Oh I am but a simple leaf
withering within the gutter
one summer of bliss
now! Just an autumn flutter.
For some; destine to fall
upon stony ground, a part
of life’s infernal gyration.
Yet for those that fall
within your reach, to live
on within your soul!
While limbs that stretch
towards the solstice, create
vivacious veins as channels of hope,
a pledge of foliation continues
to endure what spring has
furnished; autumn expires.
Yes! If we can but learn
from nature’s complex simplicity,
that life be of a cycle
from the seed we are conceived,
then let spring be my beginning
winter my exultant eve!
Let our two cultures
merge as one, the
to become the sustenance;
our transfusion the
Let us breathe the
fragrance of born again;
let each slender limb,
stout body bear our
tenaciousness, each lyrical
leaf our life’s blood.
Let us mollycoddle each
precious tear that falls from a
angry sky; dance gracefully
upon the wind, embrace
on moonless nights, bathe
in summer madness.
Let us hear the bluebell call,
the daffodil pray, the apple
blossom bear witness; the
clamour of the field mouse
the pitapat of the butterfly
the silence of lovers in love.
Let us be sanctuary to the
symbolic songstress, scuttling
squirrel, vulgar urchin;
a fortress for the warrior
a haven for the pacifist
an inspiration for the poet!
The call of springtime
we will invoke,
we will gladly choke;
“This! Obliging old oak.”
Copyright Harry J Horsman 2000
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2010
I Death Wood
My skeleton, the trembling tree,
hit by the axes of ambulances
due to the decay of disease.
My muscles languish as wilted leaves.
My organs are rotting red apples.
My soul is the searing wind, while
my thoughts tick like termites.
The ivy of MS illness wraps with
waste around my twisted trunk.
Suddenly, spiders of suicide
descend onto my branches.
They crawl across my broken bark,
crackling my rustic eyesight.
The sun, a golden unicorn, gone
into the forest of healthy laughter.
My wilted wood wanes in a cloud coma
with no moon, stars or watercolor sky.
Where are my wildflowers?
Where is my green gleam?
I wait and wish for black lighting.
II Birth Wood
My family, the fog where most
float in the underworld as veiled
ghosts along the grassy grounds.
My thirsty roots reach for them
like wild hands hungry in ebony soil.
Sometimes their memory perfumes
and pollinates my heart with prayers.
My friends are a flock of birds that
become singing bracelets upon my bark.
Their feathers grace me like silk hope.
Their beaks devour the suicide spiders
on my weak wood, and their cheerful
songs encourage me to bloom once again.
Full moon flashes as a white wizard,
wearing a cloak of competitive clouds,
while moody night smolders as his black hat.
Spirals of opal light make my bark bright.
Spirit moonbeams weave within my wood,
healing hollow shadows, and allowing me to
taste the monthly midnight milk of magic.
III Rain Wood
Spring steams with saturating rainfall,
sealing my splinters, washing away webs,
and the dirt of daily depression.
My sap slides like a slow moving sea.
My tree bends and bows in all
directions, sprouting with joy.
Jade fire erupts along my branches.
Raindrops beat like crystal hearts
upon my boughs and my blossoms.
These clear spheres of nature inspire
rebirth and germination of all life.
My apples sing as flutes, my leaves
clap hands, and my trunk plays harp.
My lover, the lone eagle, appears and flaps
his feathered wings upon my wooden nest.
Our love is best lived in traveling weather.
My limbs taste the last drops of dissipating dew
as the crocheting clouds release final rivers.
Deer court in the fermenting forest,
while golden unicorn grazes upon me.
February 7th 2008
Sponsor: A Poet Destroyer
Contest: 100 in a ROW contest--3
Copyright © Chantelle Anne Cooke | Year Posted 2015
I am somber
like November days
and my words speak
weak, as if through tired tongue
I see the trees
reaching their limbs
across the stream
as if touching
and comforting each other
from the bitter cold
that's settling in
sometimes I envy them
I want to stand naked
arch my back
reach towards hands
and feel the comfort
of more than I am allowed
and escape the bitterness
as it settles in
it doesn't seem fair
to question a day
or night that wears the same veil
as me, colorless
and silent in the breeze
as it whispers
through the trees
I want to lean my ear
and eavesdrop on them
I want to peak beneath
the skies veil and see
the colors blend
to see the rain
through colored drops
fall upon a canvas
and paint a masterpiece
I want to feel my hands
finger a pen, without tingling
from bottled up emotions
to feel my soul inside me
not as if locked outside
looking in, as if a stranger
to my own life
not be the afterthought
or an emotion beyond words
of some poet's muse
I want to know the meaning
of this emptiness
I want to understand
why the tree is as naked
as my thoughts in winter
yet dressed heavy in the summer
and most beautiful in the fall
why does beauty fall
and dance in November's wind
somber, like the day....
Copyright © Sandra Adams | Year Posted 2013
A busy road.
A tree stump.
An old man.
Everyday at eight 'o clock
He sits there, cane tapping
just watching cars go by--
I among them
Such a lonely man
I say to myself
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Same old man.
He looks up, cane twirling
and smiles at me
in that split second
I smile back
A roadside friend is gained.
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different old man.
Day after day
He waves hi--cane dancing
I wave goodbye,
no time to stop
Same busy road
Same tree stump
No old man
I screech to a halt
Ask of his absence
a piece of paper
found taped on his cane
I weep in my car
and send a prayer
to my roadside friend
Changed my world.
"Thank you lady in the blue car.
You make my day."
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2010
(The Sun is Out)
I dare to hope and dream,
Of flowers that never fade
Of splendid and exotic creatures
All living in perfect harmony.
I dream of tranquil earthly paradise,
A keen euphoric garden of Eden,
Created by my one and true Lord.
Alas that man sinned and now
The garden of Eden is closed.
So let us together embark upon a journey,
In earnest search and ardent expectation
Of peace and love and blissful pleasure.
Let us travel down a mighty river
In a small pirogue, winding its way
Along the fern lined banks
Admiring the cypress and the tall pine trees.
The river turns into a valley,
Where mighty willows weep and dip
Their lower branches in the fresh icy stream.
All around, we smell the scent of flowers,
Butterflies with gossamer wings
Flit untiringly from bloom to bloom
While insects seem to have composed
A lively concert of their own.
We hear the music of the song birds,
Especially the multicolored martin pescador,
Finches practicing their fine tunes
to serenade the attractive female mate.
We spy warblers, sparrows, and orioles
Dancing from branch to branch
Or birds of prey soaring over the ancient firs
Trying to catch some unsuspecting fish
That swims beneath the calm surface
Of a smooth and tranquil lake.
Such magic moments mesmerize our senses,
As we witness the birth of day.
We find ecstasy in Our Lord's creations.
His wondrous hand enhances nature,
Fascinates our spirit with uninhibited joy
Expanding the joyous hope for all humanity.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016
This night, this light,
the moon a balloon
that floats away hope.
Myself a tree, a willow weeping -
ripple of sighs, fountain of cries,
my tears like leaves.
Aftermath of moonlight rape:
my battered bark, my bowed boughs,
my leaves a draping shroud.
In phantasy, currents carry me
down, down to drowning depths
and all my tears are water-wept.
Five words used: Willow, Phantasy (amalgamation of phantom and fantasy), Rape, Moonlight, Aftermath
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2016
"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)
Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2011
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
Gathering a plethora,
of abandoned blossoms high and low,
a covered basket and pockets full.
Light footsteps through shady trees
releasing dainty blooms for me,
nature’s soulful aliment like a
rainbow placed strategically
for a little girl's innocent eyes.
Blooms falling into my hands
on a wooded path for one,
then scattering to the wind,
a fanciful dance, free of
pending frailty; prancing
petals take flight
before their glory fades...
How can I preserve
God’s majestic beauty,
petals adorning a late
spring breeze? The newly
green earth and trees -
watch me, watch them.
I am but one girl
to press between
pages of time or
seep into an intoxicating
potpourri. I could take
a snapshot of these
sacred scatterings but
never could a photo
fill my senses -
the sweet scents,
sounds and touch
of blooms on
a wooded path
and breezes all
around my face,
the sight of God’s
in a magical place.
If I had one wish it would be, to share
these magical moments with you.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
blackbirds in the rain
walking among the fallen leaves
under the old mango tree
with dripping leaves
bathing the grass below
blackbirds diligently lifting
the rain soaked fallen leaves
peering underneath for insects
by the drizzling rain
pausing to gulp one down
then scooting off again
searching for more
sitting under the shed
with raindrops playing their music
on the galvanised sheet roof
with a beat
within my inner being
putting me in a trance
connecting me to the rain
and the puddles on the ground
with the raindrops
gently tapping the water's surface
creating rings that collide
with one another
disrupting their individual shapes
creating a dynamic new pattern
reflecting their unity
and bubbling with energy
in the drizzling rain
O what a deep feeling
of peacefulness and serenity
with the rain
the dripping leaves
and the puddles
serenading my spirit
with the eternal song of Nature
and merging it into the
Unity Of All Things
It was raining today. There was a constant drizzle for hours. I sat in a shed attached to the house, watching the blackbirds in action in the rain, searching for their food. The constant rhythmic sound of the rain on the galvanised sheet roof of the shed and the gentle drama playing out in the backyard with the blackbirds was a spiritual experience for me connecting me with Nature and the unity of all things as mentioned in the last verse.
Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2014
As long as I can remember
I have been green and on this branch.
They tell me soon I will become tinged,
Glow bright red,
Or shine like gold.
I can hardly wait!
And soon after I shall
Embark on that journey
They have been talking about,
And I am a bit scared.
A wind will come, they say,
And rip me away,
Fling me wildly into the air,
Whirl me around in mad dance,
Toss me, smash me,
Before I crash
To the ground
All wet and ripped.
But maybe, some say,
On a quiet sunny day,
A tiny breeze, almost unnoticed,
Will gently pluck me off,
And I shall sail on the air,
Swaying to and fro,
And descend softly
Onto a rustling pile.
September 14, 2016
For contest: Leaves Talking
Sponsor: John lawless
Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2016
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of
On judgment hill from on high,
Voices do echo downwards, as the
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west,
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you,
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014
A solitary man
Makes his way up the mountain
One step at a time
The life he knows further and further behind
He wishes to be alone
Away from the busyness
Work that is never done
The need to be right
He reaches the top
Sits down crosses his legs
He looks out at the landscape
His village a small mass of thatched roofs
Smoke rises from a central fire
The lake so small it can fit into a wooden spoon
The horizon surrounds him
He feels the pebbles beneath him
Blades of grass are myopically large
He watches an ant toil
Are their lives not the same?
Summer to fall winter to spring
He witnesses it all
His beard has lengthened his mind enlarged
Secrets have been revealed
Disconnected yet part of all
Growing into the ground
Others come to the mountain top
Seeking his wisdom
They sit with him for a while
They never stay long
Each take so that they may give
The wise man transformed
Arms outstretched reaching to all the horizons
Now covered with leaves
The seasons continue to change
He sends his leaves down to the village
Beckoning them to the mountain
Not wanting to be alone
"Come sit beneath my branches
caress my bark smell my scent
know my soul."
He no longer is able to speak
All that he knows resides in the rings of his seasons
Still he offers wisdom
Put your ear to his trunk
You can still hear his heart beat
His breath whistles through the leaves
His seeds cover your woolen coat
You are a solitary man
making your way down the mountain
One step at a time
Closer and closer to your village
To the ones you love
As you walk through the village you shake your coat
Seeds fall on the fertile ground
The wise man has come home
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013
The audio version of the Poem can also be heard on my You Tube
Channel 'RavindraKK1' or by using the below given URL
While I was standing near My Autumn tree
The Sun was fading, with all its grandeur and beauty,
Somewhere far, very far away amid the Poplar trees.
I was in a state of enchanted stillness,
Beholding the gold which was showering on me,
With every gush of wind coming from the east.
The earth was wrapped in a lovely darkness,
Slowly the Sun rays slipped away from the hands of the evening, but
It embraced the night in her arms perhaps to console its forlorn heart.
I was glued with the fragrance of Autumn, while the Sun was still fading slowly,
Leaving only a yellow and radish glow in the sky.
The golden leaves of Poplar were still falling on me,
Coming to me while flying from the Poplar tree.
Suddenly the birds said adieu to me, reminding me once again the passing of time,
While I was standing near my Autumn tree.
Kanpur India 4th Sept. 2011
Poem submitted in honor of Brian Strand's contest
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2011
To feel the joy
of my transplant, caring hands
that touch my very soul,
the willing earth
where you placed me
blessed, by nature’s
the warmth of your regard
like wine transcends,
when the feeling of love
Oh to be here
yet not alone,
beneath the azure sky
needing your care, and those
rolling clouds to come on by,
to be a part of this
sculptured I am, with in
yet here in this corner
of your life,
forever let this be
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013
In the solitude of an ebbing day, there is a twilight blush along the hills
And a world switches direction, ......as if tumbling silently into eternity
Where shadows of telephone poles, along a country road,.....
seem to curl,... and follow the curve of the earth
When the shadow of a tree becomes longer,.......
than ever a tree was tall
When my own silhouette, so dark and stretched, and long,......
seems to walk between earth and heaven
To feel such harmony at days end, my arms seem longer,...almost without limit...
so that I can reach out to catch the first star upon the evening sky,....
and feel the touch of God....
For Nette's Contest: "In 24 Hours"
By Carrie Richards
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011
Silhouette of trees dressed in chiffon prints
Oaks, pines, maples tossing their hair
I trail along their rumba curve
way down to where glazed bushes nestle.
Above roasted sail of Laguna River
crossing a moat...today, foliage begins to seethe
on flamed leaves amidst summer’s embrace,
as more timber follow a float
where mauve petals kiss the air.
The bronzing of glens and wheezing of mist
reach a coaled ember of summer fire,
cluster of moments drapes veined trunk
with sniff of earthy scent, reminding me
how lush the branches swell against heat
of August ‘s coals when two pairs of arms
brush the stars with paint of reveries.
Warm the meeting of palms fondling the barks
In a dizzy sketch of romance, and then,
Like a curl of ambrosial boughs in rumba dips,
Trees hold passion’s charade, until...
Charlotte Puddifoot's Vibrant Verse 2 Contest
- new poem
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
The grandeur of a majestic mountain
standing proud against the horizon
with its snow-capped peak
enveloped in fleecy white clouds
against a clear azure blue sky
The glorious majesty of a stately sequoia
towering above the surrounding vegetation
being the largest living thing on earth
its massive trunk over thirty feet wide
with its gnarled rugged beauty
The wondrous artistry of the setting sun
edging the darkened clouds with silver linings
and painting the evening sky
in brilliant colours of the rainbow
mirrored on the ocean's surface below
The awesome power of a thunderstorm at night
with jagged bolts of lightning
that split the darkness
and light up the surroundings
with blinding dazzling intensity
The thunderous roar of a mighty waterfall
cascading down in huge torrents of liquid fury
smashing into the water below
creating mists of water droplets
that transform the sunlight into a rainbow
Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013
I kneel to pray beneath an oak tree’s leaves,
where my journey began.
Broken limbs straggle over a patchy lawn,
a neglected place full of holes never gone,
shoveled from childhood memories.
I bow at the altar of the tall oak.
Days come and go, but yesterdays
are no longer my foundation.
The oak’s trunk encompasses
a sturdiness and truth
I desire. Its roots are my roots.
Its branches are my faith, my full embrace.
I am left vulnerable in this season.
Blackbirds, falling from dark skies
perch on barest branches, cawing
in a famished frenzy. Like unheard
prayers, I hear desperation in the chilled air.
A prayer is only muffled thoughts cried
until lived out, until answered.
I am more than a sound unheard.
I’ll wait to mouth a winter prayer,
for I feel dull and bare under
autumn’s bright coat.
Lord, will you find me lying still,
silent below the flight of swirling leaves?
Am I drowned out by the blackbirds’ caws?
With the birth of a child, hope is reborn.
Every step leads me back home.
So, I carry my babes to the oak.
Through the seasons, it cradles
their innocence. The bough rises
higher than the pine trees donned
in deceitful evergreen. Nothing lasts
except a child’s dreams.
The tall oak feels like
a new beginning tonight;
I peel off my layer of
once needed fright.
With my eldest son knelt at my side,
prayers are lifted within the song
of autumn (Lord, grant me peace
and broad wings for my flight)
then after the glow of evening
sun has fallen, I hope our prayers
are an offering of love, two voices heard.
I feel illuminated under night skies,
as starlight sprinkles wonder.
I pray to remain vulnerable
so I can accept the gift of love.
I pray God chisels away the bitterness
of days gone by. I want to forgive,
fill in the holes before I die.
When my son and I pray,
we pray for peace, for family,
for the acorns that grow
into mighty oak trees.
Sometimes I forget to notice
subtle differences between
the weeping and whispering
of whirling leaves.
Sometimes I forget the difference
between a want and a need.
My child sincerely prays for his dad, brother and me;
he prays for his friend to sleep with sweet dreams,
and for the blackbirds at our feet
scavenging through autumn’s dead weeds;
then, with twinkling eyes,
he asks me for a loaf of bread.
*my first new poem in 3 months.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
[“It nourishes the spirit and feeds the imagination” ~ Ryszard Antolak]
In the desert of Abarkuh
this magnificent cedar stands,
a symbol of beauty and happiness,
liberty and justice; the triumph of life.
Was it Zoroaster or Japheth
who planted this sacred Iranian tree
which has withstood the test of time,
defying nature’s most fierce elements?
There it stands, savouring memories
of distant years, witness to the birth
and growth of modern civilization.
It bears no fruit, but it feeds the spirit
and offers shade to those who seek it.
Age takes its toll. Weary yet defiant
it clings on to stubborn faithful roots
waiting for the master to call its name
while swallows huddle in its welcoming
branches, whispering, as the sun goes down,
keeping her company right till the very end.
Period of Time ~ a 4,000 year old tree
Contest: Punctuation Personified
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015
A tree stands tall,
in the forest is blended
I sit and admire it's strength,
For each of us has had time to take heed
Time to be fruitful,
give, and time to need
The wind picks up
I hear it call in a distance
It's the path I once chose,
the one with the most resistance
Oh woe, to my life of trouble and despair indeed...
as the wind redundantly shakes the branch with one last plead
Storms come and the rain soaks into the ground
The lightning, the memories
flash all around
Like a breath, in an instant
the calm sets the atmosphere
Don't look at the storm, what was
look at what has appeared
Some of the branches are left weakly unattached
It's the part to let go,
the part of the past
The sunlight now shines on the tree,
it drinks the rain
Ready to grow, flourish and blossom;
remembering no pain
Copyright © Cindy Lu | Year Posted 2013
I have dropped my pains on pages of poems,
the ink in my pen treasures my groans,the
quill is my sword, with edges sharp enough
to sculpt the perfect picture, the quill is the
only thing you got when those devils try to
get ya, the only warmth when those men or
women forget ya, I bet ya a million bucks
and yes it sucks, but poetry is more than
just writing, its healing, remedy of feeling,
dealing with the worst of you, quenched the
thirst of you, a doctor or a nurse to you,
sometimes you get delusions and think it
gave birth to you, as it pours on its immensity
of worth on you, that's what enchanting words
One day I gave poe to a dying tree
now it has grown it looks fine to me, boy oh
boy the tree said to me, if it wasn't for your
poe in tree another day I wouldn't have seen,
but now I have STRONG roots running below
city's a million feet strong and a billion feet
long and I can stand to bear the blues jay on
my branches, with songs all day long, I wrote his
song it went like this poe in tree poe in tree gave
ETERNAL bliss to thee, oh by the way, I am
the tree saved by poe in tree poetry poetry
Copyright © Elliott Bowe THe DrUnKeN POeT | Year Posted 2012
Tree Roots and the Light
The tall Tree was Flying, its leaves high in the sky,
Trying to go beyond the flying kites, towards the light,
Its roots were trying to penetrate the soil,
Heading in the deep darkness, it kept moving without a shine.
Higher its branches touched the Crown of mirth,
Touching the lofty heights of light and the sky,
Its leaves and branches were flying and dancing,
In the joy of touching Light and those untouched, heights.
Some where, not far beyond the skies, lives dearest of our heart and soul,
I saw the Tree kept moving towards that One, it always adored,
While its beloved roots too, were silently busy in supporting,
Without which, the Tree can never even stand to touch the lofty scores.
I thought and wondered, which one contributes more,
In touching the limitless, lofty heights and the glow of the sky,
The stem, which is blessed to touch the sky, or the roots that resembles,
A true beloved without which, the stem even can not stand for a while.
The Tall tree was standing before me, unfolding its love towards the Sky,
With a high and prideful head in the sky, the tree was heading towards the glow,
Far away from its beloved roots, to feel the serene touch in the limitless sky,
Going a little closer to that Glow, which we adore and love and call Almighty.
Kanpur India 22 08 2010
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
Scarlet and golden etched,
autumn leaves reflect summer's apprehended glory
incised in deep veined images.
Released, they sigh earthward like final breaths.
Sharp pungence ripens , musty tang,
a piquant vaporous mustard milked
from forest loam's black breasts
beneath heavy kneading tread.
Sudden, determined winds attack
raping writhed skeletal remains;
stripped spring's green clad darlings.
the gray storm fiend curtains guilt
beneath pure, snow white overlay.
August 2, 2014
Vibrant Verse 2
Charlotte Puddifoot, sponsor
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
It was a tiny thing
Just a little word
Made up of little letters
That you planted in my heart
You didn’t think much of it
You patted it down
And covered it with love
It wasn’t much
Just a little word
Laced with encouragement
Dipped in love
In my heart
Watered by my tears
Warmed by the sunlight of your care
G r o w i n g
Strong and beautiful
A word tree
Bursting into bloom
Breathtakingly Beautiful Blossoms
Flowers that never shrivel
Or get blighted by the frost of criticism
In the garden of my heart
I weep tears of joy
A little word seed
My heart is fertile
My heart is rich
My tears plentiful
You’d left me
An eternal gift
Of wonder and beauty
“But," you say, “It just was a word!"
W O R D
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2014
My Friend Pine Tree
Away, quite away from my nearby Allen Forest
One day I was moving on a hill top
On a Himalayan mountain hill
I found myself standing
Before a beautiful and majestic Pine tree
The tree was tall and beautiful
The wind was blowing, its sprigs and leaves
As if, a flute blower was playing with its flute
The Pine tree was swinging and singing
Creating a melody of its own
I too got lost to watch and hear that music
And felt as if, the tree wanted to speak with me
I gently touched the tree and felt its thrills
A sensation ran through my spine and body
I found that the Pine tree was singing in joy
The breeze was full of drizzling and the hanging clouds
Were touching and embracing the hill top tree
While the sky was flashing a brilliant light
And I was charmed by that magical yellow light
Coming from a slice of the clouds, hovering on another hill
And showering on the Pine tree and on every thing all around
Every things including me was taking a bath
In the rains of that magical defusing light sublime
I again felt a sweet sensation running my spine
When a sprig of Pine tree touched my fingers
As if, it was trying to shake my hand with pleasure
To show how happy was the Pine tree
To find a friend in such a weather sublime
Overwhelm by the sensations of pleasure I felt
While standing before the Pine tree and beholding
To dance and sing with the tree in those moments
To celebrate the treasure of joy, it had given to me
And remained in an state of ecstasy till I saw
What humans have done with other Pine trees
Which I saw on the other side of the hill
The trees here were brutally cut and slain
To get the resin from the trunks of every pine tree
I saw them crying and weeping with agonies
And their was no music and joy in their thrilling
Although the wind was touching them here also
But I could not behold my friend Pine tree
In that state of agony any more.
Kanpur. India 01st December 2009
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2009
I came as an unaffected statue
Halloween depiction depicting everything
vaguely-leaving margins for misinterpretations
like hieroglyphics deciphered by illiterates
scawling crayon scratch book reports
Walk in these shoes
Feel the pavement scrape through openings worn through souls
and feel the contours of the Earth ravaging
Take the reigns of this chariot
rambling around on undiscernable tracks often
numbly picking up pieces from a patchwork jigsaw
picture possesing voids in the most beautiful places
Climb this tree and know the shaky footfall limbs
sprawl like weeping willow tendrils on my fathers branch
bare and abandoned like locusts came, fed, and fled
watch the forest flourish and realize
this tree is flawed yet resilient
rooted in the strength of adversity
Stethoscope this heart and enjoy the offbeat beat
thumping in uneven peak and valley arrythmia
loving deeply and loved shallow, coldly
berating every executioner who killed
my adoration quotient with dull unfeeling axes
Leaving tides turned, churning me to hurt
Leaving no paths passing me passively
~~passion is my blessing and curse
Copyright © Steve Voorhees | Year Posted 2009
What is it to be a Tree?
Do trees ever mind being so close ...so intertwined ?
Do they ever long for space as I do?
Do they prefer to be so meshed…branches touching branches
all the time or do they like me long
Do their branches reach for another’s touch?
….................stretching to find it?
Do they cling and pine when isolated …as we do sometimes?
When a tree falls does another one grieve?
Do they sometimes wish to be free?
To be as free
as he does....... from me?
Does life always include such serious stuff?
Or do trees simply shift in the breezes
of superfluous fluff?
Do they ever
What on earth is it like ....to be?
to be a standing…a standing only ...are they lonely?
What is it?
to be a tree?
Copyright © Ingrid Showalter Swift | Year Posted 2014
"the willows dip
Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink." William Cowper
To a Weeping Willow
The graceful, sweeping green
I remember seeing it,
my first weeping willow
graceful trails of leaves
bending to touch its own reflection
Growing on a creek bank thick with grasses
I lay there in the soft tufts,
dreaming, staring up at clouds
watching the zig-zag flitters
of a butterfly.
Now days never seem so long
Wherever its pure tapestry reigns
in fragrant gardens, wherever
they take root; on creek-beds
sometimes by a charming bridge.
Weeping Willows have become for me
symbols of long peaceful days
I stop to gaze at them in gardens,
in paintings, in books that picture them
my hand lingers on the page
Beside a lacquered pond they still
touch their own reflections
with long, whispering trails
Once, in a dream, I saw one
with pallid catkins,
on a lonely promontory
beside a forgotten grave-
an echo of grieving.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013
The birdfeeder hung on a narrow limb,
away from deck rails, discouraging squirrels.
No problem for the little robber
who raided the feeder day by day.
Repeatedly, he climbed onto a tender branch,
inching forward until it bent, riding it down.
Each trip, he leaned off and dropped freestyle,
disappearing inside with only a furry tail visible.
He emerged with both cheeks bulging ,
and sunflower seeds scattering below.
On a continuous march of palm-less thievery,
the brassy chipmunk mouthed his loot home,
adding to his cache.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014