"A woodland path in the dappled sun, hushed and quiet "
~A Rambling Poet~
A canopy of trees
filters the sun for me,
and I am grateful...
For I do not feel like
having the rays glare
in my eyes today,
in a brooding mood I am.
The earth is damp,
drunken with dew,
I lay myself down,
jagged rocks beneath me
and I welcome it
For it grounds me,
that not everything
is sunlight and blooms
I sink in my darkness
and close my eyes
to dwell in it and drown,
For an eternity,
I am mired with
muck and moss in my mind,
...until I open my eyes
The trees above me
stand tall and proud
in their radial glory,
the sun just
my cold being
Leaves gilt with light
blink back in awe
and I am floored,
blanketed by warmth
of hushed spirits
tell their tales
of growth and survival,
of yearning for
of their struggle
to catch a glimpse
feeding off from it,
in order to
give back to others
some of them stumble
yet most of them
I am humbled.
I am awed.
Yes, the canopy
gave me shade,
from the light,
I look up again
that the tiniest
pinholes of hope exist,
reaching deep within...
that set off
a chain reaction
--June 11-12 (2011)
I will draw unto the depths of my soul to love my life.
Although there are sorrows and some travesties along the journey
I bend like a tree in the wind,strong,proud and beautiful.
Why aren’t we happy?
What is it in the most of us?
We are not how we should be
We should be like a singing bird
Who boldly, in the trees
Sings his song when fear is done
His life just flows along
He only knows the dance of life
So he just sings his song.
And yet we humans live our lives
Enfolded in our fears
Glorifying in the sad
And making this quite clear
As we always speak of doom and gloom
And watch it on TV
And always live our lives in fear
Is this the way it should be?
If only each would take a look
And see just what we be
We never see the flowers grow
Or let our hearts be free
Maybe it’s time to see the truth
Of what this life could be
If we look at life without the fear
And live with mystery.
6 August 2013 @ 1908hrs.
I do not know?
When you pulled the trigger
you came to me and tried to love me
ask my forgiveness,
it made me cry, it was so cold
I shook with your suffering
I drew you in the afterlife
alone and crying with gods light
asking you to come
your shame, a mistake,
you had so much to give
i painted two trees
one that was dying
the other was dead
the tree loved you
amd misses you still
Have you ever really looked at a tree?
Have you ever thought of the ancient roots,
Those that support it ... to behold its majesty?
The boughs and limbs carry leaves oh, so green,
We are again reminded of God's handiwork,
When we see the budding exuberance ... come the early spring.
They make us mindful of beauty by their quiet repose,
They are willowy, and shade us from the harsh summer sun,
Beneath their gentle sways ... we rest comfortably below.
Fall ages them and their greens turn to brown.
As winter's cold blasts blow upon them,
Do we ever feel their plight ... as their leaves tumble down?
Families are a personal and spiritual tree.
Their ancient roots so long ago planted,
Grow in size and shape and form ... in gifted majesty!
Generations of limbs and boughs support the child leaves,
In every new face God's handiwork,
Radiant in the splendor of life ... each one of us receives.
Time slowly ages each one to their own event,
While we who remain here grow and love,
Still remembering those whose winter ... we could not prevent.
It is the strength of their memories we add to our own,
They give us the values, insights, and perspective,
Which we in turn pass on ... to the seeds we have sown.
Why be a naked tree and endure winter's agony?
It should be forever warm and sunny...
to watch wild flowers grow by a spring!
Why be a naked tree and be unable to think?
Like the willow tree,
I'm of narrow, slender twigs.
Thin and sad- we are.
The shine came off of her back that day
under the magnolia tree
She sprawled her arms like tree sized roots
and swayed with the swaying breeze
It was always her choice of blossoms
that seemed to bruise to the delicate touch
It was always on the day she was about to die
that she wanted to live so much
She sank from luxurious apple green
into chameleon red
as I drew her a picture of spring time
and the resurrection of the dead
The snow fell sweet on the tree that year
in a vision of rains to come
as I sparked a match and drew her breath
in the winter's fallen sun.
If I chanced upon a wishing tree
Where I could shuffle through the leaves
And find the wishes ripe for picking
Could choose not one... or two,....but three...
I would want to take the best with me
Not wealth,...or fame...or riches grand
But hold three other wishes in my hand...
If the power were granted me
To break out of my shell
Where my imagination wouldn't fail
On the doors of my child within
If the sky was clear enough
And the water still enough
If I could step out of my skin
To be old...or to be young again
So I could see the world through another's eyes
And understand a different sky
If the knowledge were given me
To erase all negativity
And have the courage to climb my tree
Where I could clearly see that in tomorrow
There would lie a place where peace would be
I would relish the fruits.....from my wishing tree
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
For Amy Green's contest "Three Wishes"
My bark is worn from time and life
My steady branches have withstood much strife
The life blood that raged in my youth
Its edges raw and at times uncouth
Time has polished and as steel has hardened
As I have stood watch faithfully in my garden
My saplings I have sheltered and nourished
Their tiny sprouts have grown and flourished
My work here is almost done and
I was content to stand silent in the sun
However, one day as I stood alone
Came a carpenter with hands gentle and strong
He looked past my peeling ragged bark and
Found my barely beating heart.
He has caused me to dream of my youth again
Of beauty, peace and the passion of men
I am his project to mold and to make
A challenge only he is equipped to take
I stand here now curious to see
What this craftsman can make of me.
Written January 8, 2013
The morning blues in a lily on the pond
Wake on the wrong side of the road
Penniless pockets play the vagabond game
Ride the tiger recently tamed
On a long road to nowhere, horizon's stain
All's my name sitting next to me
Lie down with graceful angels deep in the snow
Or on wet grass recently mowed
I've grown accustomed to the scent of your mane
Spelled chug-chuga-chug is my name
Oh why do flowers never bloom in the snow?
They never have a chance to grow
No, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore
The oaks and pines getting clearer
Much to a land unafraid to spread its wings
Listen to Woody Guthrie sing
Bacon sizzles in the rain and sunshine reigns
We've reached the line of no return
Of the big rock candy mountain we will sing
For the next week my phone won't ring
You always laughed at me In that funny way of yours
Standing at the door ~ looking out to see
Wondering where you are, and will you follow me
With hammer in hand ~ Into nature decked with
silver and gold
Do you possess a loving heart with stories untold
By now they know what you are made of
Reflections that come from your eyes they see
Though they walk with you in a style of their own
Shaped into the figure of a man with beauty of a woman
A tree in the forest is cut down shaped into the form of a goddess
A goddess that will take us through time and back again
Though time is an elusive thing here as we all know
Hammer in hand into nature decked with silver and gold
Time means nothing when the heart is near I am told
Does a tree feel the pains of a cut as we do , I ask you
I have struggled all my days with thoughts like these
To figure out what the true meaning really is to me
If you know can you tell me too as we walk together
With hammer in hand into nature decked with silver and gold
The concrete jungle shines and gleams
All around shiny glass beams
And amid this dusty shimmering sea
Stands a lone orange tree
The fragrant flowers silently blooms
Seeking the warmth from the sun that looms
The birds have left and stopped their calls
It is quiet, not a sound falls
The weary traveller sits beneath
Seeking the cool underneath
Touching the smooth, fragile bark
Dreaming of some sparrow or maybe a lark
Perhaps he dreams of a wasted love
Escaped like a frightened dove
Or some happy memory
That from him has become free
This gentle haven amid the fire
A place to commune and retire
And all around lovers came this vision to see
And feel the enchantment under the orange tree
Sitting under a tree, old and grey
No flowers to bloom, leaves falling down
Birds desert the nests, no one to play around
The clouds are around, they hold no charm
Gave shade to many, no one to shade us
Waiting to fall one day, are we made for each other?
Like the oak tree
Have you ever thought about?
An Oak so big and strong
With all his blessed majesty
[As nature sings her song]
His branches reach unto the sky
As he strives to touch the sun
Take a look at his great growth
Now he’s a giant one.
And yet he cannot reach the sky
Unless his roots dig far
He’ll never reach too high at all
That’s just the way things are
Take a look at a bonsai tree
Then you’ll see what I mean
Compare it with the mighty oak
And see what might have been.
It’s the same with humans too
If they strive to reach within
They’re growth will reach up very high
And a song it will begin
But if they only touch the surface
[Most humans be like this]
They’ll stay small, like the Bonzai tree
That’s just the way it is.
8 June 2014 @ 1634hrs.
The fog rolls in surrounding me,
My hand before me, I barely see.
A heaviness as moisture clings to the air,
Ghost like shadows from trees that are bare.
I walk forward I don’t want to look back,
I grab a new card from off of the stack.
I think of it like turning over a new leaf,
I take a deep breath and hope for relief.
I turn the corner there are lights shining bright.
Blue lights resonate and glow in the night.
A Christmas tree lit, entirely in blue,
Like a beacon in the fog it shines right through.
The Christmas tree lights shine much like my hope,
I try to break free with some slack in the rope.
They bring a smile and fill me with content,
As the fog thickens the lights don’t relent.
They seem to glow within the fog,
I lose my bearing as I trip on a log.
I feel like a ghost upon a canvas of white,
It all disappears within the confines of night.
I hear a bell from a church on the hill,
Its haunting sound from what was still.
It seems to call to me to just forge on.
All of a sudden the ringing is gone.
I stand in darkness just me and the fog,
Something awakens, memories it jogs.
I think of my journey and all I’ve been through,
What has been done and what’s left to do.
It hasn’t been easy though it’s not bad.
I have fond memories of great times I’ve had.
Still something’s missing as I look for the door,
I know it can’t be like it was once before.
The winds picks up, adds a chill to the air.
It awakens my senses so I really don’t care.
I stand at the threshold to the future and past.
I will simply step outside, the shadows it casts.
There’s one thing I know for sure
I’ve said it many times before
When it comes to knowing, I just don’t
I’ll never say ‘I know’ I won’t!!
No me I know nothing at all
Excepting ‘life is beautiful’!!
Some great power did make it thus
And in that power I do trust.
I see the flowers, I see the trees
I feel the breeze just flowing free
I see and hear the birds that sing
And to my heart all of this brings
A smile just like the morning sun
I’m so in love with the ‘power of one’
The truth it lives within my heart
As I proclaim it with my art.
My heart is always open wide
I sit in silence, look inside
And understand what life’s about
I have no knowledge, have no doubts
It’s written in my deepest core
The truth, I cannot tell you more
For words so clumsy, cannot say
What’s in the soul, there is no way!
I write this poem from my heart
So glad that fate gave me this art
This gift of writing truthfully
I cannot lie, I cannot be
A man who says I really know
Yet deep within my heart I glow
I have within me so much joy
And this, no power could destroy
6 October 2014.
If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
You were like a serpent
Whispering in my ear
The most extrodinary lies...
You were like the APPLE
Sweet and FORBIDDEN...
Once I BIT of your essence
My EYES were OPENED...
A myriad of colors
Assailed my senses
Like I've never known before
Left me quivering after you...
The simultaneous orgasm
Sounded like a fairy tale
Until...your cunning and craftiness
Showed me the way...
And now I know
The difference between GOOD s_x and BAD s_x...
I enjoyed your every touch
How you made my body feel alive!
But, now I have been
CAST AWAY from my GARDEN of pleasure
Cast away from YOUR LOVE and touch
Now, I must TOIL
In my own SWEAT and in the sun
Looking for a SERPENT
With the magic touch you held
Oh, to be BLIND once more!
Now, every man
Doesn't measure up
To your EVIL
Ecstasy of pleasure and SIZE
Now I am in the hot
Desert of the world
WEEPING and GNASHING
trying to find
The GRAINS of GOOD s_x
Among the WEEDS
Of lousy lovers
Dangling from the tree I can see,
Broken wind chimes that still sing.
They just hang on by a split string.
Sending a harmony of tunes to thee.
Their tones and vibrations are a bit broken for me.
I listen and I ponder for what tunes they can bring.
From the tree they will sway when they can swing.
Bits and pieces are released through the air and flee.
Caught in the wind is it’s vibrations.
Carrying signals of great magnitude.
Funneling clouds into new creations.
Bringing air into a brand new mood.
Broken wind chimes can still sing a song,
But their messages are scattered all along.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
Like a bird
Like a bird up in a treetop
This little bird I know him well
This creature it be me
I sit here with my pen in hand
And sing so crazily
With symbols shining out like gold
I give my song to thee
These words, they be my message
I sing them to the sky
One day his body will be gone
But the words will never die
They well up from my very soul
Without no help from me
I am that bird up in a tree
With his lone symphony.
And lord, I like to share it
I will whisper from the stars
And tell the world I am this bird
Send vibes out wide and far
That sing about the journey
The only one I know
As I’m sending out my story
In words that make it glow.
5 August 2013 @ 1755hrs.
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
Some nut's old shells stay
Some mistletoe still, squirrel's nest
The soul is now bare for all to see in its winter
In honor of Brian Strand
Questions for everyone
Has anybody ever sat?
In a garden filled with flowers
Have you felt the magic there?
Have you felt the power?
Have you sat there with the body still?
And the mind too, just the same?
Have you ever lost yourself?
As the mind stopped playing games
Have you seen those magic colours?
And really seen them too!
Have you felt the touch of the morning breeze?
Have you seen the way she do?
Touch those branches with her glory
Make them dance in the morning sun
As the sparkles nearly blow your mind
And you’re the holy one?
Have you ever heard the dove’s warm Coo
And that deep, deep ravens croak?
Have you seen the mulberry tree?
As she dons her summers coat?
And radiance and reverence
Are all that one can know
Have you ever sat there in the garden?
And watched the morning flow.
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
Sometimes, I really do not care
About anything at all
My mind goes kind of quiet then
My mode is kind of cool
And all I really want to do
Is sit here looking in
Forgetting all the world outside
Forgetting all the din
There’s a time to send ones energy
And circle it around
But then there comes a sacred time
When the harmony is found
Waiting there within the dark
To hold one cozily
A time to be in her soft clutch
And bask there happily.
Then when the muse has been recharged
It’s time to wander back
And let the words come pouring out
Cause just along the track
The wind, the flowers and dancing trees
Have replaced the mystery
So now the words they may flow free
With much more energy.
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘’’’’’’’’’’ ‘ ‘
Those tender wrinkling leaves pour dizzily down
auburn dressed palms of shaven- tree solemnity,
like drowsy tunes of autumn’s harp sound,
saintly foliage fluting, swooping in withered harmony.
Auburn dressed palms of shaven- tree solemnity
tangerine floats of stems fading by lamp light,
saintly foliage fluting, swooping in withered harmony
their torn skins crackle, mumble and fall from flight.
Tangerine floats of stems fading by lamp light,
brushing a wandering sky soaking in rainfall’s keep
their torn skins crackle, mumble and fall from flight
and whispers of stooped dance soothe the moon to sleep.
Brushing a wandering sky soaking in rainfall’s keep
spreading leaves’ goodbye glory for a final display,
and wafts of stooped dance soothe the moon to sleep
as full season of fall sheds life’s leaves to pray.
Spreading leaves’ goodbye glory for a final display,
like drowsy tunes of autumn’s harp sound,
as full season of fall seems to shed life’s leaves to pray
those tender wrinkling leaves pour dizzily down. ~
© rights reserved
By: nette onclaud
I do not know?
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
falling pieces of summer
sun soon disappears
c) Copyright by Christine A Kysely
(November 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)
Soft needles shapely
Perfection was overlooked
(The topic is tree)