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Narrative Tree Poems | Narrative Poems About Tree

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

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Details | Narrative | |

Mountain Solitude


In solitude of the edge of day, there is a crimson blush along the hills

And a world switches direction, if to tumble into eternity

Where shadows of the mountains, high, hover silently, over asphalt roads,.....
     bend and curl, and morph their shapes... to follow curves of earth

When the shadow of a lonely pine becomes longer,.......
                                        than ever the tree was tall

When my own silhouette, so dark and stretched, and long,......
                                        seems to walk between earth and sky

In utter harmony at end of day,  my arms seem longer,...
               long enough,... to reach the evening star

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"Evil Twin"

"Spiritual Narrative"

After life began,  appeared “Evil Twin” mind’s obvious sin
‘Evil’  naught of nothing, using the power of love’s “something”
Giving rise to evil self, far to left, image of self
Love created, but mind deviated, it’s love abated

Love’s logic created Soul, but I am so bold, left heart’s gold
Lost in a wilderness mind, became the Soul of evil twin
Lost in it’s philosophies, mind’s logic of complexities
Has philosophically debated, Love that created

Saying, ‘how can this Love be the reality of me
I shall exalt above, this creation of heaven’s Love’
But crucifixion of mind regains Love’s self in time
As the mind is refined, Soul is re-aligned, with Love’s vine

Man’s discoveries, pieces of the recoveries, of true self
As pieces of the mind crucified, must learn to abide
From Love light’s truth  cannot hide, reality has not lied
Being one with reality, God true technicality
Evil self is naught, except, in a mind of worldly thoughts
Live of your mind if your will, create life’s bitter pill
Your bitter pill will not spill, into Sacred Heart’s will
This proverb is proverbial,  `Tis non swerve able

Within one’s love, one must abide, for on death’s cross it was tried
Also mind must abide, for on the cross was proven it lied
Death and life was set before, human mind to explore
To show evil twin, death’s sin, just no way for death to win

Make a tree good or make a tree evil, for is by man’s choice
Lie on God if your will,   lie `Tis your own bitter pill’
`Tis by your own choice, by your own voice, `Good or Evil’
Death failed, life’s tree stands still, on yonder hill, alive and well


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The day they fell

The day they fell

He stands before the great woods
Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines
They roar and bark, trying to break his wall
But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams

The tress stand tall, lush and green
Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom
Animals frolic in their wonderland 
Is the forest really meeting it's doom?

He stands before the great woods
Protecting everything it confides
Many plants and animals are within
Away from the human eye they hide

Even if you have never seen them
Just take a step inside
The feeling of life the smell of grass
Do u really want them all to die?

The machines don't care 
Around the forest they continue to surround 
They have never seen the wind 
And never heard the sounds 
They never felt the wind against their faces
Never heard the rustling of leaves
Never seen the life in the forest
Never understood that it brings relief

Fire shoots up as the forest screams 
Roars and crackles follow too
Animals run, plants sink to the floor 
As the machine consumes the forests full

The trees spend decades growing up
The animals spend years moving in
But it only takes seconds to burn it down
To burn the forest into the size of a pin

What has the forest done he wonders 
As He stands in front of the orange blaze
To deserve this kind of torturous pain
With Heat and sorrow right in his face

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The Saddest Christmas I Remember

Love is a season
And holidays mark the seasons, like signs in the road
Reflecting the bumps in our journey, but showing us a way back home...

Sixteen, in pajamas, watching the rain pelt down
It was long past midnight, Christmas eve
Twinkling lights on one house across the road, stared back at me
It was if they were trying to fill our void with color
The block was filled with a hundred black windows
And the blackness somehow seemed more appropriate  
There was no Christmas tree in our house this year
I suppose Dad felt it was too soon, or perhaps just the effort to get through each day
                                                                            had taken all the strength he had...
We had stayed up and watched a Christmas program together...
It was Perry Como, I think....somehow I remember how he sang "Ava Maria"...

My brother had come home from the Air Force earlier that week
He had helped bring us a bit of least for awhile...
but he had been called back to duty, and I missed him terribly...

The house was silent after Dad had gone to bed
I wasn't sleepy....and it was lonely looking out at the cold night
It seemed the whole world was sleeping, 
                                 getting ready for the sun to shine on Christmas morning...

I started to head for bed, but noticed a light had been left on in the front coat closet
I opened the door, and looking up, to pull the chain, I noticed the box...
   The little box that kept the sugar cube house
It was one that Mom and I had made together when I was 8 years old... 
         Little sugar cubes stacked into walls and a roof, glued together with red frosting.
We had copied one out of her Ladies' Home Journal....surrounding it with little trees, and 
people skating on a mirror for a pond, things we had found at the 5 and 10 cent store
Carefully packed away last year, on Mom's last Christmas....

Throughout the night, I sat in the dimness of the house, laying out the sugary scene on the 
fireplace Mom would have done .

When the freckled morning moved into day...
I woke on the sofa...Dad sitting next to me.  He had covered me with a warm blanket.
He held me and we cried together.
After breakfast....he disappeared outside, and soon came in carrying a sorry looking branch 
from our old evergreen tree.
We decorated that bedraggled wasn't the most beautiful tree we had ever had
But it brought Christmas back to my family...

For Constance La France's contest "Your Saddest Christmas Ever"
Carrie Richards

Details | Narrative | |


My friends and I had midnight hide and seek
One had to stand by a tree and not peek
In my state of hiding great I was hard to find
My friends decided to just be unkind
They all got together and decided to hunt me down
I first hid in the river near my house and almost drown
When they walk close by me I silently move through the grass
It was very hard to see, but I crawled a long time and almost ran out of gas
Then I heard one say that they were going up and wait by the tree
I had an idea that made a way to make them see
A shadow that ran in the distance thinking that would be
I had my horse pull a little manikin to make them think it was me
My friends took their flashlight and shined it toward it
I thought I had them but one thing was clear they did not fall for it not a bit
They all laugh and started to call out my name
They all asked how the heck did you have time to pull that trick that was so lame
I did not answer so they kept on looking for me, but I was so quick 
Some of my friends started to get really mad and tick
I was a master of doing weird things they all knew what I can do
The night was still young and the grass was collecting dew
I decided to make a distraction once again
To think of it, it would probably make the night end
My friends finally surrounded my tree house
I was quiet, so quiet, more than a mouse
I had some rope in the tree house to make my escape
To distract them I made a loud noise like an ape
The tree that my tree house was in was at least forty feet up
I had some stash in my tree house a drink or two in a cup
My final hour is about to end I did not want my friends to catch me till I got to the tree
I took the rope and tide it on a branch and pushed off and that was the key
I landed on the garage roof and sneaked my way to the tree
My friends knew me to well that they plan things before I could see
They had a fish net ready for me to step into
I thought that was kinda wise and some what like pew
The few feet by the tree there was two of my friends that was ready
Up in the tree they both jumped down and pulled me up in the net fast and steady
They thought they had won, the person had to tag me before I touch tree
She ended up having to get something to stand on to reach me
I swung my weight back and forth till I ended up touching and the game ended
My friends and I were so full of surprises and that is what the game handed

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My son and his family drove down from the big city,
out to the countryside with open fields and steams.
They brought their standard golden poodle along, 
a curly-haired fellow, name of Timmy.
Timmy had never seen a cat;
not even a mole or a furry rat.
Visiting country kin, he was checking things out.

Everything went fine that very first day.
Cats went about paying him no mind.
He walked about just passing time.
On that second day there was a big mistake.
Being a city dog with more worldy ways,
to add pleasure to his hum-drum days,
he thought it time to befriend these country kin.
The cats had never seen a dog this small,
only those on stilts, big, long and tall, 
like Pyrenees, big wide mouths and teeth to match.
With barking big dogs on the scene,
up a tree they squirreled, never to be seen.
But this golden-haired fellow, with city clout--
they’d give him benefit of instinctive doubt.

Mama cat was even so bold 
to sniff this city slicker right on the nose.
Sizing him up all the while, a friendly rat, she surmised,
a might bigger than some she had seen,
playing cat and mouse, yet acting so coy;  
that is, until that overgrown golden-haired rat  
walked up to Mama’s black baby boy.

Mama’s two other sons, another black and a blue,
began to gather nearer this city dweller, too.
Timmy politely extended his nose.
black son cat extended his razor-sharp claws,
with a bristled tail and fierce hissing jaws. 
Timmy let out with a painful yelp,
as Mama cat called all boys in for help.

Cats surrounded and gave chase to the dog,
life-fearing circles around the cedar tree he’d log;
four hissing cats hot on his tail,
poor Timmy yelping in a desperate wail.
The master of Timmy gave rescue,  
but Mama cat and her three grown sons,
strutting in pride, putting a dog on the run. 

Written by:  Carolyn Henderson
For Constance LaFrance's Cat Poem Contest
Won 9th Place

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A little girl and her plastic bag

Yesterday while on my way to a supermarket I saw a little girl of perhaps five leaning at
a tree close to the road and watching a blue plastic bag which was drifting in the wind.
She looked very sad with her light blue eyes and her blond hair streamed out behind her.
The bag was lifted by a strong blast and I ran after it, crossing the road. A car came and
stopped, waiting for me to cross the road. A younger man on the other side of the road saw
that I wanted to catch the bag and he was also running after it, but the wind drifted the
bag far over the lawn up hills. After some unsuccessful attempts to get hold of the bag he
finally could grab it. I went to him and he gave me the bag and smiled. I then told him
that a little girl was sad about losing that bag. He wished me a nice weekend and I
returned to that little girl still standing near the tree but this time smiling. She shyly
whispered "Thank you", took the bag and ran to her little playmates waiting for her
anxiously in the background. 

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The Fog Rolls in

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.

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The Trees Cry

A tree stood silent, motionless and still,
Enhancing the beauty on top of this hill.
Timber is heard as the axes fly,
I thought that I heard this tree cry.

It wasn’t hurting anything, just soaking up sun.
That was the day the developer was to come.
They tied little ribbons on the ones to go.
The trees start to shake as the wind blows.

One by one all the mighty trees fall,
Crashing to the ground across a stone wall.
They say this is progress and it must be.
Did anyone stop to ask the tree?

Years go by and some new trees grow.
I wonder to myself will these have to go?
I look up and watch the leaves dance in the air,
A green canopy under a sky that is fair.

It’s a cycle of life but I still wonder,
Is there any sense to all this plunder?
The tree I once knew now has to die,
I drift to the day I heard the tree cry.

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Small World

Seven hundred and sixty two feet from corner to corner.  From the huge old elm tree in Dr. Rooney's front yard on one end, to the lamppost that sat outside my bedroom window on the other.  That's how long the street that I grew up on is.

So who cares?  Good question.  It really is irrelevant isn't it?  Well maybe.  At least it was until one day when I went back and visited the old neighborhood after an absence of many years.  That's when I realized how much shorter it had gotten while I was away.  Time was when I would walk up to Washington Street on the opposite end from where I lived and look back, and it was a very long way.  If I ran from end to end, I would be huffing and puffing by the time I collapsed on my front porch.  

Sitting catty corner across the street from where I lived was the Lincoln Elementary School, surrounded by fields that ran uninterrupted the length of the street.  Only the Noonan's house broke the symmetry, sitting there in solitary defiance halfway down the street.  I never did know why it was there, but suspect it had something to do with the Noonan's getting there first.  

Today the school is a nursing home, but everything else is still as it was, except of course, the field too has grown smaller, and the Noonan house isn't at all as large as it used to be.   

I had a paper route back then.  It encompassed several blocks of my neighborhood, with my dad being the last one to get his paper.  It took most of the afternoon to deliver my route, given the distance and all.  I wish it had been as small then as it seems to be today. 

Anyway, that was a long time ago.  I left for the Air Force right after high school.  I remember waiting for the bus next to that old elm tree in Dr Rooney's yard.  My folks moved to another part of town shortly after that, so I never did go back.  Occasions to visit the town at all were few over the years.  It was my dads funeral that finally brought me back for a few days. 

Funny how the world keeps shrinking.  Once distant destinations no longer are.   California seems to be a lot closer to Boston then it once was, and when did Canada become just a few hours north of here.   I guess maybe I shouldn't be surprised after all that my street ended up being only seven hundred and sixty two feet from corner to corner. Small world, isn't it?

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THE BULLET TREE - from A Neighborhood Child


No one knows how long the bullet has been lodged in the big    old maple tree
Mr. Ailey claims he knows    but    Mr. Ailey is an old    old man
No one    till Teddy    so far as we know    ever tried to dig it out
Mr. Ailey says the growth    at last    will push it out
Ailey says    “The shot was fired at trailin’ injun’ horsemen”
He rubs the wrinkles down off his face    and says
“It was a Wells and Fargo stage    a rollin’ down what now appears yer Downin’ Street
That there tree was jist a sturdy pole when ‘Ugly Ben”    a sittin’ shot-gun fired a round
At them    them injuns”    Then old Ailey clucks his teeth
The bullet tree is just down the terrace from the deaf lady’s house
It stands on the dear lady’s property  (Mrs. Troutman)
“That there house ya see”   Ailey’s pointing with one crooked finger
“That there house useta be nuthin’ but prairie dog territory”   He coughs    spits a string
“I come huntin’ buffalo afore even that there tree was more’n a shootin’ twig
Ta git back ta Ben    Now    Ben come back one day ta see ifn he could find a shell or two
When he come upon the bullet lodged in tha tree
So he drove it in and pushed the empty shell casing in in back of it
Thet there bullet    Ya see?    Goes tat ha very heart o’ thet there tree”
Even at our age we didn’t believe half of what the old man said

Teddy tried to pry the bullet out one day
But the deaf woman crackled threats from her porch
Her voice    we thought    what a porcupine might sound like
Anyway    the deaf woman’s cackle was a bad omen    we thought

The bullet tree    at last    became a challenge
To dart    after careful observation    then
To touch the dented    weathered    circled end
Without arousing Mrs. Troutman 

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Hanging Tree

There is an ancient oak, outside some hallowed ground:
The hanging tree, once struck by lightning bolts, seems dead -
Its trunk is hollowed out, yet leaves can still be found,
Just like a corpse with hair that’s growing on its head.

I have a tale to tell - it’s from my long gone youth,
And that decrepit tree was looking strong and stout.
It sounds a silly tale - I swear it is the truth -
Though in my younger days, at times, I had my doubt.

Once, in my courting days, I walked home in a storm,
And heard the village clock, that chimed the midnight hour.
As lightning forked, I longed to be home, dry and warm.
I wasn’t drunk nor had my faculties turned sour,
But in a flash, I saw a figure in that tree -
Distorted, hideous, a hanged man’s purple face -
And yet more lightning showed it crystal clear to me.
As thunder boomed, I ran as if to win a race.

Another flash of light and I was not alone:
The hanging man stood there, thick rope around his neck.
I shivered, swore and shook, afraid, chilled to the bone,
And recognised the man: the killer Nathan Beck -
I’d seen him hanged to death, a year ago that day.
He said, ‘I swore revenge, I knew I could come back.
‘I’ll get my vengeance now, and you will have to pay.’
He put the noose around my neck, the rope still slack.

The noose was getting tight, he dragged me to the tree,
Attempts to fight no good, as though I were a child -
I cursed and kicked and punched, while struggling to get free.
I fought hard for my life, the thunder ever wild.
My life flashed by my eyes, a man about to die:
I thought of family and of my sweetheart June.
And sturdy young man that I was, began to cry.
(I nearly fainted like a maiden in a swoon).

In blinding flashing light, I found the Devil near.
He smiled and looking proud, he beckoned Beck to him,
And Nathan Beck was gone - I won’t forget that leer.
I must have passed out then, my memories are dim.

I came round in a daze, beneath the burnt out tree,
The noose was gone. It was a cloudless dawn that day.
I saw two farmhands grin. They shook their heads at me.
‘Too much to drink last night,’ I heard one laugh and say.

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The Devil Advocate

This poem is not about what is written, but what is not written. Never is this subject about 
which I relate ever touched upon. “The dual persona of the human being." Yet it is a real 
struggle each of us deal with every day, am I the true and good vessel as love intended or the 
devil’s advocate! The human species will never reach full potential until it makes a decision to 
be the concern that humanity was created to be,  for love is the right player of life. The mind 
has no real power of itself. What then is the advantage in choosing to be temporary, illusionary 

Which personality are we viewing when we look at the face or group of a person. Is it the 
mind’s scheme for control of the character that was created to be in the image of love!  Is it 
the correct identity of man’s reflection, which was created to be love in action! Most likely, at 
least part of the time, the image is that illusionary figure of the derivative mind, and it is trick for 
control. The human mind can be an hatred of life’s purpose, by the impression it creates by it 
own imagination. We can be the love perception of life itself, in the power thereof, pending the 
human choice. 

That choice is the critical decision that each of us must do every day, regarding every situation 
in life that we face. Humanity is created in Love's face, not devil’s advocate! 

The image that Constance has provided for this competition has sparked an innovation within 
me to write about this all important issue. 

As lovely as the young lady is in the model that has been provided, she could be only an 
illusionary front of her mind…as fruitless as the tree behind her appears to be. Two trees were 
presented to the human being by precept life, in the time that they were created. One was the 
tree of life, so called for it was to be love in action as life. The other was a tree of death. So 
called, for it was the negative possibility of human mind in it’s capability of serpent imagination. 
The human derivative reason was only meant to be the servant of life, not the human being’s 

The mind, for fear of losing control, will hinder your true identity from astounding feats made 
possible by your love’s power. Think about it for it is the fact. This fact, most of humanity 
recognizes as God. 

For and in Honor of Constance La France And Contest: "The Unwritten" 
Written by John Moses Freeman 7/1/2011

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THE BULLET TREE - from A Neighborhood Child


No one knows how long the bullet has been lodged in the big    old maple tree
Mr. Ailey claims he knows    but    Mr. Ailey is an old    old man
No one    till Teddy    so far as we know    ever tried to dig it out
Mr. Ailey says the growth    at last    will push it out
Ailey says    “The shot was fired at trailin’ injun’ horsemen”
He rubs the wrinkles down off his face    and says
“It was a Wells and Fargo stage    a rollin’ down what now appears yer Downin’ Street
That there tree was jist a sturdy pole when ‘Ugly Ben”    a sittin’ shot-gun fired a round
At them    them injuns”    Then old Ailey clucks his teeth
The bullet tree is just down the terrace from the deaf lady’s house
It stands on the dear lady’s property  (Mrs. Troutman)
“That there house ya see”   Ailey’s pointing with one crooked finger
“That there house useta be nuthin’ but prairie dog territory”   He coughs    spits a string
“I come huntin’ buffalo afore even that there tree was more’n a shootin’ twig
Ta git back ta Ben    Now    Ben come back one day ta see ifn he could find a shell or two
When he come upon the bullet lodged in tha tree
So he drove it in and pushed the empty shell casing in in back of it
Thet there bullet    Ya see?    Goes tat ha very heart o’ thet there tree”
Even at our age we didn’t believe half of what the old man said

Teddy tried to pry the bullet out one day
But the deaf woman crackled threats from her porch
Her voice    we thought    what a porcupine might sound like
Anyway    the deaf woman’s cackle was a bad omen    we thought

The bullet tree    at last    became a challenge
To dart    after careful observation    then
To touch the dented    weathered    circled end
Without arousing Mrs. Troutman 

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The Tinsel Tree

"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, a long lost friend
   and wraps you up in it's arms.
         Thank you Santa Claus.....or Mr. Hiccupson, ......wherever you are.....

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The Old Oak Tree

The tangible sunrays cast their lights to haze,
withering the moments in a day,
but the moon foreshadows its hue of white
across the darkness of the night.
In the wooden trails under the moonlit hour,
that old oak tree stood as a tower,
bowing its head filled leaves to the ground,
as though praying or royalty to be found.
And the bark is elder, no longer a rich thick brown,
but grayness is its coat who always frowns.
The brittle roots and twigs overlap each other, 
The trunk was sturdy as a man but more care giving like mother.
And the nature breath's chills the wood,
from a solemn warmth to goosebumps who intrudes.

The old Oak tree whimpers and woos from the leaves
rustling a whisper to the boy who weaves
his arms, and swings himself amongst the highest point.
He sits to watch the beautiful join
between the passage of the moon and the sun.
The sky is stolen from the moon; the night be done.
And the Old Oak tree, once again, overviews the day
of the tangible tangerine sunrays cast their lights out of haze.
And the little boy still sits until the sprinkle of rain and drizzles roam.
He climbed down the gray old trunk and heads back home.

And the old oak tree smiles, never so gleefully before.
And wishes for the little boy to appreciate him once more.


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Mr. Sibarbara was 30s fat    really fat!    A big, fat, 
     good natured Italian senior
He got fat    stayed fat    on 3-day-old pastry most 
     people bought at a way-downtown market 
     under the viaduct 
He stayed fat on cheap hamburger sauce over noodles
     or navy beans and 3-day-old bread
Mrs. Sibarbara always had a huge pot of navy beans
     brewing on the stove
Oh, yes!    flatulence flat was their apartment   one of
     those, afterthought, cubicles on the main floor    
      around the corner from the alley    in this HUGE
      apartment house – “The Tuxedo”
He had this old pea-green Ford he parked in our dirt
      back yard    under an apple tree -  the tree actually
      had an apple or two on it some years
Mr. Sibarbara liked me
I was a little-big-fat kid
That’s probably why he liked me    because I was
On Wednesdays we’d get into the old pea-green
      Ford and journey way-downtown under the
      viaduct    next to the railroad tracks
‘Rainbow’ trucks were there unloading old bread
      and old pastry
Oh, how old Sibarbara would smile and laugh, hold
     his gut
“Let’s load up!” He’d puff
Then home
On the way we both filled up
I imagine his dinner was 3-day-old bread
      and beans    with 3-day-old pastry for desert
I’ll never forget his happy-to-be-alive, lip-smacking 
     smile and laugh
We moved when I was 12 years old
I wonder what ever happened to Mr. Sibarbara?
For sure he didn’t starve
But, oh, what veins he must have had!

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The tall Cypress trees
that my daddy had planted
years before i was begotten
to me were the tallest in the land

towering in majesty and magnificent
and a glint of blue where the back was..
was peeling off - so tall they were lovely trees
rising majestically to the very heavens themselves

so angry was i at my daddy
when he decided to harvest them for timber
my lovely cypress trees - for to me they were very..
were the very embodiment of strength and invincibility

lewis k nyaga

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The once mighty tree

There once was a tree that was tall and beautiful. It was the talk of the forest. Its 
branches were sturdy, its leaves full, its trunk straight. Kids came from all around to climb 
its height and swing from its branches. On hot days it gave them shade from the 
scorching sun, and when it rained it bore the heaviest drops without thought. One day a 
kid broke off a branch and used it to scratch his back. The tree trembled a little. The next 
day another kid sawed off four strong limbs. He needed to make a chair. The tree shook. 
The third day another kid came and stripped the tree bare, he needed to patch his leaking 
roof. The tree stood naked and alone. No one came around anymore. It had given 
pleasure when they needed it, it had given a seat in its lofty heights, it had been a shelter 
in the storms, and now it had nothing left to give. One day a stranger walked by. He 
looked up at this skeleton of a tree. He didn’t say anything just looked for a long time, 
then took out a piece of paper and sketched something. Then the stranger dug a moat 
around the trunk and filled it with water. He did this day after day. And he would lean 
against the trunk, now scarred and talk about how it was the most beautiful tree in 
forest. And the tree couldn’t help but wonder if he was blind. At first nothing happened. 
But as time passed small buds sprang forth. They flowered and bloomed. Leaves popped 
out the very trunk seemed to straighten itself as if the moon was within its grasp. The 
stranger looked at the tree, there were tears in his eyes as he pulled out a crumpled 
drawing from his pocket and held it up, it looked exactly like the tree looked now. But the 
tree now could see over the tops of the other trees. It saw a house with a small branch 
propping open a door. It saw a wooden chair sitting in the yard, neglected, with one leg 
broken clean off. It saw where the roof had been patched. The tree shivered and shook. 
Leaves cascaded from its newly formed branches raining down on the stranger, who 
looked up bewildered. But all the tree saw were four wooden legs, it saw a patched roof, it 
remembered. The branches started to sag, the bark peeled off like dead skin and in a loud 
sickening crash the tree started to fall. The man turned to brace the tree with all his 
strength. But he was not a whole man for one of his legs was made of wood, it splintered 
and cracked under the strain. And in the house not far away a man looked up in time to 
glimpse a mighty tree crumble to the ground.

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A simple
Tree house
Kids wanted it so
I  built it,  hand-made
Stone-base to avoid wet-rot
Lower level a stage for kids’ shows
Uprights were his football  goal-posts
Imagined as the gun-deck of a pirate ship 
Upper level  the  main deck for crew of pirates
Or  an  airy sleeping-house for nights camping out
Final top level for look-out  over the sea, two miles away
Always adding new features:  ladder up, rope fence, trapdoor
With  hand-saw and hammer, no power tools. Becoming complicated
Always unfinished, summerwork only,  too busy at the office  to finish it
It became too  elaborate, too  complex:  tree house to end all tree houses
In five years the tree grew  bigger: original planks and branches out of alignment
Growing kids’ interests and needs fell out of alignment, waiting too long for the house
Kids were small when I started the house. When we finished it, it was too late for them.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


Based on an actual tree-house  I built for my   three kids in the back garden of the house.

.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Written by Sydney Peck for nette onclaud's  Contest  "ANYTHING HANDMADE"

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Tallow Tree

One of your relatives sprouted behind my house
Cut it down twice...fat chance
Ended up damaging my half paid for home
I wanted revenge, so I resorted to torture
Dug up and hacked roots; soaked oil and poison
No dice...stripped off all the bark at the base
Well THAT did the trick...dead inside of two months
Fell flat on its ass (I helped a little)
Sucker almost got me on the way down
Guess it was taking one last parting shot...

Then I moved back up to my native state,
out in the woods with no other house in sight
Found you in a perfect spot in the back yard
Basically no trunk...just huge thick branches,
grown out at about forty-five degrees;
perfect for great-grand's to scramble up and sit
("Look paw-paw, look at me!"..."Be careful!" I fume)
In the spring you bloom green-yellow flowers
In summer, assorted butterflies and bees 
It's September're growing shiny berries
which will mature, then the walls will peel away
and there you are... tiny white Tallow seeds
used in Asia to make candles and soap
and oil; nature-made vegetable oil
Your leaves are used as herbal medicine;
topical ointment to treat skin ailments
Your American nickname is "Popcorn Tree"
And I'm not going to lay one finger on you...

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Dedicated to my dear friend Sarah (with an H) for pointing out God's creation of nature in Isaiah 55:12
There are many trees in my yard Beautifully made by our creator Those admired most have names All of the others I call Spectators Each one seems uniquely styled Being the tree it was meant to be Let me introduce you to the ones That seem the most favorite to me In the front begins with Laverne A beautiful, long haired, palm tree The queen of the trees in the yard Wearing green bling for all to see I guess one day, one of the birds That were nesting there one morn Decided to take a seedling to plant Maybe that’s how Shirley was born Then there’s Ruby the rubber tree That always comes back each year Not really sure how that can happen By her stands Buckley, a fake deer In the back I’ll take you to David A big pine tree that the storm injured Still tall enough to see from the front One day I plan to have him sculptured Goliath is the other gigantical pine tree Being like a timer for me when I swim Bringing the biggest shade to the pool Blocking the sun as it heads towards him Angelo, a woodpecker, lives in a dead tree That tree has been named Angelo’s Condo I think the reason he took residence there Was to sculpture the David tree, I hope so The Katy bunch is a pointy tropical group That grow so crazy wild next to my pond Even though we battle at each trimming With each one of them I remain quite fond The Thibodeaux tree stands in the back A little grapefruit tree to one day bloom A day will come when he grows very big I am sure there should be enough room All of the rest of the trees are spectators Watching in hopes to be noticed one day I listen to the sounds of their distant cheer They wave as the wind makes them sway I like to admire the growth cycle of each tree Some offer nesting places for a variety of birds That brings different tunes in their happy songs With the most beautiful sounds I’ve ever heard There are the ones that seem completely confident As they begin to lose their leaves by the time of fall They seem to know it is meant to be and soon to pass As they keep their branches standing up mighty and tall I sure hope you are inspired to notice more of the trees Please remember those spectators that are looking at you Trying to get your attention to perhaps be given a name Maybe now you might even want to name a few too Florence McMillian (Flo)

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Branches of Family

Young and sprouting like a twig, Branches to come to observe when big. From roots of parent trees long ago, The families begin to grow. Siblings blossom from the branch I'm on, With cousin branches a-blooming along. Memorable times with them together Seem to end as life changes like the weather. Branches separate to a new direction, With a mate for a branch of creation. Some family removed as the Lord hath planned, From our tree to place in His hands. Over my shoulder, my children branching out, I was getting older, for sure, no doubt. A desire to keep the tree from falling apart, As branches get higher, a reunion must start. So happy inside as family branches attend, A tree's gentle glide swaying in the wind. I'll be happy knowing when I leave the tree, It'll keep growing--the Branches of Family! Florence McMillian (Flo)

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The Day After Christmas

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house, 
The toys were all broken...the kids started to grouse.
And Momma in her apron, and I in my shorts, 
Were just cleaning up after making strawberry tortes.
When out in the hall there came such a THUMP,
We both ran from the kitchen...with a hop, skip, and jump.
Away to the hallway we ran like the wind,
Only to see something was wrong involving our twins.
The top of the tree and its base were askew,
And gave us the feeling...something abnormal was abrew.
When out from below there came such a yell,
My wife and I...both backward we fell.
There, on the floor, with the tree on his head,
Sat our little son screaming...the one we'd named Fred.
"Oh Mommy, Oh Daddy, Jimmy did it to me,
I was playing so nicely...when he pulled the tree down on me!"
Jimmy stood there in silence just looking at the pile,
Then his little eyes flashed...and his face broke into a smile.
We stood looking at Fred, the tree, and little Jimmy too,
Then broke into we took in the view.
We picked up the tree, you could see Fred's reddening face,
As things were put back...all in their proper place.
Jimmy ran up the stairs without be told,
"I know, I don't have to scold.
I'll go to my room into my TIME OUT place,
Just tell me for how long...So I can keep this grin on my face."

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Old Saint Nick

 In her dreams she is visited by old Saint Nick
 He is here to tell her the miraculous story of Christ
 The Star of David was the angel upon the tree of life

 Her papa was a little out of sort as he strung the Christmas lights
 Her mama was slightly tore up as she hung the cardboard reindeer just right
 Grandma was real sick and it was starting to show
 Their old "hand-me-down" house was drafty and cold

 In her dreams she is visited by old Saint Nick
 He is here to tell her the miraculous story of Christ
 The Star of David was the angel upon the tree of life

 For years they had all avoided this place
 Yet a tear stung her eye as forgiving smiles spread across their eager faces
 Christ was born upon this day for a reason
 Come as you are being the ultimate season

 In her dreams she is visited by old Saint Nick
 He is here to tell her the miraculous story of Christ
 The Star of David was the angel upon the tree of life

 She cares not for eggnog and mistle toe
 All she asks is that the love may show
 For Christ lives on in our open hearts 
 Let this day mend where we have drifted apart

 In her dreams she is visited by old Saint Nick
 He is here to tell her the miraculous story of Christ
 The Star of David was the angel upon the tree of life

 She awakes from her dream and runs to sit beside the tree
 Her eyes gleam and this is all she can see
 Old Saint Nick has spread the story of Christ
 She smiles as as Christmas light shines on the tree of life

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The Sky, The Tree and the House

A man and woman 
Lived side to side
A tree and English house
A pen is found on former’s hand
That knows no fetterings

His tales are based on happiness
A simple life with a tree
While all the while the woman sighs 
The binds of residency

She brings her ladder down to him
Slowly down the tree
To invite him into her bleak
And somehow make him stay

The scarcity of the man’s life it seems
To be her serenity

And sadly so, she is declined
By the man who bears her love
A tear then falls to the saddened house
Accentuating the depression

A drop, five drops and a shower
As the skies sang with her sadness
The sky that longed the woman’s touch
Has decided how he could love her

The hardened tree falls at the man
In solemnity he was crushed 
To which befalls the irony
Her then desire was to be gone

Two bodies felled to the silent ground
The woman and the man’s
An oak that fell at storm’s command
A crime of love it seems

Love lost, unreturned and forever gone
Longings torn from the hearts

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Glowing Delight

Asked by a husband, each year before November ends.
His wife sits waiting, to see the tree upon the hill.
Messages of waiting, upon the first night, she sends.
To the building, that displays a tree, so still.

Each year, a tree lit on an, November night
She patiently waits at first, with anticipation growing.
Looking out her window, she gazes upon one delight.
This is a sign; Christmas is near as this tree is glowing.

He tells me she is watching, upon the mark of twilight.
He says it brings joy to her heart and tears to eyes.
To see the giant tree adorned, in brilliant color of white.
Truly a scene of beauty, which floats below the skies,

This tradition, handed down, before nineteen forties.
Vividly seen for miles, marking the seasons cheer,
Tree of lights that adorn a building rooftop with ease,
We all see this view, admiring, until the New Year. 

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Under the tree in africa

Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the 
morning breeze brush our 
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little 
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.

Under the tree in Africa we relish
 the radiance of reality as we rest 
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
 listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize 
with some cold water from the serene stream.

Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows, 
shying away from the sun 
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's, 
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some 
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness 
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains 
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.

At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa, 
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm 
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes 
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are 
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.

The children chant with vibrating voices, moral 
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under 
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as 
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom 
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to 
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..

In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices 
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle, 
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends 
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through 
the leaves under the tree in Africa.

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Don't Go Near The River

Don’t go near the river a tree has fallen down
The flow is blocked and it caused a dam if you fall in you could drown
But to us children this an invitation was
A big happening in our lives we had to see the cause
Of course we would not climb down to the tree
From high upon the bank we would satisfy our curiosity

Down Milfort Avenue we all trouped 
The excitement mounting with-in our group
The boys were there first of course
Down at the roots torn from the ground with such force
You girls they shouted stay away it was their find
Just go home play with your dolls and leave our tree behind
Well did you ever hear such rot 
We will soon show that lot

Mother’s warning soon forgot down we went to the spot
Those roots from up high did not seem so tall
But now down beside them we were made to feel small
Like gaint arms they were all slimy and wet
But we girls would conquer this climb you bet 
I never was brave and from the start
My legs were shaking and in my heart
I knew I should back down and risk being the fool
But pride would not let me so I tried to act cool

The others had climbed over and to the far side had gone
Knowing I was frightened they egged me on
Up I went onto that tree trunk
Looking down to the river below my heart sunk
What would I do if I fell in I had never learned to swim
Well it happened and into water I fell for my sins
Plunged to the bottom then up I floated gasping for air 
Again the depths called the water my death would share
With bravery someone dived in to save me from my watery grave
Trailed to the bank and with the water pumped out my life was saved

A neighbor heard the commotion and running came
Then into her house to recover my legs some strength to gain
For the walk back home to face Mum my misbehavior to declare
I really was a sorry sight but I did not care
Jumper and tartan skirt soggy the red dye running down my thighs
Perhaps she would think it was blood I had better start to cry

Water filled the fur lined leather boots which slopped and weighed a ton
My dad had worked for hours to pay for them and look what had I done
So sorry I was for myself but punishment I had to accept 
My friends there with me for support they stayed and yet
When Mum’s face through that front door appeared
They drifted away the blame they feared
In I was hauled and asked to explain
Why I had ignored her orders given so plain

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The play never said
what it wanted to say...
She called it "Trees"
but wanted it about her life.
Instead, poplars were in every scene.

People praised her
and said how much the poplars mattered.
She could only scowl
and mutter
something mean.

Her poplar play was sensational,
and she spoke about it on the tele show,
but halfway through she broke down
in front of camera,
and said she hated trees.