-The Tree of Life-
Featuring: Casarah Nance
~~I am beautiful on the inside you will see~~
~But really I am just a tree in the woods.~
Beauty found a tree that sits and does not speak
Owning, up to the heavens, look at -- when ready
Just stop, admire, count your blessings,
enjoy the raven staring down at you
For this tree was not planted by a gardener,
This tree, who needs, not to speak, draws true auspice air,
Not like the gardener who planted a garden,
then got annoyed by the smallest of weeds
This is a story, about a gardeners mockery,
after trying to cut down my Pecan Tree
Hypocrite the farmer,
does not know the first thing when it comes to flora
Plant sources, that only grow in as weeds, (poor crops)
a picture, not even God, sets his eyes upon
I forbid, the thirsty growers from coming,
when putting up or wanting to gossip and speak of my roots
Look how they lose their lower leaves,
from over embracing each thorn
Take heed the whispers of these filthy propagators,
at my windows & doorsteps, Shh, they are watching!
Peeping-Tomming, robbing from my bluebonnet bed,
while in a deep sleep counting sheep
Wake-up, and Click away,
the dandelions are gone, airborne into a fuller universe
From the hunger, I left behind,
since jealous eyes envied how high my beanstalk continues to rise
Smile, at the yellow wool, held out by the same green thumb gang,
whine when others succeed,
Scratching one another on the back,
as if they were the National FFA Organization
Grazers growing super fast- crowfoot grass, a bitter look,
found in their dead pedal path
Horticulturist, all alone, on the inside, growing bushes of lies,
contaminated vase, black roses
I can't endure participating in a dead stem convention,
when the seed-woman cries for care
Exposing an over watered garden,
hoarding clodhoppers grin, separating everything
The potential of plowed plants is nothing more than corrupt cactus,
and invasive plant species in disguise,
Proof they don't know the first thing when cultivating the perfect flowers,
A die hard moment-
Not even the sun wants to climb up on the side of the landscape of falsehood
Sickened by the holes and yellow stains of dust and dirt,
broken by the Farmer and torn overalls
By daylight, the gardener lives kneeling, tending the greenhouse, of lies
By nighttime, the grower, swallows, by singing and tossing salads all night.
The Tree continues to grow,
The Gardner Cries
A challenge by: Susan Burch ( a SORTA slam )
Inspired by: my poem "THE FLOWER"
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
My Environment is my only homely home
That I know. Plants and animals alike love this lovely home.
I love to sit and marvel at the beauties of our beautiful E nvironment,
To see rivers flow freely in the democracy of the environment,
Grass green and as fresh as a fish in untouched natural free waters,
Births singing and ringing like universal timekeepers in all matters.
This wonderful Environment is the handwork of our ever-caring Father
And when it is well looked after, it could be next to our Father.
My health and my wealth all come from this cherished home.
How I wish foolish humans do not tarnish the harmony of this dear home!
I hate to see toxic smoke from industries go up carelessly and invited to Ozone
Because when Ozone shall have died, Sun will cease to be our friend.
I hate to see fishermen throw away a young fish
Just as I hate to see my neighbour dumping refuse into running waters.
A disorderly forester cannot be a friendly friend to me.
And why not he or she who farms into a river valley, bed and source?
I am sick when farmers burn bushes and
I cannot marry she who cooks just any kind of meat and kills the viper.
Pollution and anything harmful should not be in my Environment, our Environment,
Because I too will be harmful to those who tolerate such things
For I hate to live a brief life.
(Published in CHAINING FREEDOM, 2012)
Copyright © Nsah Mala | Year Posted 2013
Sometimes trees’ green fingers
Stand still like reposing harbingers
Of hope and despair; they meditate
On our ignorance of them who medicate
Us when diseases burgle into our souls
Taking us unawares like April fools.
At times tree branches and leaves
Come to a halt and fold up their sleeves.
Like parentless kids, they stand still,
Holding Ozone Crisis Meetings until
God’s silent servants come and sway
Them from angle to angle, wiping away
The spells of fear that cloud our faces
Each time leaves go on leave leaving no traces
Of further existence for Man who digs
His graves whenever he murders figs—
The figs that link us to the Unseen Being
Who reveals His presence in Man’s wellbeing.
But when God’s blowing sons and daughters
Sweep across Earth, letting twigs leave their fathers,
Falling twigs and dried leaves clatter
And produce celestial music to flatter
Man while lizards play basses with tails
And flying fowls chant solos and tales.
Then Man joins this universal worship,
Going down on knees to supplicate God’s fellowship,
Feeding his doubting heart with conviction
As Christ’s promises come to completion
Revealing the active hands of a Father Invisible
Who marvels His creatures with things invincible.
When these invisible but active servants of God gather
More momentum in synergy with Sun, leaves wither,
Tree trunks go epileptic while roofs migrate
And mortal Man gets to concentrate
On these leaves and stems which go on retirement
To remind him of his own imminent retirement.
(Between Carriere and Mbankolo, Sunday 02 December 2012)
Copyright © Nsah Mala | Year Posted 2013