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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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A Tree

A Tree

I’m a tree lining a country road
Along with hundreds of other
Trees in the direction of a verdant
Forest—full of scenic wonder and 
Teaming with life.

All of us stand tall and firm with
Such majestic beauty and geometric
Symmetry and precision which is
Evident from the angles and curves
Of each tree and the fact we all
Practically line up in a straight line.

The simplicity and beauty we display
To the human eye disguises the actual
Complexity beneath the surface of our
Existence which could even be likened
To some form of a thought-provoking
Algebraic equation. 

We all represent the wizardry of Mother 
Nature and the divine thought of God and
Have been an integral part of this Earth
Far longer than Mankind—and do we have
Some stories that we could share with you! 

As a tree I’m nurtured daily by our Earth,
But as I take, I also give back and help to 
Bring balance to Earth’s daily Carbon 
Dioxide output in the greater scheme of
The worldwide environment.

And so, as a Tree, my life and function
As a living organism and an entity here 
On Earth is a testament to the wonder of 
Creation, and both the marvel and mystery
Of the Universe, and the omnipotence and
Divine power of God.

Gary Bateman and Ingrid Krukenberg-Bateman 
– A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(May 12, 2015) (Narrative)

*Originally written on February 15, 2015 for my new book.


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TRIMMING THE CHRISTMAS TREE WITH FAMILY HEIRLOOMS

Oh sanguine

lost hopes

and 

dreams

each ornament renews

kisses, laughter, loved ones remembered
each ornament renews
victories, struggles, from bounty to barren
each ornament renews
cradle to grave, sweet memories rush back
each ornament renews
strength to survive, with loved ones near
each ornament renews

oh sanguine

fresh hopes

and

dreams

each ornament renewed 


james marshall goff


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Mountain Solitude

*


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

And a world switches direction, ......as 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

12-25-09 johnmosesfreeman@yahoo.com


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FIG TREE, NEW YEAR'S DAY

Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.

These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its 
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.

Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out 
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling,  who knows where?  Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder, 
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps, 
as if impassioned for home.
       

      HAPPY NEW YEAR FELLOW SOUPERS!


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The Nuts fall close to the tree

In the dimmed theater, the stage is set
not for a play though, yet a performance 
one of baton, brass, notes, timpani 
the performance I have waited for has come

As the stage lights grow brighter like sunlight
the theater grows dimmer yet, almost dark
but for the brilliance of the stage lights
then out you come with French Horn in hand

Along with thirty of forty other musicians
you take the stage, you are first chair
therefore you must be at your best tonight
and I know that you will be, you've practiced

The Conductor arrives on stage and announces
Welcome to the Black Hawk County Honor Band
I am sure you will be pleased with our selections
The Conductor takes the podium, opens his arms

With baton in hand he signals instruments ready
You raise your horn along with the others
ahhh the sound is fervent with excitement 
the theater is alive with Parker in G flat

I can pick your horn from all the other instruments
you are playing the best you have ever played
you are caressing your horn like a fine jewel
and it sparkles in the light brilliance unimagined

Like your brother the writer of poetic beauty
you also have talent, musical talent like I
you now can hear a song and play it, by ear
like I you are learning the guitar, teaching yourself

The next song, Bach, such beauty to my ears
you and your fellow musicians have mastered the master
two years you have played, it sounds like many more
I film the whole concert, to preserve the moment

The concert ends with a Beethoven, in B how lovely
again you played masterfully, never missed a note
You even hit high G, and you thought you couldn't 
well done son and it's all on tape, and in my memory

Red faced you leave the atrium, you worked so hard
I hug you and tell you how proud I am of you
all you want is a drink of water, you drank and
the redness is leaving your face, well done I hug you again

I wish your Brother could have been here to see and hear
he would have been proud too, and would have hugged you
You see, talent runs in our family, Me, you and Jared
all have it, So I guess it's in the gene pool, must be for you see

The Nuts fall close to the tree !


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An Autobiography of a Banyan Tree

I am a Banyan tree,
More than hundred years old,
Near a beautiful lake I stand,
In the heart of Mother Nature.

During my life span I have seen,
Days both good and bad,
I have experienced the strong forces of nature,
Surviving them courageously.

I have grown tall and strong,
By drawing nutrients from the guardian soil,
Soaking in the moist rainwater,
Bathing in the holy sunlight.

I have made some good friends who have,
Explored my heart,
Cheered up my soul,
And brightened my days.

One of my good pals is the lake,
Who has added meaning to my life,
A kinship has developed between us,
From him I have learnt the value of stillness.

I remember you well the nightingale.
You lived in a hole made in my trunk,
Many a time you have sung your melodious lyrics to me,
Providing relief to my aching heart.

I love breezy nights the most,
With the moon shining brightly in the sky,
The divided clouds passing by the moon,
And every instrument of nature showing an aura of magic!

My branches begin to dance,
My spirit awakens,
My soul becomes alive,
On hearing the hymning influences of the wind.

The Earth is a heavenly place,
The Nature is its heart,
With its mystic charms and wonders,
Has shown me a world next to impossible!

Oh god! Thanks for granting me a blessed life,
This life I have enjoyed to the fullest,
I hope I have satisfied you,
By playing my role in this universe sincerely. :)


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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 cheer....at 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 mantel....as 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 branch...it 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


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Crazy

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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MAMA CAT AND HER GANG

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 Lighting of The Tree

In our little town all is as it should be
We gather down at the Christmas tree

Us simple folk are not too greedy
We all bring gifts to give the needy

Light the tree and sing our songs
As everyone seems to get along

Especially bright this time of year
Everyone has Christmas cheer

I love the lighting of the tree
The entire towns hospitality

How everyone shares their love
Giving thanks to the Lord above

We live what Christmas is all about
Come on over and check it out

You’ll find love flowing abundantly
The night we light our “Christmas Tree”


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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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Tree

As I wait for death amid the calm.

I see through the window all of you.

No one can see me and the hearing is dying.

Ring in the New Year and my limbs reach for the warm.

Help me make one last stand.

I love the rain and your food for thought.

I wait patient , youthful and my sap stretched.

I long for your cool breeze and like a dog I bark in warning.

And as the axe falls I shudder and am diminished.

That door slammed angrily and while I wait the rain washes me.

No longer do I feel my age, I see your reflection and your sadness.

And as I slowly die I am placed on the stretcher and  I drink my last drop.

But as I lay quivering.

You bathe and place me at the door.

I am no longer naked as you dress me.

A light blinks on and the glitter and charm works.

The clothing is your finest saved by generations and my  balls are hung. 


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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

THE BULLET TREE

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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Just a tree

The mighty sycamore stands strong
Unmoved as life moves blindly by
Inviting branches like welcoming arms
More than a tree this engaging mystery
How many limbs have come together,
The tip out of reach forever?
Leaves whispering a multitude of childlike tales
Bales, sheltered from the summer sun
Invincible yet so vulnerable
And now as I view the painted brick wall
A part of me is just a memory


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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 
persona! 

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 
soul. 

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

THE BULLET TREE

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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Among the trees

It started with a smile,
Running after this beautiful butterfly
And ended with a group of pile,
Burning its ashes in the sky.
The gravitational force of the forest,
Was like the utter submission of the soul
Giving your whole days racing after the harpist,
And forgetting all about the black hole.
The stroll was full of glee:
Harpists, butterflies and no plea.
Unexpectedly, being blinded caused disorientation
Finding yourself lost among the trees,
And your heart just full of hesitation
You came to a dead end where you flee.
Days passed like lingering years,
And you didn't have a single weapon not even spears.
It is time when you implored the Sun;
To show its light even if beneath the glum
It is time when you pleaded the moon;
To never let the dark cause any doom.
A flaw realized after the agony..
But it was said that it wasn't a tragedy.
They were just some injuries;
To teach you that life is full of miseries.
Never reproach yourself
Some trees appeared in your way
To show you that you are more than an elf.


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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,....like 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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MISTER SIBARBARA

MR. SIBARBARA

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
      little-big-fat
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

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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She Had Sunshine in Her Hair

Everywhere she went her hair sparkled. It glistened in the morning sun, the noonday sun, and at dusk too. The waves in her auburn hair were her glory. The freckles on her cheeks even stood out as a unique mark of her beauty. Her pigtails messily put together as she grabbed her rain jacket and ran out the front door only to return at the end of the day.

All day she played exploring secret hiding places in the woods behind her home, and finding delight in the smallest things like crayfish and daddy-long leg spiders who became her childhood friends. Playing in the mud and rolling down the hill at the back of her property, she imagined it covered with snow in the middle of the summer. Being outdoors was her delight. To be called in at the end of the day was the greatest disappointment. An earth angel not a house dweller.

One day while she was playing, she heard the voice of God who had been playing beside her all day long. He gently spoke to her heart in a way that only she would know that it wasn’t her imagination. He said to her, “Come on! Let’s climb that gigantic apple tree!” Up she went exploring its branches. Spindly yet strong, she could handle the highest limbs. Up, up, and away to the highest spot. Next she found the most magnificent apple of all. A Granny Smith with not a single worm hole on its surface. She took the biggest bite and was so proud of her newest accomplishment.

After that warm afternoon she began to conquer the other trees in her yard. They all had different kinds of fruit and they all had different kinds of rewards. Nevertheless, she climbed and she climbed making every tree a mental mountain to overcome. As she mastered every tree in her yard, she began to look at other trees outside of her yard. Her appetite for adventure was limitless. Her appetite for adventure was given to her as a gift from her God. Soon she will travel to Mount Everest and conquer its surface. First she has to find the right climbing gear!

(This story is a true story of my early years with my Lord).
Gwendolen Rix 
5-22-15

Psalm 127: 1-3


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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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TREE HOUSE

TREE      HOUSE


My
Idea
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.

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

NOTE

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"