Scurrying on my way home, a little leaf catches my eye, and I am compelled yet again to slow down.
a whirlwind of thoughts
compete with swaying of trees~
lone leaf on my shoe
I am not sure exactly when my fascination for falling leaves started, there is just something so beautiful and artistic in which they drift to the ground....I recall one particular moment in my college literature class when my professor inquired into my choice of the word "wither" in my leaf metaphor for a dying old couple.
My explanation involved telling him that for me, that particular word had a certain gracefulness to it, and that was how I saw that couple in their twilight years. But I deviate, for I merely intend to write about the interesting tree that I saw the other day. I do not know what species it is, but it bears its berry-like fruits on its branches and it has cordate leaves.
barren branches touch
newborn leaves on other side--
a paradox tree
A smile languidly forms together with my memory of seeing that same tree six days post double-faced state. It proudly donned a full crown of leaves in less than a week. With this image in mind, I can’t help but feel mystified, with the constancy and dichotomy of change….It seems like everything around me is continuously evolving, revolving. I can’t help but feel lost.
Almost in defiance to this line of thinking, I shake the leaf off my shoe, and trample on it. Instead of feeling satisfied, I feel guilt. I never did forget that Enid Blyton tale of how dried leaves were actually fairies.
littered autumn road
I stomp on the frail fallen….
my feet crushing death
Rolling my eyes with my melodramatic thoughts, I continue my walk home. It’s crazy how leaves can make me go philoloopysical. I am tempted to actually stop in the middle of the road and simply sit there—be among the trees as the wind serenades them, with the leaves swaying gently, some choosing to pirouette, some doing the salsa dip.
Being the practical person that I am, I just run my fingers along my wind-discoed hair. If it were possible, I would like to be a leaf. I find such nobility and grace to it. Imagine being able to capture light, transforming energy to create nourishment. Giving, breathing life. There is a delicate artistry with the changing of its colors—a complex, fascinating chemistry in each blade that I’m sure God is so proud of.
eyes gently follow
dying trail of withered leaf;
wind sighs its mourning
I pick up one leaf to remind me...
Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2015
"A woodland path in the dappled sun, hushed and quiet "
~A Rambling Poet~
A canopy of trees
filters the sun for me,
and I am grateful...
For I do not feel like
having the rays glare
in my eyes today,
in a brooding mood I am.
The earth is damp,
drunken with dew,
I lay myself down,
jagged rocks beneath me
and I welcome it
For it grounds me,
that not everything
is sunlight and blooms
I sink in my darkness
and close my eyes
to dwell in it and drown,
For an eternity,
I am mired with
muck and moss in my mind,
...until I open my eyes
The trees above me
stand tall and proud
in their radial glory,
the sun just
my cold being
Leaves gilt with light
blink back in awe
and I am floored,
blanketed by warmth
of hushed spirits
tell their tales
of growth and survival,
of yearning for
of their struggle
to catch a glimpse
feeding off from it,
in order to
give back to others
some of them stumble
yet most of them
I am humbled.
I am awed.
Yes, the canopy
gave me shade,
from the light,
I look up again
that the tiniest
pinholes of hope exist,
reaching deep within...
that set off
a chain reaction
--June 11-12 (2011)
Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2011
I will draw unto the depths of my soul to love my life.
Although there are sorrows and some travesties along the journey
I bend like a tree in the wind,strong,proud and beautiful.
Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2013
Is deeply rooted, into
© Demetrios Trifiatis
25 October 2015
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2015
Have you ever really looked at a tree?
Have you ever thought of the ancient roots,
Those that support it ... to behold its majesty?
The boughs and limbs carry leaves oh, so green,
We are again reminded of God's handiwork,
When we see the budding exuberance ... come the early spring.
They make us mindful of beauty by their quiet repose,
They are willowy, and shade us from the harsh summer sun,
Beneath their gentle sways ... we rest comfortably below.
Fall ages them and their greens turn to brown.
As winter's cold blasts blow upon them,
Do we ever feel their plight ... as their leaves tumble down?
Families are a personal and spiritual tree.
Their ancient roots so long ago planted,
Grow in size and shape and form ... in gifted majesty!
Generations of limbs and boughs support the child leaves,
In every new face God's handiwork,
Radiant in the splendor of life ... each one of us receives.
Time slowly ages each one to their own event,
While we who remain here grow and love,
Still remembering those whose winter ... we could not prevent.
It is the strength of their memories we add to our own,
They give us the values, insights, and perspective,
Which we in turn pass on ... to the seeds we have sown.
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2010
I do not know?
When you pulled the trigger
you came to me and tried to love me
ask my forgiveness,
it made me cry, it was so cold
I shook with your suffering
I drew you in the afterlife
alone and crying with gods light
asking you to come
your shame, a mistake,
you had so much to give
i painted two trees
one that was dying
the other was dead
the tree loved you
amd misses you still
Copyright © Michael Harman | Year Posted 2009
Spring And Sunlight Wrap This Heavenly View
Slowly I climb that very steep and rocky hill,
seeking the beautiful summit so far above.
As a breeze sends me that cool pleasant chill,
far away echoes, sweet calls of morning dove.
Summit reached, burden was greatly reduced,
as I saw great flowery meadows unfurled.
This the beauty God magnificently produced,
one of his many fine gifts to this world.
Spring and sunlight wrap this Heavenly view,
in a sheen invading my searching soul.
Each visit, I find feelings serene and new
relieving me of dark world's heavy toll.
Thus I battle with dark and unknown gloom.
By entering Nature's gifted wilderness room.
Robert J. Lindley, 09-24-2015
Note: I just felt the need to write a sonnet this morn.
Thus from my memory this new poem was born from
a place that I once visited quite often.
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
Why be a naked tree and endure winter's agony?
It should be forever warm and sunny...
to watch wild flowers grow by a spring!
Why be a naked tree and be unable to think?
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2012
progression withered aged vines
after clarity was shaken,
dreaming tree shed its leaves
ceased to take pity
on the eternal bloom,
fell through the cracks mid
standing in dusky shadows
of betided darkness,
air thick like molasses
oozing into changed crevices
dreams expired before
childlike innocence died upon
ventured horizon's fading meadows
& first relinquished blushing kisses
as reality's cruel persistence
contrived of illogical devices
decaying flowery resolutions
disillusioned mixed metaphors;
deliver me back to a time of naiveté
whence stardust hung from shaded blossoms
rendered 'midst moonbeam showers
"The Dreaming Tree Has Died"
- inspired by Dave Matthews Dreaming Tree
Copyright © Paloma P | Year Posted 2016
The shine came off of her back that day
under the magnolia tree
She sprawled her arms like tree sized roots
and swayed with the swaying breeze
It was always her choice of blossoms
that seemed to bruise to the delicate touch
It was always on the day she was about to die
that she wanted to live so much
She sank from luxurious apple green
into chameleon red
as I drew her a picture of spring time
and the resurrection of the dead
The snow fell sweet on the tree that year
in a vision of rains to come
as I sparked a match and drew her breath
in the winter's fallen sun.
Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2006
If I chanced upon a wishing tree
Where I could shuffle through the leaves
And find the wishes ripe for picking
Could choose not one... or two,....but three...
I would want to take the best with me
Not wealth,...or fame...or riches grand
But hold three other wishes in my hand...
If the power were granted me
To break out of my shell
Where my imagination wouldn't fail
On the doors of my child within
If the sky was clear enough
And the water still enough
If I could step out of my skin
To be old...or to be young again
So I could see the world through another's eyes
And understand a different sky
If the knowledge were given me
To erase all negativity
And have the courage to climb my tree
Where I could clearly see that in tomorrow
There would lie a place where peace would be
I would relish the fruits.....from my wishing tree
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
For Amy Green's contest "Three Wishes"
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
My bark is worn from time and life
My steady branches have withstood much strife
The life blood that raged in my youth
Its edges raw and at times uncouth
Time has polished and as steel has hardened
As I have stood watch faithfully in my garden
My saplings I have sheltered and nourished
Their tiny sprouts have grown and flourished
My work here is almost done and
I was content to stand silent in the sun
However, one day as I stood alone
Came a carpenter with hands gentle and strong
He looked past my peeling ragged bark and
Found my barely beating heart.
He has caused me to dream of my youth again
Of beauty, peace and the passion of men
I am his project to mold and to make
A challenge only he is equipped to take
I stand here now curious to see
What this craftsman can make of me.
Copyright © Tina Anderson | Year Posted 2015
Written January 8, 2013
The morning blues in a lily on the pond
Wake on the wrong side of the road
Penniless pockets play the vagabond game
Ride the tiger recently tamed
On a long road to nowhere, horizon's stain
All's my name sitting next to me
Lie down with graceful angels deep in the snow
Or on wet grass recently mowed
I've grown accustomed to the scent of your mane
Spelled chug-chuga-chug is my name
Oh why do flowers never bloom in the snow?
They never have a chance to grow
No, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore
The oaks and pines getting clearer
Much to a land unafraid to spread its wings
Listen to Woody Guthrie sing
Bacon sizzles in the rain and sunshine reigns
We've reached the line of no return
Of the big rock candy mountain we will sing
For the next week my phone won't ring
Copyright © Brandon Carter | Year Posted 2013
You always laughed at me In that funny way of yours
Standing at the door ~ looking out to see
Wondering where you are, and will you follow me
With hammer in hand ~ Into nature decked with
silver and gold
Do you possess a loving heart with stories untold
By now they know what you are made of
Reflections that come from your eyes they see
Though they walk with you in a style of their own
Shaped into the figure of a man with beauty of a woman
A tree in the forest is cut down shaped into the form of a goddess
A goddess that will take us through time and back again
Though time is an elusive thing here as we all know
Hammer in hand into nature decked with silver and gold
Time means nothing when the heart is near I am told
Does a tree feel the pains of a cut as we do, I ask you
I have struggled all my days with thoughts like these
To figure out what the true meaning really is to me
If you know can you tell me too as we walk together
With hammer in hand into nature decked with silver and gold
Copyright © Debbie Duncan | Year Posted 2012
The concrete jungle shines and gleams
All around shiny glass beams
And amid this dusty shimmering sea
Stands a lone orange tree
The fragrant flowers silently blooms
Seeking the warmth from the sun that looms
The birds have left and stopped their calls
It is quiet, not a sound falls
The weary traveller sits beneath
Seeking the cool underneath
Touching the smooth, fragile bark
Dreaming of some sparrow or maybe a lark
Perhaps he dreams of a wasted love
Escaped like a frightened dove
Or some happy memory
That from him has become free
This gentle haven amid the fire
A place to commune and retire
And all around lovers came this vision to see
And feel the enchantment under the orange tree
Copyright © Tahera Mannan | Year Posted 2011
falling pieces of summer
sun soon disappears
c) Copyright by Christine A Kysely
(November 9, 2011 Wausau, Wisconsin USA)
Copyright © christine a kysely | Year Posted 2011
Sitting under a tree, old and grey
No flowers to bloom, leaves falling down
Birds desert the nests, no one to play around
The clouds are around, they hold no charm
Gave shade to many, no one to shade us
Waiting to fall one day, are we made for each other?
Copyright © Suresh Iyer | Year Posted 2010
If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
Copyright © Anthony O. Mitchell Jr. | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Mark Russell | Year Posted 2012
You were like a serpent
Whispering in my ear
The most extrodinary lies...
You were like the APPLE
Sweet and FORBIDDEN...
Once I BIT of your essence
My EYES were OPENED...
A myriad of colors
Assailed my senses
Like I've never known before
Left me quivering after you...
The simultaneous orgasm
Sounded like a fairy tale
Until...your cunning and craftiness
Showed me the way...
And now I know
The difference between GOOD s_x and BAD s_x...
I enjoyed your every touch
How you made my body feel alive!
But, now I have been
CAST AWAY from my GARDEN of pleasure
Cast away from YOUR LOVE and touch
Now, I must TOIL
In my own SWEAT and in the sun
Looking for a SERPENT
With the magic touch you held
Oh, to be BLIND once more!
Now, every man
Doesn't measure up
To your EVIL
Ecstasy of pleasure and SIZE
Now I am in the hot
Desert of the world
WEEPING and GNASHING
trying to find
The GRAINS of GOOD s_x
Among the WEEDS
Of lousy lovers
Copyright © Christine Trower | Year Posted 2008
I do not know?
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature's soothing balm.
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
Dangling from the tree I can see,
Broken wind chimes that still sing.
They just hang on by a split string.
Sending a harmony of tunes to thee.
Their tones and vibrations are a bit broken for me.
I listen and I ponder for what tunes they can bring.
From the tree they will sway when they can swing.
Bits and pieces are released through the air and flee.
Caught in the wind is it’s vibrations.
Carrying signals of great magnitude.
Funneling clouds into new creations.
Bringing air into a brand new mood.
Broken wind chimes can still sing a song,
But their messages are scattered all along.
© Copyright: Ann Rich 2007
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010
I do not know?
The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation
The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012
It was Christmas Eve; I was a prisoner of my own divide.
Lost in mind, clad in drunken sadness, caged up inside.
Alone and forlorn my thoughts laden with whiskey lies,
Memories seem so distant, only a week since goodbyes.
Christmas tree glistening, blurry in my vision of tears,
Flashing lights bright, neighbors Christmas party cheers.
No presents or joy in this household upon this night.
Sorrows, misguided gulps of liquor, cloud my sight.
Heartbroken, gloomy devouring the demon filled drink.
No more, no less, my eyes roamed over as I did think.
Hopelessly lost in a whirlwind of memories of no more,
No more, love by a lover, no daughter to teach the score.
Left me in a house, no longer our home that we shared,
Only I and this half-empty bottle, feeling impaired.
She left me, taking my child a thousand miles away.
While here in this house of torture, me and myself stay.
Every corner a recollection blinks by crystalline light.
Splintered and speckled by the twinkling star so bright.
Atop the now barren tree which had shined with joys.
Years before cluttered with wrappers, boxes and toys
I slam a big gulp down my throat, since this was my first.
Night of my debut to the evil of whiskey blinding thirst,
Never before had drunkenness been a quest or even a try,
This night she devoured my soul, not wanting ever to cry.
Intoxication was a desire, though not ever beyond joy.
My virgin body of drink has choked me unable to deploy.
Sour mash tears wash down my face, wiping my eyes.
I hear my built up agony; pour out in inhuman cries.
User Name Cecil Hickman
Sponsor Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest Name Your "Saddest" Christmas Ever
Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2010
Faintly rustled within
as you flow and move me
much like a soft warm breeze
touching leaves in a tree
you, me, and the wind, dance.
Lee carter Mystique contest 7/8/15
#1- connection with a supreme source
Copyright © Lee Carter | Year Posted 2015
Calamity strikes under the calm of fog,
The man breathes in the misty water.
His thoughts dissipate with the touch of dusky light,
Her auburn hair flares behind the rose of cherry blossoms.
Their fingers caress at their tips,
A consciousness already bonded eternally.
Branches of cherry blossoms rest upon their cold heads,
Notions forbidden and a desire remains suppressed.
Their lips turned to poison,
It crept and tangled deep into their minds.
From this moment forward they were consumed,
Forever doomed to think the same.
The tree stands still - its eyes perturbed,
The green shrubs, the amber buds,
Surroundings bustling and lively,
It stands placid, as almost dead.
True nature it has not revealed,
The mute damned to sit still,
Words rush and glimmer in poetic verse,
No sound crosses its rough lips.
Century withered and silently crossed,
The tree stands still yet even now.
The aging man, his worn axe glistening in dawn,
Slashes down the tree, its roots bare.
Now knowledge sleeps in the soil, the soil remains untouched.
Copyright © Martina Adovica | Year Posted 2012
Some nut's old shells stay
Some mistletoe still, squirrel's nest
The soul is now bare for all to see in its winter
In honor of Brian Strand
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2012
Soft needles shapely
Perfection was overlooked
(The topic is tree)
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
He Created the Tree
He molded and built
A small lonely hill,
That He knew would be
Then He made the seed,
That would grow to be thorns
That would make
His Son bleed.
How can you be so numb
When you've been so well fed
Bless me, bless me is
All we ever hear
One Tree Hill
When will the seed
Grow into a tree in you
Copyright © Uwe Stroh | Year Posted 2013