Okay; we’re somehow already a third of the way through April. How did that happen?
Today’s “Two-for-Tuesday” prompts are:
- Write a Forest poem.
- Write a Tree poem.
You can literally write about a forest. Or you can literally write about a tree. Or you can dive right into the metaphor separating the two. Your choice. Get creative with it.
Here’s my attempt:
“Trees”
They often blend together
when they’re packed together
like that. I mean, one branch
bends around another and
another but not touching,
save when the wind blows hard.
I mean, it’s hard to pick
a favorite–until I find
one so twisted and unique
that I want to live inside
it or build a house beside
the tree beside the stream
that carries my thoughts to you.
I mean, you’re always on my mind.
*****
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Tuesday night, she was in my dreams
Telling me about how her house stood
where the water treatment plant is now,
and that everything around here was a
huge forest, that people hacked and
hacked it all down and built these houses
far too close to the water. She told me
that her father wanted a son, built a
treehouse before she was born and told
her it was a castle, so she made tiaras
out of vines, leaves and flowers, wrote
love letters and sent them down the river
in glass bottles, but no one answered.
She told me that the forest was hers,
all of this land left to her and no one
to share it with, that she can’t bear to
leave what was left of her forest.
She left her voice on the breezes that
blew through the park nearby, told me to
look for her in the morning. I haven’t
had a solid night of sleep in weeks and
I can’t get her voice out of my head.
This is beautiful, Kendall, and haunting. I’m a sucker for letters in glass bottles…and treehouse castles. Love.
This is outstanding, Kendall. And knowing your work, one of your best, I’d add.
Thanks a lot. I actually wrote an entirely different poem and trashed a lot of it, took what I liked from it, and came up with this. It’s part of a series of poems I’m writing about a guy who falls for a ghost.
Wow. This is GORGEOUS.
O TANNENBAUM (The Pines)
Evergreen.
Marking the countryside.
Random flecks of emerald
splayed against a canvas of white
of a winter unbridled.
Miles from nowhere; up there.
Out my window, they greet me
snow covered and reflective.
Their sole objective
is to hide what we do.
A village and community
working in unity for a cause
just because I am Santa Claus.
I love this scene
amongst the pines.
Evergreen.
Tree Versus Forest
Politics everywhere,
Past forgotten or reshaped
Like an Orwellian nightmare.
Future cannot be ascertained.
The forest is unimaginable
due to the big trees
standing in the way.
They spread spiteful acorns
and care for their own agendas.
Their water, their personal light, and
their dance in the breezes.
Let the forest go to hell
as long as they get what they need.
Forest Tree Menu
Black Cherry “Cordial”
“Delicious” Dogwoods
Orange “Sherbet” Oak
“Lemon” Spruce
“Double Chocolate” Rocky Mountain Birch
Yellow “Pineapple” Spruce
Australian “Pecan” Pine
“Blueberry” Beech
Rum Cherry “Coke”
Custard Apple “Tart”
Big-leaf Maple “Syrup”
Black Walnut “Bon Bons”
Cinnamon Oak “Bars”
I ache for a tree
casting shadowy picnics on the lawn
muscling tire swings, and afternoon dreams
wearing a shield of climbing rungs
bearing mystery novels and comic books
shielding my fruit, as though they were its own
and I believe
that tree aches for me
Beautiful! Sounds like a tree worth aching for.
Thank you.
Trees in Forests
When the children were small,
their constant needs
drove me to distraction
as I warded off destroyers
of various kinds,
to protect their tender shoots.
One day, without my notice, they grew
beyond saplings; strong, straight.
Today, they have matured,
weathered withering winds;
planted saplings of their own,
forming a forest,
where once only tiny trees stood.
White pine, soft pine
Five-needled gentleness
Against the blue of an autumn sky;
These once ancient giants
Of a virgin wilderness
Have regrown to a mere post adolescence
And still are felled
To build more houses
Or sheared off the land
Like an unwanted growth
For a “better, pre-fabricated,
Corporate consumer” lawn.
My pine –
A six inch twig in dirt
Given to me in the first grade;
I don’t know how it survived
Much less endured the uprootings
And sandy soil of its youth,
Yet, there it stands
A little pine amidst pines
In a tiny wooded spot
Intersected by homes;
For twenty-two years it’s been growing
In that shaded overgrowth
And still my thumb and forefinger
Can still touch as I curve
My hand around its smooth gray skin;
It’s been a crowded time,
Both our lives stunted
In tightened rings of waiting
For openings to the sun.
We didn’t anticipate the powerlines.
The tree will need to be severely pruned.
But I guess nothing can be totally natural now,
There’s always some want in human kind –
Hardly ever need – so that wild nature is sacrificed, killed
Mutilated for useless products,
Torn limb from bleeding limb,
The natural world, my tree,
My natural being stunted and trimmed,
Pruned in the name of a growing “civilized” society.
It’s too deeply rooted –
To transplant her now would mean her death.
So, I’ll make a cup of white pine tea
With the fresh green needles,
But first I’ll ask permission
And forgiveness for her unintentionally enclosed
And intertwined life with me-
She says it’s okay,
She’ll live many generations beyond me-
And with hope, she might be a two hundred foot tall
Giant awing the puny lives of men.
I hope they don’t cut her down
But there are so many people with saws
And fewer and fewer humans who know
And love the tree people.
Ah, my white pine tea is done,
Migwetch, many thank yous, amen.
This brought tears to my eyes, thank you for the beauty.
SAWING LUMBER ON A SOFT RECLINER
What a noise this is, I am certain,
this resonance disturbs the curtain;
I see no sense in stopping there,
I’ve found my slumber in this chair.
My bulbous proboscis, most celebrated
and this septum, quite deviated,
between each in and exhalation,
this sonic din has changed the station.
It’s the most tired that I’ve been all year.
I give my snoring head a nod
and dream of places I have trod.
This raucous sound will not be savored,
it disturbs surely most of the neighbors.
My breathing’s shallow, loud but slow,
and I’m missing half my show,’
and a while to sleep before I’ll know,
and a while to sleep before I’ll know.
**A take on Robert Frost’s, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening””
Hahaha I love it! It makes me think of my dad 🙂
A FOREST OF TREES
arboretum, Institute of Forest Genetics
I study the tags, and let my eyes climb
the rough bark up to stiff, branching green.
Pinus ponderosa. P. apache, P. jeffreyi.
A breeze whispers in Spanish through
Weeping Mexican Pine, P. patula.
At leash-end, my puppy’s reading, too,
with her nose. Pine-needle duff.
Cone of a Ponderosa. The another cone –
Digger. And here’s a Jeffrey – does its DNA
smell different than the others?
The two of us deciphering
this forest, our world.
Moving
I will miss the sycamore
near the back door.
From its side, a hook protrudes,
its metal base long enveloped
in rings and bark. It holds, ever sturdy,
the seeds that call and comfort
its hollow-boned visitors.
What made it give up a limb
big enough to require neighbors
with chainsaws that Sunday
after a Saturday storm? Did it know
we’d feed them and someone would say
Let’s do pot lucks on Sundays.
Did it know the ties we would forge,
the problems we’d solve, the laughs
we’d share, the joy we’d feel
even in our marrow?
I will miss the sycamore
near the back door.
Linda Voit
A lovely narrative. Thank you for sharing it.
Step out, step out
From shady glade
Let safety fade
As evening slips
It’s velvet dress on
Colors sweeter as
We watch their leaving
Silver sheathing on
The pond the
Fronds of lilies
Fold their hands
And bathe in lavender
And peach then
Reach for one last
Time as moon climbs
In the distance
Takes it’s place
A smiling face
To welcome stars
As frogs sing
Stars ring tree tops
Soft spots curling
Up the living
Giving over to
The night
Tree Climbing
He should have his own home by now,
a wife, a family, money in the bank,
but he lives in the house his grandfather
left, grudgingly, unable to live alone.
He’s moved the Olan Mills family pictures,
the crocheted doilies, hand painted china,
replacing them with concert posters,
a stuffed goose sporting a bow tie.
Most days he can convince himself
he’s grown–paying the light bill, mopping
the ancient linoleum floors, paying a kid
to mow his lawn.
But every now and then, sure no one’s
watching, he climbs to the highest limbs
of the old magnolia tree out back, up
where he sways and teeters, unafraid,
as if he were ten again.
Chinaberry Tree
Our Chinaberry, a rich, green haven,
held castles where we defended maiden.
We climbed lofty heights and won the battle;
knights with slingshot take aim and skedaddle!
Chinaberry tree of youth long ago;
we loved and adored your play, rightly so,
tumbling like monkeys; arms end over end;
taught us to climb as the acrobats spin.
Oh, Chinaberry, my memory holds!
The play you gave us so magical-bold.
Then, winning my heart, Chinaberry soul.
;
CORNUS FLORIDA
—————————-
Wild dogwoods
will sometimes
grow from the
fallen trunks
of old trees;
branches grow
skyward to
become trunks
themselves one
day, reaching
to the sun
glimpsed through the
canopy
of other trees:
pine, poplar,
walnut, oak,
sweet gum, beech;
sending forth
pure white blooms,
hovering
like snow drifts
between earth
and sky, so
long as the
taproot lives.
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/135133.html
I’m busy today so I wrote various small poems, one of which is a haiku. 🙂
Over the Edge
I stood on the edge
and watched the wind
seduce the trees,
hot breath
scented with apple blossoms
swirled through supple branches.
I stood on the edge,
mesmerized,
as the wind whipped the trees
into a frenzy,
tantalized the leaves
into a whirling, twirling,
sensuous dance.
I stood on the edge,
hypnotized,
the wind in the trees
chanted my name.
Without hesitation
I stepped over the edge,
breathed apple blossom wind,
and danced with the trees.
Oh my. This is absolutely a feast of delicious imagery!
Thank you. I love trees. I have been known to kiss them like Salamanca Tree Hiddle in Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech.
In Forests
When asked to choose a forest
I must consider paths
and learn from the choices
of others who’ve traveled
in the past
I’m reminded of Young Goodman Brown
and how he lost his faith
in man and wife
then lost his life lonely and depraved
The mighty Ents of Tolkien,
shepherds of the forest,
Middle Earth’s clear allies
freedom was their forage
Robin and his band of men
took over Sherwood Forest
and ensured what happened then
would benefit the poorest
Little Red, Hansel & Gretel,
though on separate paths,
when set out through the forest
discovered natural wrath
And then there were the princesses
Sleeping Beauty & Snow White
who sought respite there
while waiting to be brides
When asked to choose a forest
I must consider paths
just like the wise Robert Frost
who took the one less traveled by
One
One was a sanctuary
for birds
and little boys;
Another sprouted up,
a shady spot in the yard.
And then there were three,
where children and pets
frolicked and played.
The farmer planted more,
a windbreak,
protection.
The one
became a woodland ,
drawing wildlife
large and small
expanding,
flourishing,
sprouting a forest
spreading here
and there.
Suddenly a flicker
and a flash.
Flames danced!
Burning and churning
driving everything out
until there is only,
the lonely one,
a sanctuary for none.
True Love Always
Love’s
Dream
Carved in
Willow bark,
But when that dream fades,
Two will bear a weeping, scarred heart.
So busy these last few days. So little time to write and read what others have written.
Forest Follies
I walked into the forest
Half way
From that point on
I walked out
========
Trees like baseball
You can tell by their pitch
Trees like history
You can tell by their roots
Trees like dogs
You can tell by their bark
Trees like traveling
They’re always ready to leave
Trees like expansion
They’re always branching out
Trees like anniversaries
They have a ring for each one
Trees like joking around
Some can really needle you
But when it’s all said and done
Trees like to relax
That’s why they live in the woods
The best place fo-rest
I enjoyed this Earl. It was like a good stand up poemedian routine.
Caught in the Forest
The trees bend graceful
from the wind and the sun
toward the light rising
until my eyes can no
longer see into the
endless sky
raising their leafy tops
to the warmth and
leaving their bare trunks
behind, bark naked
to the whims of the
inhabitants of this forest
and I think of all of us
down here on the ground
surrounded by the trees
of our lives
leafy tops striving
each day toward the light
feeling the warm sunshine
of praise upon our efforts
as we leave the bare, naked
trunks of our former existence
behind.
Subtle and powerful, thanks.
Thank you, PowerUnit. These prompts lend themselves to such great interpretation. I’m reading everyone’s now and gathering them all in for my day’s bouquet.:)
BARKING UP THE WRONG TREE
“I coulda had class.
I coulda been a contender.
I coulda been somebody” ~Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando – “On the Waterfront”)
I coulda had class
instead of being this ass
who when push came to shove
fell in love with all the wrong people.
My choices have been questioned
and I mention this just in passing,
but this ever-lasting love thing is for
the other guy not me. I guess
I’ve been barking up the wrong tree.
I coulda been a contender,
instead of this jerk on a three-day bender,
who went off on this tangent when
what I needed to do was focus
on finding the right words to say.
I play this poetry game and it keeps me
sane to a point… or disjointed, but
I’m doing my best you see. I guess
I’m barking up the wrong tree.
I coulda been somebody,
instead of this guy who loved his parents,
and his wife and daughters, who is a loyal
friend and a man who has a way to say
all his heart feels. But it seems the real deal
is the proof in the pudding. And putting
my rhyme on the line has made me
realize that as far as I can see,
I am surely barking up the wrong tree.
I have some class.
I am always a contender.
I am somebody.
Hot
Crepe myrtles in full bloom
petals falling
bark peeling drifting to the ground
where they crunch loudly
pleasantly beneath my feet.
young shoots from the foot of the trees
grow no matter the searing sun or
lack of drink.
Well, I love the coincidence of this prompt as it fits so nicely with the one from NaPoWriMo. Not that I mind writing two poems in a day, but I have been falling a bit behind, and rather than drop out of the challenge perhaps this is one way to allow myself to continue. My problem is too many poems to deal with already, and a procrastination about submitting work needs to be dealt with. Anyway that all is my own problem to deal with. Here’s my forest poem, based on the first line of someone’s else’s poem, credit given below!
Who’s Afraid in the Big Bad Woods?
What do you fear in the woods
when the trees fold their branches around you
closing out the sky, when the sun no longer
warms you with her soft touch and the path
twists again and again till you’re confused,
and have lost your way?
Is it the sound of reeds drumming on hollow logs,
hoofbeats of horses that galloped these woods until
their riders were never seen again? Is it the warping
of the light, how it filters through leaves, the distortion
of time and place, or the fear of darkness at the end of day
the path no longer seen?
Is it the heartbeat pounding in your chest,
choking out each breath as you climb the same hill
for the third time in an hour? Is it the chiming of a distant
steeple, heard but not seen, its song sung in a minor key,
a dissonance falling harshly on the ear, as it announces
the lateness of the hour
Is it the stories remembered from childhood,
a girl in a red cloak, a clever wolf, a horseman
riding headless at midnight, banshees and children
who meet old women with ovens and appetites,
and you—you have come to these woods, forgetting
your pocketful of crumbs?
Carol A. Stephen
April 10, 2012
the line What do you fear in the woods is
from Tim Prior ‘s the wood and the darkness
“… Of Leaf & Bark & Breathe”
Arms out-stretched reaching
Towards ground and sky
Feeling nothing but touch an essence
Of everything that flowers and grows
Decay is just a part of the cycle
That brings about fervent growth
Air conducts vibrations
Fueling currents and sensations
Of longevity to all that exists
A staunch and silent reminder
Of the death and renewal
Of all things
Thick and strong but still
Weak to the soothing southern winds
Every existing but never whispering
The secrets that eons give
Born from earth and raised
By the suns bright rays
The moon and stars the nursemaids
Comforting from dusk until
Dawns comes calling again
With age comes reverence
Comes respect for every atom borne
Standing tall never fearing the fall
Because this essence will fertilize
And seed
For more greatness to come forth
Weeping Willow
As i stood beside this unusual tree,
Alone it stood,just like me.
As i stood and stared at it’s drooping limbs.
It reminded me of the many burdens
that weighed me down.
At that moment,to my eyes
it was a beautiful sight.
But the longer i stood and stared
it brought sadness to my heart.
It’s trunk looked big and strong,
yet i knew,like me, it had come
through many storms.
And as i looked at it’s limbs
seeming weak and bowed.
Like they had lost,to me,
their strength i suppose.
Then i felt the rain as it started
pouring down.
But i couldn’t move from where
i stood there.
I watched in amazement as the drops
slid down the limbs and hit the ground.
At that moment it was clear to me
as i stood there alone,crying,helplessly.
How much alike i was to this
weeping willow tree.
Hurricane
I kept watch at my bedroom window, looking for signs of wind strength.
The old trees in the park across the street
with their 100 year old
thick trunks limbs
deep roots
will not bend.
Strong winds could break them.
Please don’t let them break I whispered.
They are too regal to let them break.
In front and to the side of the house is
a birch tree
with green-yellow leaves
white peeling bark
young and slender.
I watch, waiting to see how far it bends.
Thunder lightening wind rain
all splatter against my window.
It grows darker darker
clouds cannot be picked out in the sky
where everything is gray.
Electrical wires sway violently
the birch begins to bow
lower lower
branches sweep the ground
leaves fly away
dancing in the air
pushed along
sticking to my porch roof
the street below
the windows of the house next door.
The wind is angry now
beating the birch
hoping for submission
but the birch only bows,
takes a breath,
and stands up again.
The Day The Music Died
great, wide trunks
topped with expansive branches
and innumerable leaves,
thick, strong roots
diving deep into the soil
and spreading wide, entwining
with the roots of another
stout-bodied giant,
tapering as it climbs high,
burdened with a plethora
of needles and cones
that mingle with the leaves
and branches of another
grand, ancient sentinel;
a patternless dance of trees
that ends with the music
of the chainsaw
🙁 This makes me so sad.
WOW, PSC . . . just love the echoing aspect of this delightful melody heard through the trees, whispered and whistled with such a perfect ending that we all search for, “you are loved, welcome home”! So beautiful!
Homecoming
Your name passes from poplar to pine.
It may be weeks, months or even years,
since you were here, still it whispers in wind
and water, sings from within boulders,
stones and tiniest grains of sand
that one note, uniquely yours, known
to the universe – earth, moon, sun, sky –
each atom, every microbe knows it;
your moniker, existing before you were born,
biding after body is dust
not what you are called by family & friends,
but who you are, and will always be,
it is you and you are it, inseparable
a name never meant to be uttered,
incapable of being spoken in voices human,
unable to be written – except in the stars
never to be heard by ears or seen by eyes,
no word, but music, scent, taste, texture, temperature,
senses as yet unnamed, unknown, undiscovered
it whistles between white birch and willow,
musical – melody & harmony — simple & complex,
elemental & intricate, an invisible,
celestial embrace that says,
“you are loved, welcome home”
This is wonderful, PSC!
Absolutely wonderful!
Excellent!
Muse in Trouble
If I can’t write about a tree,
my muse must be in trouble.
So to my poetic rescue troops,
come running on the double!
My muse might be drowning
in the busyness of the day.
Or perhaps bogged down in quicksand
of vacationing away.
Maybe buried in the desert
so no one can hear its shout.
Or swinging by a noose
from the tree I’m to write about.
So while I’m basking in the sunshine,
my muse calls 9-1-1.
But someone else can save it
while I’m having a little fun.
Connie . . . I love this! How much is your poem? I am also away on vacation and can barely keep up! I love your muse dance . . . are you in Hawaii, by chance?
In the woods behind our house
my sisters and I built
villages, each our own
miniature crafted
in sticks and moss
occupying the forest
paths on retreat from
chagrin and unsettling
neglect, mere reflection
in a nearby pond
the tallness of wood
showered us, we washed
our hands in dirt
cherished the growling
touch of muddy
grit and rusted leaves
we used to hold things
together, assembling
rows of tiny lean-tos
snug with mossy cushions
for floors, that circled
and were joined by others
in tiny townships, always
finishing our work before
sundown, we spent quiet
in the last hours of light
watched as shadows turned
the green into blue into black.
What a great picture perfect little innocent world of child’s play along with the pain and sadness of neglect! You painted this so well, I could smell the leaves and dirt and also feel the hurt! Beautiful job and how well I remember the forest! Thank you!
I can completely envision this setting and feel. Nicely done, Margot!
Aril 10, 2012 – Day 10
Write a forest poem
Write a tree poem
Lost Among Other Voices
You can lost yourself
in a forest
until every branch, every path, each leaf
appears exactly the same. The only difference
in the forest is you, scrambling
through brambles,
frantic, panting
desperate to find
a way back to yourself.
He was gregarious, infectious,
planning events, outings, vacations,
knowing what you needed to do,
without qualm. Follow him,
calm, self-assured, in charge
of your life,
lost inside his
own. Swept away in that cocoon
of silken-voiced threads,
you forfeited yourself,
to the suppleness of clay.
When he left,
you were left,
with the baby-step task
of reassembling the footsteps
leading back to who you were.
Wow. This poem brought me back to a dim time in my life where I was taking those baby-steps myself. I like the breathlessness of the panicked desperation and the description of the man. Excellent.
Thanks, Maxie2.
Now the forest . . .
SO I CAN SEE YOU
Like an array of well behaved,
British school children,
Dressed neatly in their matching clothes,
Standing in a perfect row,
To impress all who saw the group,
Becoming the best showcase,
Of gathered individuals,
Well turned out and finely orchestrated,
All the young trees,
In the natural Christmas tree forest,
Stood as tall as they could,
As if trying to win out the various families,
Coming at different times,
Throughout December,
Choosing the one,
Ideal vision to stand proud,
In their home,
For all to see, admire and adore.
Some knew they were a bit rounder,
Some awkwardly tall,
Others had a lean to them,
That kept blending into the leaves,
Of the others who were at best tolerant,
Still, the trees were all individuals,
Just not appearing so from the road!
Any passerby would only see a forest,
Full of the potential December trees,
Eagerly hoping they would be the chosen one,
For the very special day,
Arriving soon!
Pulling into the parking lot,
The little girl wasn’t sure if she would get to choose,
This year’s tree!
Since she was just one in the large family,
Yet, just as she began to wonder,
She could feel the tree,
As if this time,
It might just call her name!
She decided to trust her feelings,
As she meandered around the forested spot,
Until, she realized her brightly colored hair bow,
Was no longer holding her pony tail!
Quickly she retraced her footsteps,
Ducking down to see the roots,
As if it had fallen,
Looking at the dirt,
To see if it had been trampled,
Asking her brother,
If he had snatched it to distract her,
Again,
All to find it was still missing.
About to give up,
She jumped up high,
To her surprise,
She saw it up high on a beautiful tree,
Waving like a flag,
As if to say, “Here I am,
I took it so you could see me”.
She giggled at the thought,
Racing back to fetch it,
As she stood before the tree,
She saw how perfect the formation was,
Height and branch spacing was ideal,
To take home and decorate,
Almost as if it had already started,
By joyfully holding her bow in its branches!
Getting her family’s attention,
She took a long bow more like a curtsy,
Before the tree,
As if to introduce it to them,
They quickly gathered around her,
Admiring the tree and agreed,
This was the best family one for this year,
Truly in the forest of trees for Christmas,
This tree alone had stood out,
Happily signaling,
It was one of a kind,
In amongst the many,
Getting the attention of the little girl,
And just as a delightful bit of wind suddenly came up . . .
The tree and the girl took a final bow together!
Forest of Fantasy
Feet falling like leaves to the forest floor
We walked as quietly as we could
We strained our eyes to spy on the shy
Inhabitants of the wood
A clover circle, a crushed mushroom, a cobweb in the brush
Remnants of fairy dances
Scraps left behind by travelling gnomes
Traps and snares of goblin folk
We went along our way and felt their watchful eyes
But to us they remained hidden and disguised
As butterflies or birds or bugs
As sticks or stones or stumps
Feet falling like leaves to the forest floor
We walked as quietly as we could
We strained our ears to hear chants and cheers
And the music of the wood
A bubbling brook, a bristling branch, a blowing breeze
Songs of sprites
Flutes of fauns
The bellowing of trolls
We went along our way and heard enchanted hymns
But the makers of the melodies transformed at a whim
Into multicolored songbirds or wart encrusted toads
Into tiny chirping crickets or chattering young squirrels
Feet falling like leaves to the forest floor
We walked as quietly as we could
I love this! I remember walking through one particular forest in my childhood and thinking that if fairies and gnomes existed anywhere, it would have to be among those trees. You’ve captured that sentiment beautifully.
A Forest of Thoughts
Deep, dark, daunting
A forest can be
Alluring and flaunting
A forest can be
Very thought like
Are its qualities
Just like thoughts
It is easy to get lost
In a forest
Just like thoughts
It is mesmerizing
To get lost in a forest
Just like thoughts
A forest is a mingle
Just like thoughts
Forests inspire jingles
Every tree, every shrub
Like a thought in the mind
Deep and inspiring
Thoughts and forests
Fleeting and conspiring
Thoughts and forests
Ponderous and alivening
Thoughts and forests
And yet every tree
Perfect, in shape, in size, in maturity
Like a single thought
Conceived in clarity
And yet every forest
A mish-mash of diversity
Like many thoughts
A jumble of creativity
A Home for Birds
My small little pine has blossomed over time.
Planted as a science project it’s become part of the home.
That old pine has spawned over time, Cardinals, Sparrows and Pigeons alike a little bird haven.
On sunset evenings symphonies arise, but morning gives way to a revelry to rise and shine.
As the seasons change at various times, you can peer and see bird nest to harbor a new generation of life.
Who would have thought that old pine would grow up to be the perfect bird house?
I love bird symphonies at sunset – and science projects that plant trees.
Which would come first, let’s see . . . would it be the forest or the tree?
I agree . . . the tree!
STAND UP
“Now little one,
Don’t be a sap,
Stand up tall,
Get your feet,
On the ground,
And hold them there,
Don’t let anyone push,
You around,
Yet be flexible,
Like you are blowing,
In the wind!
Know who you are,
Begin branching out,
When you are ready,
Always reach for the sky,
Don’t let anyone needle you,
Or stump you as you go,
Our bark is as good as any bite,
You can run rings around anyone,
Always aim higher,
Yet grow at your own pace,
In your own space,
And place.”
“But mother,
Won’t I pine for you?
“No and there will be no,
Weeping either!
We are mighty redwood trees,
Bowing down to no one . . .
If you please!”
The puns! the puns! Aaaaaah!
Seriously, though, this is adorable.
Clever and witty.
Thank you, Ina and Sara! Yes, had pun fun with this! Why “lumber” along?? 🙂
Timber
(a Fib)
We
etch
our names
in your skin,
and you hold them strong,
longer than we hold each other.
I love this. Short yet full of meaning.
Thanks so much, carolyn. 🙂
Forest Pantoum
Endlessness, endlessly endowed
The forest is an eternity
There are no trees in an eternity
Twigs crackle as the ghouls tread softly
The forest is an eternity
Brown paths, a darkly manse
Twigs crackle as the ghouls tread softly
Time drifts on branches
Brown paths, a darkly manse
Whispery, shivery, corporeal breezes
Time drifts on branches
Light is a dream of the past
Whispery, shivery, corporeal breezes
Wordlessly beckoning
Sunlight is a dream of the past
Dimness, a late afternoon shroud
Wordlessly beckoning
There are no trees in eternity
Dimness, a late afternoon shroud
Endlessness, endlessly endowed
Nice use of the form!
LIVE
As death begins immediately
for the severed branch,
so we are indeed dead
apart from The Root of life.
Love this, Marie Elena! Simple words, giant message! I love how your love continues to grow as you continue to, I have to say it, branch out! 🙂
Aww! Thank you, Janet Planet!
Marie, you have the ability to put so much into so few words! Lovely!!
Thank you so much, Barbara!
Arctic Willow
Prostrate, it hugs the ground,
laying its branches on
dark earth to absorb
every last degree of available heat.
Pussy willows cautiously creep
along the substrate, sunning
themselves despite
remnants of snow.
The burgeoning leaves burst
forth, ensconced in a warm
cloak of hair, protection
from the wind and cold.
And I pull up my hood
thankful for the bit of fur
around my face.
this is beautiful. keep up the good work 🙂
Thank you so much – it’s nice to get some feedback 🙂
You’ve painted a perfect picture here, Carolyn!
Thanks for taking the time to read it! I so appreciate.
Beautiful words from title to ending.
Quick late lunch reading. Thanks sooooooo much to those of you who left kind responses to my poems. Loving all! Especially…
Ely the Eel: Great stuff, this. “But that will be for a different poet’s despair.” Love it.
Claudsy: Such beauty today!
Posmic: Redbuds are sooooo beautiful and plentiful where I live. I can’t figure out why they are called Redbud, but no matter … beauty all the same. Thanks for this beautiful ode.
Daniel Ari: Oh my … emotions spelled and spilled in such a gripping and almost lovely manner. Well done!
Buddah: Ouch. Good work.
De Jackson: Total brilliance. I cannot ever choose one piece from you over another. I want a book. I WANT A BOOK. An entire collection of books. A Jackson library. I mean, really…
Lady Maggie: I’m in love with the sonnet form, though I seldom take the time to pen them of late. Yours is flawless and lovely. Thank you!
Emmajordon: I know the roots of which you speak. Captivating, aren’t they? And so is your poem.
Kenaipi: lovely and sensuous!
Mike Grove: Such a lovely tribute to your family!
Mike Bayles: Lovely in vision and content.
Jane Beal (and Joseph’s response): so lovely!
Nancy Posey and Jane Shlensky: Your stories-in-poem are always captivating!
Janet Ruth: Wonderful work today, but I especially love your Parable.
Kevin DeRossett: Brilliant! Comical and sobering, creatively penned.
RJ: Metaphorest … Awww!!
Imaginalchemy: Extraordinary images!
Hannah: Miss Magnolia is just so very lovely!
And as I said earlier (but worth another mention): Khara and Walt … stunning work, both!
Just wondering if I could have fit more “beautiful”s and “lovely”s in there. *red-faced me*
Thanks, Marie. Your comments are always so kind and, well, lovely 😉
Marie!!! Thank you! I’ll absorb a “lovely,” or a “beautiful,” from you any day, such a kind gesture.
Thank you, generous, beautiful, lovely, talented lady. 🙂
Thanks so much, Marie. I know … Why redbud? My kids wonder this, too.
Yggrasil
Tree of life, worlds diverse
Strong branches shelter there.
Beneath gnarled roots Fate
Weaves her web of time.
Stout trunk bears full the
Weight of Nature’s cares.
Oh, I love this!!
A Sappy Tale
Elm Avenue, Okauchee, WI
has no elm trees,
only the brittle twigs of our memories,
much like, I suppose,
Orange Tree Estates, Orange County, CA
has no orange trees,
only the faintly remembered aromas from youth,
the sweet citrus dreams of SoCal hipsters.
Many pines remain in Pine Top, AZ,
and you can still find birches in Birch Tree, AR,
but, for most of us,
it’s scrapbooks and photo albums,
taking us back to our roots.
The elms might be gone,
but those firs we planted are thriving,
the ones my drunken Swedish carpenter
of a grandfather helped me plant.
The one that was struck by lightning
on its very first day,
bam, like a spank on a newborn’s bottom,
that one is the tallest, no sign of early scars.
There’s a lesson there, I’m sure,
and maybe I’ll get it one day.
The elms might be gone,
but there’s still a plank swing,
dangling from a rope,
tied way up high,
around a thick oak branch,
down by the lake.
It’s been 50 years since I last saw it,
so surely it’s been changed a few times.
I wonder who does that,
and I wonder how they get up there,
and I wonder if their mom knows about it.
The elms might be gone,
but the lilac bushes remain hearty.
Thank goodness there was no
Dutch Lilac malady,
although I’m pretty sure that
it wasn’t Dutch Orange Tree disease
that caused all those uprootings in SoCal.
If this global warming thing,
or some other planetary sickness
gets to the palm trees,
we’re in real trouble.
but that will be for
a different poet’s despair.
This is so good Ely. I love poems about trees!
MAKING OF TREE, FOREST
Forest
Dark and so deep
See green of every hue
Life is born in the death of all
Leaves, dirt, tree, limb, death surrounds us all
Light barely seen in dark below
Yet green shoot up in glee
As if tree green drips from
Life abounds here
Forest
Nice play on life and death.
This was the perfect form for this poem, from the green shoot, growing in the humus of trees past. Lovely.
Forest Sanctuary
the wind picks up
branches greet me with boisterous waving
as a quick burst of nuts drop, I sense
a welcoming gift from an old friend
maybe that’s why I’ve come
to unburden my aspirations
with the ancestors who dwell here
to spill the woes of my heart
for I have always talked to trees
ever since I was young and one
trapped me in a dream, I still remember
as if was but a moment ago
trees are such attentive listeners, interrupting
with just a soft rustling of leaves
a creak, a plaintive moan, then stillness
it’s their story of strength, patience, and persevering
thats drawn me to seek an audience, and they invite me to stay
today I’ve come to hear my favorite story they sing to me
of how you can still be rooted and reach for the stars
this forestscaped sanctuary of wisdom and tranquility
a towering testament to the power of a seed
so I decide to camp for the night
a chance to redeem my selfesteem
waking inside its living dream
~ Randy Bell ~
I love this!! Swooningly, beautifully said!!
I agree, stunning.
STRIPPED BARE
I saw her from across the meadow
a doe tiptoeing tentatively through
the grass, glancing back at her home
a thicket of dark, dense green
She was delicate, but deliberate
as she strode toward the stream
a ballerina beautifully exposed
and perfect in her nakedness
Lovely. Your use of alliteration is, to use your own words, both ‘deliberate’ and ‘delicate.’ Well done.
Thanks, Miss R.! I like alliteration so much I probably overdo it. But I didn’t even really intend it in this one. Just wanted to right word. 🙂
Green on the inside
and bending with the wind
we separate ourselves from the sky.
Our leaves rustling,
branches and limbs,
the sun, our spirit among the ancient
hollows, breaking stone with time,
whispering the untold secrets to all who have ears to listen.
It is us, fair trees,
rise up against the dirt,
spread your tough, tough fingers through
the oppressive sand.
Wend your way against the surging plague,
and stand alone where no on else
can.
Stones Thrown Through Bamboo
He planted a twig of bamboo,
well-rooted, but so small that
soon he lost it in the undergrowth
of native plants, forgetting he had
tucked it into earth in hope
that one day it would rise to make
a forest like those of his youth, when
he’d thrown stones through hollow trunks
to make them sing. How the wind
soughed and trilled fluting them.
He planted yearly seeds, perennials setting
up their show in their two-year spans,
fruit trees thickened for three years,
finally supporting the weight of purpose,
of apples, peaches, nuts.
Each plant in its own time pulled life
from soil and helped to feed him too.
He moved round stones from pathways
and stacked them like a shrine to nature,
suddenly remembering the lesson of bamboo,
growing underground as if by stealth,
for years, creating a village root structure
to support a grove, then springing up lush,
as if overnight, like a flock of phoenixes
rising, fluting, reaching skyward, taking flight.
What a beautiful poem of hope and growth, Jane!
Thanks so much, Diana.