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Tree Mother Poems | Mother Poems About Tree

These Tree Mother poems are examples of Mother poems about Tree. These are the best examples of Tree Mother poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse |

Slender Birch

Steel Gray skies with threatening rain and restless wind
My breath gathers as mist on the inside of the window pane
...as I watched for the school bus

A slender birch tree with spiral scars 
of flayed bark against its white skin
like curlicues of sharpened pencil shavings

Still clutching many bright yellow leaves, 
Some collecting at its base like a discarded garment
Sunlight, just a small shaft flickers bright dapples on tiny dancers
Ocherous curtains against the bruised sky

Prodigious vibrant final act
Just for me
The tree manages a sly curtsey 
in my direction, 
Sacrificing more of her fragile costume

My beautiful rosy-cheeked child kicks playfully
through the saffron sea of discarded programs
“Here are some for you Mama” he says
as he bursts into the kitchen smelling of peanut butter and early fall
There he deposits a chubby handful of my regard 
gently into my apron pocket

And into my heart's hiding place as well
Perfect poignant performance;
Beautifully done slender birch,
Most beautifully done


Details | Ballad |

Living my dream

Living my dream

I had one dream when I was young
To go to another land
In life I wasn’t satisfied
I wanted something grand
Lions, tigers. Kangaroos
And all those wild, wild beasts
Africa, South America
Or Australia at least.

Possessive Mother was my curse
How could I get away?
Every time I mentioned it
She had so much to say
And made me feel so guilty
Really cramped my style
And then one day there came along
Something to make me smile

I’d just turned my nineteenth year
When this great girl came along
She hailed from West Australia
And filled my heart with song
So we got married, had some kids
And here we are in Oz
Been here for half a century
And I came here all because

It was my fate to find this girl
She was my destiny
There’s be a whisper in the skies
That knows how things will be
It takes one’s soul, and leads it on
So growth, it might occur
And I know that west Australia
My heart, it sure does stir.

4 August 2013 @ 1440hrs.


Details | Free verse |

The Whittler

Upon his grandfather's rocking chair 
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.

His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood 
by pulling  it apart  from its protective bark 
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!

Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.

Beautiful just like the ones his gram 
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.


Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3


Details | Free verse |

The Backside of Killington Mountain

Killington Mountain, one of the largest Ski resorts in New England.
With its webbing of trails, dotted with colourful kaleidioscopic ski outfits;
racing to the Castle they call a Base Lodge.

My Cabin is atop a mountain across two valleys from Killington's backside
I can see the untamed, wild and free side of Mother Nature's: True being
Where deers have no fears, and the Bald Eagle soars Free

I once did a recue mission there, and when all were safe, I walked
Into the forrest of Nature,where mankind had never before intruded
I walked where the Deer, Bed. where the eaglets squawked for food

I saw the Black Bear awake; "Good Morning Mrs. Black Bear"she Yawned
And walked away.I heard the Evergreens giggle as melting snow ticked Pines
The Serenity,Tranquility,enveloped me in Nature's Wonder of the World.
      Inspired by Linda(PD) with her Contest: 7 Wonders of the Ancient and
                     New World. This POEM is one of my 7 Wonders.
This is Dedicated to all POETS who have written about the Autrocitys of 
Mankind to "  Nature or THE Beauty of Mother Nature in Rhyme "
                           This is not a Contest Entree


Details | Rhyme |

'Twas The Week After Christmas

'Twas the week after Chrstmas and all through the house
The children were sleeping, too tired to arouse,
When all of a sudden there appeared in the room,
Mama in her nightcap, carrying a broom.

The stockings once hanging on mantle in row,
Were picked off the floor, into storage they go.
All the glitter of Christmas, now tarnished and torn,
Must be removed from the room ere the New Year is born.

She tackled the tree, taking some care,
To remove every light, the tree was soon bare.
She packed everything, put it safely away
On a shelf in the basement 'til next Christmas Day.

The fine Christmas spirit she'd had, was now flagging.,
She must clean up the mess to keep it from sagging.
She dragged out the tree and then heaved a big sigh,
Sat down with her coffee and had a good cry.



This was modeled after Clement Clark Moore's,  'Twas TheNight Before Christmas'


Details | Rhyme |

The Little Leaf

The little leaf held tightly
to his mother tree's bark.
He started to get frightened
when the sky began to get dark.
But the mother tree comforted him,
filling his little heart with love.
"It puts the world to sleep," she said,
"and is sent from the One above."
As the love between the leaf and tree grew stronger,
the weather began to change.
The color of green seemed to fade,
and the little leaf felt strange.
"What is happening to me?"
he asked his mother tree.
"It's a natural part of life, my child," she said,
"you're becoming who you're meant to be."
The leaf turned a beautiful bright yellow,
as summer changed into fall.
He danced in the golden sunlight,
feeling a thousand feet tall.
Again, the weather started to change,
and the growing leaf asked to leave.
So the mother tree let go of her child,
but her heart wanted to grieve.
The cold wind blew this little leaf
far away from his mother tree.
As he joined the sleepy earth,
he was glad that his mother set him free.


Details | Narrative |

The Tinsel Tree

When we were growing up, as best buds,
I often wished she could see the world through my eyes

"It's a fake tree", I said the year
my mother lost her mind and decided that real trees were too much trouble!
My best friend, who lived next door
thought it was just great,....that giant, silver monstrosity!
That is..until I told her to close her eyes, and sniff.
"That's the ugliest tree I ever smelled!" she said, ...finally agreeing with me.
Her support helped to convince my mother of her error in judgment,
and that was the last tinsel tree we ever had.

That was the same year
that we noticed that Santa Claus looked a lot
like our neighbor, Mr. Hendrickson.
We had called him "Mr. Hiccupson"
until we would go into fits of giggles
watching how his belly jiggled.  

Spending all those Christmas's apart
 after her family moved away, was painful
Never again would we have special sleepovers, 
      and times like singing around that fake tree,
         and listening for Mr. Hendrickson's reindeer to land on the roof.
We had written letters for awhile, but after a few years
   we drifted apart....her living on one coast, me on the other.
But I had never forgotten that last Christmas....and the silver tinsel tree.

Out of the blue...a phone call,...a voice that time hadn't forgotten.
Suddenly, we were laughing and giggling like two little girls once again.
Sometimes, when you least expect it,
Christmas shows up early,....like a long lost friend
   and wraps you up in it's arms.
         Thank you Santa Claus.....or Mr. Hiccupson, ......wherever you are.....


Details | Ballad |

The Last Voyage

THE LAST VOYAGE

Like a straw man,
Hunted by gusts of wind
(in order to outrun death),
I am returning to the valley of my childhood;
To see the old home one last time,
To see the old walnut tree one last time,
under which my mother used to read
Mark Twain's wonderful stories to me.
Nothing is the same anymore, everyone is dead,
Apart from memories and the old walnut tree;
Its old, trembling, bare branches
are impatiently waiting
to hug me one last time.

When destiny leaves you alone in the dark;
When your mother and father leave you early,
all you have left are dreams,
Yes, my friend, life rolls along the road of dreams,
And each dream is finished soon;

Just one more time,
I'd like to touch the coarse face of the old walnut tree,
To find a long lost tear
below its tired feet.
When I started on this long voyage,
The night was bright, and our beautiful walnut tree cried,
Yes, my friend, trees can cry too;
 
Just one more time,
I'd like to touch the old walnut tree,
To cling my face against my old friend's face,
Like a beloved son,
To hear the happy voices of my mother and father;
When your memories fade, drop down to your knees
To feel how the earth loves,
So your memories can find their sacred sanctuary.
When they want to kill your memories, hoist your flag of dreams
And keep on marching your way, like a noble soldier of freedom,
Because few are the poets who are honored
To finish their voyage
In the place they were born.

©Walter William Safar
  





Details | Acrostic |

Christmas Tree Tradition

Coming together for decorating
Having fun with everyone
Rising together to put on the lights
I sure love the simple ones
Star goes on last
That is my brother's job
Making sure the star is safe
Atop the beautiful tree
Smells of fir trees fill the air

The home-made ornaments go on first
Rearranging to fit
Everything on, is an interesting task
Everyone stops, steps back, and looks at our beautiful Christmas tree


Details | Free verse |

My Mothers Doll

Weeping on the window sill.
A long pass love to give.
A doll that with stand time.
Like wear and tear on its strings inside.
The sand that flows in an hour glass.
Is a way to find a love that pass.
My mother holds it once again.
A cool person who love to give.
She gives it to my brothers daughter.
With it sitting on a spindle it can spin.
To thread it back into its former self.
It begins a new love with in.


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