-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 within a tree that sits, and does not speak
Owning, up to the heavens, come 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,
Patting one another on the back,
as if they were the National FFA Organization
Grazers growing superfast- 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, are 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"
~FOR CONTEST~ Dedicated to: Nathan
I am diaphanous, dappled
and dimpled in sunlight.
A lady of the lake waiting,
my spirit graced by vigor.
Smiling, romance tickles my nose.
I am giddy and dance in this oasis
of brightly colored blossoms,
veiled in the pollen of love.
Whether I will wither in the warmth
Or wilt with the weather,
I worry wildly!
For I'd rather,
Weep with wounds when wrapped into a wreath
Get wrenched (plucked) away worthlessly!
The river has run dry, its dripless bed is empty, and
Crossing the flower carpet dim and dusty, parched
Penstemon and brave little brittlebush,
Expecting an inundation, stretch in a rush -
Spreading petals and leaves which their wetted
Wilted tapestry of color weaves - but they fast
Revert to survival tactics and retract petals, in the
Yearly drought of the Sonoran summer.
The desert of Sonora, Mexico, is one of the driest in the world, making plant life there very uncertain.
PRETTY BLOSSOM BUDS
Plague of bees and bugs buzz then plug on pretty blossom buds
Supple buds' petals suffered black and bruise from bottle break
Bended bulbs bleed beads as their beauty bubbles in blink
A brave boy with bucks blurt bread and butter for the buds
Briefly, without bluff, brisk brute block the bad bees and bugs
Bygones bent the rosy pink blossom buds beam blissfully beautiful
Blue butterflies and pretty blossom buds share a merry boogie bond
Now,bold and burn below sunshine bright, the bashful bees and bugs
Promise never ever again to box and bug those pretty blossom buds
(c) Olive Eloisa
July 07, 2014
Flowers flourish flavoring the field,
Wild waifs that wave and whirl and whip
Beneath the wind's wanton waltzing ways.
Bucolic bees buzz blooms and sip
Sweet sage, sacramental savorings.
A halcyon habitat, a happy home,
For blessing birds and bees and blossoms,
Majestic, magical May meadowland, my own.
July 6, 2014