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Prose Poetry Tree Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Tree

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Her Name was Autumn

 
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...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

We Are a Poem

http://youtu.be/p79ztWTnugE

You will not 
    seperate us.
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 
    isolate us
for it is truth
    and art that made us.
         We are a poem.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

BROKEN HEART

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
love story,
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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In The Woods

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


written 09/07/2013

contest  In The Woods


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl Named Autumn

Seasons change as do people... 

A girl named Autumn….enters quietly into the room…. 
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 the trees are bare... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

THE TREE OF LIFE

                                  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.
Written by:
Omojevwe Emmanuel Brown


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lovely Birds Life

Birds are happy pleased I swear
They are satisfied 
Homes in the trees
Early in the morn, hungry they go
At sunset, full they come
Every day is a festival
They talk birdsong
Daytime among verdure and flowers
Raindrops their showers
Sleeping on time
Healthy they are
No impression nor vigil
Marriage in a minute
No money
No mine nor yours
Just fly to get things
All things are free
The land is wide
The sky is wider
Wake up and fly! 
 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My Old Walking Stick

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Untitled 6

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.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in the Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closes my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise was from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath an oak tree listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain wets meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It travels underground meeting the other raindrops to flow as spring water.

Clear springs are feeding the runners, swelling brooks making its way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glade flowers and trees, far away faint rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflects from the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree, glistened.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Sentinel

One lone tree standing sentinel over the grassy field; patches of weeds stealing ground 
with dandelions intermingled, their bright, cheery color lessening their thievery. The 
splotched, motley colors of leather-skin disguises the barren ground where cows trod, 
making a maze of trails.
 The tree's shadow meets its restraints, as it gives refuge to all that draws near. Birds rest in 
the branches. Rabbits nibble clover. Then, with full stomach, they hop off to the thicket 
beside the fence, the fence that frames the field where one lone tree stands sentinel.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Tree of Knowledge

The Tree of
Knowledge 
So there's
electricity like
force fields around
the earth
Stemming from the
Earth's inner core
Where outside on the
grass in bare feet
Back to basics
having the Earth's
inner core recharge
you
To get into your own
inner core
To grow
Ans spread out ward
and up wards to
comfort others
To charge them back
to life
And recycle them
back into the earth
Natural compost
Getting fed into the
tree
Trees could be souls
from other times
Maybe even animals
souls
Were all equal as
one
In this game of life
It's survival of the
fitest
They majestically
get their simplistic
energy from the sun,
moon and earth
Natural elements
Humans think to hard
Full of junk
Living, breathing,
eating toxins
Trees and plants
make great peace
with their inner
self
Roots are planted
firmly into its
concrete foundation
Going nowhere in
life
But how did it get
there in that spot?
Is it satisfied
enough to stay
there?
But still it does
change each year
Gets tiring?
Some tree are so
ever inviting
Climb of perfection
Just don't break
anything please
It took years for a
branch to reach out
Just let us be
Than others are just
plain to sensitive
Just a pure defense
mechanism
Covered in thorns
Assuming its that
special that some
higher power will
want to hurt it
Thorn bushes will
run wild on you
Cant tame them
Trying to spread
what it knows of
love
Knowing that it has
all those thorns;
nothing can hurt it
Attempting to reach
out & around
Scaling up larger
trees
Just ends up hanging
back down all limp
Ground just a tad
more comfortable?
Trees are the
building block to
life; oxygen
Humans are
destroying them
Other animals work
with them
Home sweet home
Their power of
beauty
But they can't
conquer the elements
on their own
Smaller plants and
bushes
Shorter life span
but big help


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only When the Cuckoo Sings

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Diwali Tree

Magnificent lights adorn the biggest Christmas Tree in the world,

It glows with Indian colours and flair,

Passers-by stop and stare,

Surrounded by ritzy shops and blocks of ice,

Skaters showing their expert talents with all their
might,

A Diwali Tree sure to ascertain International revelrie,

brightens up New York City,

It brings glee to all around,

Its exuberance overflows and astounds,

A beautiful tree that will bring moments of the Holidays
to everyone that sees it,

Whether rich, poor, happy or sad, such a spectacular sight
makes everything seem alright.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Spring in a Glade

In a far off field are dark green blades growing and a lovely daisy nodding,
In a far off meadow a king-cup stands there, with a yellow primrose so fair,
In a far off glade there is green grass growing, there I will rest my feet,
A warm bright sun shines in the sky and a warm breeze closed my tired eyes.

The grass in the glade is sweet and long, softer better than any noble bed,
And the sweetness of the grass and the warm sun made me dream many dreams,
Then suddenly awakened by the low roar from from a waterfall from far away,
I realized it was raining and the noise is from a thousand drops on leaves.

Now standing under a tree the rain is soft and gentle, gracious and warm,
New life came into me as I stand beneath the oak listening to gentle winds,
The steady rain will wet meadows and mead's, down through cracks in the peat,
It will travel underground meeting other raindrops and flow as spring water.

Clear springs feeding the runners, swelling brooks make their way to rivers,
There are silver drops on the glades flowers and trees and far away is a rainbow,
The sun returns, the bright beams reflect off the wet grass as little prisms,
And a bine of crow's-foot entangled in the branch of an elder tree glistens. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blossom of a pear tree

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes buds red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth." 

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Green and pure

Mankind seeks dominion, and takes it all by brute force..
we took the trees, to have roads, companies and buildings all in a rush...
we mined for gold , not caring the cost..

looking back we realize we should have taken another course..
for every tree cut, another should have been planted of course! 
we didn't do that, and so the forests got sparse,the soil got coarse.. 
beautiful cities emerged, wow! who would have thought?!
 with them however, man got spoilt, 
we stopped walking, and in came the cars,those were classy, but they came with emissions and noise.

Hahaha, the ozone layer gets burned..
even light bulbs emit spurts,
 now the sun shines ,not to warm, but to scorch..
The  rains come to nourish our crops and then take our houses with flood..
Enough !

Now we must retrace our  steps, and chart a new course..
we must plant a tree for everyone we cut..
 no more indiscriminate burning let each waste/refuse be properly disbursed..
we must opt for alternative energy resource..
let us keep mother-earth as much as we can,Green , rich and  Pure.







Details | Prose Poetry | |

FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX

 FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX 
FIFTY6FABELSOFCHARLAX 
 
 
CHARLAX 
 
The Arizona Kidd 
 
PART ONE 
 
 
The Path Of The Wind 

The Arizona Kidd hung up his spurs the day the tree split into crosses from the 
lightning bolt surmising that his LORD was not well pleased with him that day 
the Sherriff made his play. The Kidd wears a Jean Vest and spurs his boots are 
always black and shiny his Hat is leather with a nickel band no feather his Indian 
friends one day took his Rodeo hat and stuck a feather in it and laughed so now 
he avoids his Indian friends. The Holsters on his web belt are reversed for his 
quick draws the one on the left is his Silver plater hanggun. The holster on the 
right has a Gold Plated thumb gun the trigger is tied back to shoot the bullits one 
by one in a quick lethal manner he is shooting at the son of man to warn them to 
be left alone at sunrise come. He used to use the silver bullits but the leaded 
ones are nicer and the cost is so much cheaper and the Golden bullits on the 
belt are costly and not cheep palaver is not his forte. Listen as this tale is 
fabeled. He was drinking whiskey the Sherriff swore he would arrest him or die 
with his boots on trying to uphold the lawman looked like he had never missed a 
meal his bald headed visage in a grimace climbing up that hill to get a look down 
on that killer's camped out near the tree was tall and filled with wormwood and 
on that fatefull day the wind made a mourning noise and came near to watch the 
Sheriffs' play with the Arizona Kidd. He could not see into the sun. This was the 
Sherriff's thinking some people call it cheating. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hangers On

The pale yellow leaves
 seem painted on the tree
 in water color,
 revealing sclerotic veins
 they spin and tremble gay
 without telling or being asked 
 hanging on while those 
 whose time has come 
 drop as doomed snow flakes
 striking the sidewalk
 with hollow thumps,
 a regular rhythm as 
 the ticking of a loud clock.
 Visibly the holocaust moves forward,
 the metamorphosis of a painting,
 the tree becomes more pitiful
 it's black nudity emerging from 
 yellow dabs in the unseen wind
 tugging at the twirling hangers-on
 and sending a dense swatch
 of the fallen scurrying
 across the street en masse
 as a hungry mob.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Just One Of Those Days Part 1

One day Homer Hawk was sitting on a gnarled fence post.  He was hungry.  He 
was tired of the usual fare, mashed rabbit, pureed gopher and scrambled 
armadillo.  He wanted something of substance, something fresh.  Maybe he was 
stewing too much but he was craving something different.  A fricassee might just 
be the answer to his problem.  He was beginning to get desperate.  He flapped 
his wings, gave a squawk and took to the air.
 
As he circled he kept a close eye out for his supper.  Behind Farmer Brown's 
house he saw Sammy Squirrel.  Sammy saw him and quickly dove under a rock 
and pulled his tail in after him.  Lucky for Sammy, Homer was not in the mood for 
squirrel.  
 
He flew on and saw Perry Prairie Dog hopping up and down on his mound and 
suddenly he disappeared down his hole.  Steven Skunk wobbled out from under 
the mulberry tree and flipped his tail up in the air as a warning to Homer.  Steven 
had no worry because Homer certainly wasn't desperate enough to attack him.
 
Marty Mouse scurried across the driveway and under the barn door.  No fear 
Marty, Homer was hungrier than one little bitty mouse.  No, not even Slinky snake 
needed to worry.  Homer wanted something different.  But what?  He flew on and 
on.
 
"What is wrong with me?" he asked.  "Why does it seem so hard to find 
something to eat tonight?"  And on he flew.
 
He saw an elk here and a deer there.  He even saw a newly squashed bunny on 
the road and still he flew on.  "Will I ever find my supper?"  he squawked.
 
Deciding he needed some professional help, he flew to the giant Oak Tree 
where Oscar Owl lived.  Oscar was just waking from his nap as Homer landed 
on the limb close by.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Only When the Cuckoo Sings

The bursting blossom of a pear tree twist and swirl with a lavishing beauty,
Promising plenty of fruit along each smooth branch and bough delivering all,
Rosebushes red buds burst into leaves with fresh dew dripping on grass,
A shy foxglove shakes in soft breeze hides her sweet face behind new leaves.

The taccamahac a name to deal with, blazes yellow across the heaths and downs
They grin as you walk down old lanes forgotten fields and old secret places,
The chestnut's pale sticky leaves glisten in deep woods with every sun beam,
And the mighty oak tree whispers to the sun, "Let us have one day's warmth."

The hedges are impatient blackthorn blossom gone now showing hints of green,
It's not winter nor summer it's natures no-mans-land mint essence in the air,
The cuckoo sits on a bare branch besides young buds once he sings it's spring
Then greenness will steal across country, streams boil, and mead's will dry.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees Need Care

To be a tree you need carbon.
  Trees depend on God. 
 Trees depend on humans. 
 Trees depend on the Sun.
  Trees need this care.

     Carbon is life to a tree.
Without Carbon there would be no tree.
God set it up this way, you see.
For the tree depends on you and me.
We must consume to save a tree.
If we don't consume, the trees will die,
then we will all want to cry.
So just do your role;Keep burning your safe coal!



        Copyright McCuen 2008