These Tree Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Tree. These are the best examples of Tree Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Thoughts of " Autumn " and her " off Spring"
Seasons change as do people...
Her name is Autumn...
She quietly puts her mark the on Season ….
Yet no one sees her there..
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air..
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she’s more than that…
No one approaches, some don’t seem to care..
So she quietly leaves ...before all the trees are bare...
She is like a tree dancing in the wind,
her love is like tree leaves that's blown
away in the dust.
My love for her is not her only trust,
she liberates her flesh for lust to enter.
I cried for her love when she is gone,
she sunk like the sun in the west
as the evening creeps in.
I am like a cloud hovering over
her face sinking in the sea.
She rises again at dawn to smile
on a fresh new day for me.
Love me no more O My darling of woe!
Your love invade my soul and then
you vanish like the wind.
Come back to me and tell me your false
your name is now written as my fading history.
I am the wind coming in the rain,
you are the sea on the shores of my destiny.
Come back my love and embrace me with a kiss,
for our love to grow for you to dance like the
tree in the wind once again.
I set off along the faint trail
it was one I had not noticed before
plunging me deep into unknown territory
stomach clenched in excitement as I strode on
Tall old Oaks, Aspens, Chestnuts and Beeches
cloaked the way ahead, I was aware of silence
rather a nervous paused silent as if holding it's breath
everything seemed to be waiting for something to happen
Deeper into the woods I went, admiring the new slightly odd
flora and fauna scattered about, beautiful flowers blooming
mushrooms two feet and more wide with red and yellow spots
sturdy enough to sit on while I took a rest
Slipping into sleep I traveled even deeper
until I came to the heart of these mysterious woods
a shout went up from elves, fairies and pixies
she is here at last, our soon to be crowned new queen
A magical glen with a throne in the middle
red carpet made from red flower petals strewn
jewels most wondrous glinting in the trees
birds so colorful that they dazzle as they fly
Clasping me by the hand the pixies lead to the throne
once I am seated, they serve me with golden nectar
tasty berries and cakes of flowers on leaves for plates
full of such excitement I gaze around the clearing
A place of tranquility and majestical splendor
little houses in the trees and small fairy lights
standing sentinel was an ancient gnarled Oak
branches waving as it moved towards me
Shaking as it drew closer and stopped before me
an elf handed it a crown that glittered with gems
turning to me it said let the crowning commence
with great ceremony he uttered the words
"Has any here just cause as to why she shouldn't be crowned?"
A deathly silence prevailed not even a murmur
Then turning to me he placed it on my head
all around were now on bended knee, heads bowed
The oak said "Now you are our ordained queen"
As a great cheer went up I startled back awake
the clearing, throne and all the little people vanished
All that was left behind was a feather of wonderful hues
and the crashing of a startled stag fleeing into the trees
contest In The Woods
You will not
For it is hate
and love that made us.
It is the great and the small
that reverberate within our bones.
It is every syn and antonym,
every opposite every known,
the many, the alone.
We are a poem.
You will never
for it is truth
and art that made us.
We are a poem.
TREE OF LIFE.
I am He that gives life to man, yet man knows me not.
I lived in the midst of man but man never appreciated my importance.
Every tree you can see around gives life; some give life to aquatics creatures; while some terrestrials.
I stands as the only Tree that man needs to resurrect
I was called the Tree of Life when your fathers were in the garden,
I created the tree of knowledge; I refused to live inside the tree until fullness of time.
Fullness of time? Yes.
Fullness of time when man shall eat me and live forever.
Other trees rely on me for provisions till date, all the trees in all ages knee down before me for adoration.
My splendors are in the works I created.
I am He that you rejected but was accepted by those that deserves life.
All the branches that are mine sons and daughters sprout from me,
I am He that gives life and nourishments to sons of men.
The waving branches of trees; reminds me of my numerous glories,
My Source intervened and man departed from mine presence
Then, man screamed, and I saw the look at his face;
I said, Oh! one day, I the Tree of Life shall come and die for you and you shall be my branches.
Thought of all kinds rushing as early streams in the mind of men,
The mind of man asked: How can you die for me and still have me as your branch?
No tree ever dies and still remain alive to produce branches.
Dies you said? Asked the Tree of Life.
Yes ! death. It is my destiny to die.
The glory of your existence is in my death.
In dispensations and ages to come, I shall be the vine and you be my branches.
The fruits of my Tree that you once denied shall you eat and speak of its power to nations.
Greater will your fame be than I when you shall know my knowledge.
I will no longer be in the garden where I was kept and guard by Angels; The heart of men shall be my abode.
All the branches whom you are, shall spread the good news,
I was written in engrafted words in tablets; So shall I in the heart of every man.
I am the Root of roots, the only Root that carry the universe and never complains.
You once had no access to me; but now, through my death you have gained access.
I came as knowledge from my Source and whosoever eats of me, have the Source of everlasting life.
You are in me and I in you. That is why I called you: Tree of Life in this era.
All the saints in me, plants me in all the gardens of the earth till my second coming.
Omojevwe Emmanuel Brown
I kept listening to beliefs:
“This is the way things are.”
“This is the way things have to be in order to…”
“You know, if you do this, you will receive that…”
“That’s just the way it is. That’s just the way I am.”
“What I really want for you is….”
“You’ll be happier if you would just….”
“If he really loved you, he would…”
“Well, if you really love him, you would feel…”
“If you do this for me, then you will get this…”
“If you don’t do this, then I will talk about it until you do.”
I not only listened, I became them.
My choices were based on the list of phrases.
I had to “do the right thing.” Or….
Or I would die?
Well I am dying today.
Not dying like my body has fallen and is breathless.
Dying like full of breath, full of grief.
Dying like; “I hate dying because I keep thinking it’s permanent and that I will always feeeeeeeeel.”
Dying like; “I think I am becoming weightless with all of this heavy gunk junk falling off of me.”
The pu-u-u-u-u-u-u-lling like picking a stubborn apple.
And the plops of rot thudding the surrounding ground.
My expanded branches open out and up
Free of knowledge that once grew on me
That looked soooo pretty
But sour and fused with poison
this tree was…
The tree must cherish the child
that rises from the seed
so long held upon the bough
her every hunger felt and flooded
her every subtle motion sensed
she falls into the soil
and emerges green
her first leaf wet
delicate as a whisper
her infant root rotten
her stem become dry
she strives to breath
for an instant suffers
cold before she can feel
the rain upon her skin
or hold the bird poised to fly
or dissolve into the blossom’s sweetness
does her mother weep
her grief dripping from the bud
withering the shoot
contaminating all color grey
all sentiment rendered brittle
crumbling as she twists
to evade agony’s embrace
or does she rather lie in silence
aching for the darkness
to devour all thought
to consume all memory of warmth
as dust descending through consciousness
until she sleeps
the emptiness within sufficient
to hold the shame in shadow
though still she senses its weight
drawing every passion into sorrow
and when to awaken
to set once more a flame to loss
and burn and cry
and sometimes smile
for the beauty
brief as dawn’s first fragile glow
yet touched for a moment
and in that moment loved
She isn’t dormant, she moves through the dark in this new phase,
as exact as a silver snowflake. Despite her voicelessness, she speaks to me.
Her swollen body is idolized in the black that she unstains; she owns the shadows.
I live for the night, it rejuvenates my scars; it’s my only pleasure.
But she soon becomes entangled in his net of branches, in his
labyrinth of wires. The moon-bruise aches in these hands that grasp
her too tightly, the constant stroking; her whole existence is fingered blackly.
I crackle with his razor touches that hook on to my skin.
Each vein sticks to her, emptying her white cup, eating her souring flesh;
to you the moon is just a stone, her presence doesn’t haunt you,
she is more than my reflection; and I feel myself becoming cold.
This struggle makes me scab but the yellow puss still leaks from me.
And I am numb with fear. She peeks through the branches like bone
in a deep cut, only she never stops bleeding. Her bleached corpse-body
aches for freedom, but she is truly caught; her ends fray and we unravel.
I wear her scabbing scars too, she is my sister after all.
This new phase is exhausting, he wants to lick my skin off.
My white body is caustic; it bites me back; I scratch and feel myself flake
beneath the nails. I touch the tree and feel its poison enter me.
You are my immunity. But I don’t think I can go on.
We are septicly whole. She is draining, pouring herself out, as animated as
the old skull with its thin layer of skin: its veins pulsating with the starved
appearance of Death. I don’t think I’m here anymore either. I am in her bone casket.
You know this crippling well; we have both lived with these deformities.
I am now in the tree with her. She is now all of my eye, we touch and
I am frosted. We are one to the wet core, that stuff that white is made from,
and we are each swallowed by his trunk, living inside his chest of ill health.
higher-the tree... !"
There are no months as beautiful as early summer months wild flowers make the headlines,
Leaning heavy on my old worn hazel wood stick walking to a wooded meadow out of breath,
Clusters of Primrose and large patches of Blue Bells chat with clumps of Spring Violets,
As I stand wheezing the wonderful smells the dampness of wood and flowers give me air.
Lesser Celandine flowers between March and May heart shaped leaves a glistening yellow,
Now feeling a little better my head lifts the top of some large trees seem so far away,
The Cuckoo flower has leaves deeply toothed with spear stems, shows off all its beauty.
The kindle under my gentle walking cracks loudly so the meadow and trees know I am here.
There is a second spring in the forest wooded meadow Snowy Mespilas with white flowers,
It reminds me of winter snow I once enjoyed these days my legs are not what they were,
The tree of heaven spreads climbing sixty feet and the Alder with soft purple catkins,
Leaning on a tree happy to be here with warm sun finding its way through high branches.
Hedgerows dress in the same vernal-looking hue and a Chipmunk darts across a small field,
The Chipmunk runs up the side of a nearby tree if he new me well he would not run away,
Thick scented heather lives on the moorlands side by side with an evergreen Bog Rosemary,
A furry little face high up on a branch is watching me in the same way I am watching him.
A Judas tree with round leaves clusters of magenta, pea like flowers greet me this day,
I wonder why it is called the Judas tree is it the one Judas hung from with silver coins,
Cornelian Cherry flowers at the end of winter, followed by richest bright orange fruits,
A Japanese Quince shows splashes of color they are so white, or salmon or very very pink.
Weigela a beautiful shrub will bell like flowers and a deep red rose brighten the woods,
Times getting on now and I am tired but standing in this beautiful meadow I feel so alive,
Doesn't matter how old or how well a person maybe that same natural beauty is seen by all,
So leaning heavily on my companion the hazel stick I walk back to my home it's a great day.