.
Raindrops sparkle on the blade with dew,
In the grass for me 'n you.
Grasshopper Poems
her constant benediction.
Forests decay, harvests perish, flowers vanish,
but grass is immortal.
Brian Ingalls
My humble song of praise
Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command
I beautify the land,
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.
Sarah Roberts Boyle
That grows through the crack they roll the concrete over it
To try and keep it back the concrete gets tired
Of what it has to do it breaks and it buckles
And the grass grows through. God bless the grass
Malvina Reynolds
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
The grass that surrounds our gardens
In luscious hues of green
Enhances beauty and grandeur
Of nature seldom seen.
It grows so tall and so proud
Covering the shape of the land,
Whispering secrets in the wind
Each and every strand.
It brings solace on a warm night
Under twinkling stars aglow,
Letting us be close to nature's grace -
Aye, this beauty of the grass we do know.
Poems About Beauty
Poet: Sarah Barber
When we finally flip it over
the fireflies are out. The neighbor boy
has had his stitches in so I can finally admit
I think it is all fantastic: the suck
of the spark plug undone, the stuck blade
bent into the guard, and the sound
of the hammer’s head reshaping the metal.
In this our suburban Eden we’ve only
a teenage Adam too dreamy to manage
his motorized scythe and silly Eve leaving
her coffee cups and plastic plant pots
behind in the grass. Though it’s a long way
from a fall, this spring’s first disaster,
I did like the thin thread of red
on his upper lip, and I like my mower
turned over among the glowworms,
a monstrous dandelion as unnatural as we
are, out in a garden, with our untidy
golds and our dangerous sharps.
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Oh sweet grass, a never-ending task
That awaits me each morn, to which I must ask
If it could only bear a cob of corn?
Then I would not feel so worn.
My lawnmower sings a steady hum
As I stride across the emerald gums
Sweat drips from my brow and my mind will succumb
To the thought of another week before it's done.
But for now, I carry on with a song
Your vast blades are far too long.
For such a small gardener who's trying to stay ahead
Please forgive me - I have to mow again before it spreads!
Funny Poems
Poet: Walt Whitman
A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it is any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe of the vegetation.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and children?
They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
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