-The Tree of Life-
Featuring: Casarah Nance
~~I am beautiful on the inside you will see~~
~But really I am scarcely a tree in the woods.~
Beauty found a tree that sits and does not utter
Owning, up to the heavens, look at -- when ready
Simply stop, admire, count your blessings,
enjoy the raven staring down at you
For this tree was not planted by a gardener,
This tree, who needs, not to speak, draws true auspice air,
Not like the gardener who planted a garden,
then got annoyed by the smallest of weeds
This is a story, about a gardeners mockery,
after trying to cut down my Pecan Tree
Hypocrite the farmer,
does not know the first thing when it comes to flora
Plant sources, that only grow in as weeds, (poor crops)
a picture, not even God, sets his eyes upon
I forbid, the thirsty growers from coming,
when putting up or wanting to gossip and speak of my roots
Look how they lose their lower leaves,
from over embracing each thorn
Take heed the whispers of these filthy propagators,
at my windows & doorsteps, Shh, they are watching!
Peeping-Tomming, robbing from my bluebonnet bed,
while in a deep sleep counting sheep
Wake-up, and Click away,
the dandelions are gone, airborne into a fuller universe
From the hunger, I left behind,
since jealous eyes envied how high my beanstalk continues to rise
Smile, at the yellow wool, held out by the same green thumb gang,
whine when others succeed,
Scratching one another on the back,
as if they were the National FFA Organization
Grazers growing super fast- crowfoot grass, a bitter look,
found in their dead pedal path
Horticulturist, all alone, on the inside, growing bushes of lies,
contaminated vase, black roses
I can't endure participating in a dead stem convention,
when the seed-woman cries for care
Exposing an over watered garden,
hoarding clodhoppers grin, separating everything
The potential of plowed plants is nothing more than corrupt cactus,
and invasive plant species in disguise,
Proof they don't know the first thing when cultivating the perfect flowers,
A die hard moment-
Not even the sun wants to climb up on the side of the landscape of falsehood
Sickened by the holes and yellow stains of dust and dirt,
broken by the Farmer and torn overalls
By daylight, the gardener lives kneeling, tending the greenhouse, of lies
By nighttime, the grower, swallows, by singing and tossing salads all night.
The Tree continues to grow,
The Gardner Cries
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
Dark angels dance overhead
Storm clouds swirl within my head
Smiles are the veils of hidden thoughts
Tormented souls question not what is not
Ile St Louis, a swamp of nighttime beasts
Where soon poets shall roam
All that changed, the darkness kept the same
Only evil flowers dare to grow here
I was born in the comfort of a weeping nurse
Soon bestowed to the gallows underneath
For life passed by, and left me to ponder
The horror and madness within my dreams
You kiss my lips
Passions kiss you think frees me
From the darkness where I reside
St Louis is but far off from our romps
The play, maybe a muse on a past romance
Our flirt but a dance with history
You don’t know me
For I was born in the dark
As love ripens, we turn to grapes
The evening becomes our escape
Tiss you who have drowned me
In Seine, is where I rest
You don’t know me
My lover and killer
As I float away
From l'ile St Louis
This poem is truly Edgar Allen Poe! Ile St Louis is the smaller of 2 islands in Paris on the Seine. It used to be swampland and crazing for cows, and in fact was the original Paris. Of course it was later developed, and many a famous persons have lived there, one being, Charles Baudelaire a French poet, whom is famous for a few things, the first being his poetic works called “ Fleur du Mal “ ( Flowers of Evil ) and thus the line in my poem “Only evil flowers dare to grow here”. However Charles Baudelaire also discovered the works of Edgar Allen Poe and proceeded to translate Poe’s works into French.
In Seine, is where I rest, well what can I say, I am insane, and thus this is one of my favorite lines!! :) As for Ile St Louis, I can only say, in Canada it is truly and island all alone!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013
Life has thrown dirt on me, and I grew a wild flower.
A demon's knife cuts into my spirituality, and I watch my soul be devoured.
Open Bibles lay on my night stands, I keep crosses hanging over each bed.
In my mind I'm wondering wastelands, and I feel like the walking dead!
The emotional scars can't seem to heal, and I search frantically for a way out.
I know Satan is looking for a soul to steal, and so he challenges me to a 12 round bout!
He throws all my weaknesses at me; not one or two, but all at one time.
I indulge in adultery, pick up a gun, inhale some cocaine residue, and set out to commit a
His evil punches right through me, gripping my heart, and twisting it from side to side.
An upheaval crashes into my reality, tearing my world apart, pushing me closer to suicide!
He keeps a band of demons in my head, and they're doing pushups and jumping jacks in my
Tear stained cheeks from tears I've shed, and his attacks have left me mentally blind.
Out of the blue, I have a sudden desire to fight back.
I wipe away the cocaine residue, for in my chest the fire feels like a shot of cognac!
I pull my fiery sword from my spiritual backpack, and get in my battle stance.
Like bombs over Iraq, me and the devil begin to violently dance.
It is a dance of death, and I am determined to survive!
I refuse to let this entity take my last breath, and so my will kicks in to overdrive!
The blows from this devil staggers me, and I feel uneasy on my feet.
My sword begins to glow with a hot fury, and I can feel my hammering heartbeat.
I begin to shake with rage, and gripping my sword I go berserk.
This devil had all the powers of a battle mage, but I let my blade do the work!
Spiritually, mentally, I slice and dice this demonic foe.
I will not be this entities sacrifice, for I'm the last heir of Edgar Allen Poe.
I'm gaining spiritual momentum, but I refuse to stop.
As I destroy this devils evil system, I continue to conquer life's mountain top!
Suddenly this evil is banished in a puff of black smoke, never to be seen again.
I remove my blood soaked black cloak, and I feel as if I'm finally purged of my sin.
I now thirst for a new beginning, and the taste of life is sweet and sour.
A former loser, now focused on winning, and no longer am I a wilted wild flower!!
Copyright © Jimmy Anderson | Year Posted 2010
Sin is what covers the devil's skin... lies on his grin that hides from within. Evil that drips from his
chin... grows a flower from the soil deep within a cloud from hell. Growing a flower with an evil
scent, turns the soil in a cloud darker then ever... making our grey skies that we have today.
Copyright © Anderson Torres | Year Posted 2010
Red like the blood
that flows through your veins
Sharp like the knife
You stabbed in my back
The evil hides underneath its beauty
Just like the person
I knew once before
You are a rose
A red rose
With a new meaning
The evil hides
Underneath its beauty
Copyright © Lizzie Maestas | Year Posted 2014
I have more souvenirs than a thousand years
A big chest with drawers full of bills, and bears
Verses, sweet bills, and trials, and even romance
With heavy hairs, rolled in sheets of paid quittance
They all hide less secrets than my sad mind does
It's a pyramid, an immense basement has
It holds more corpses than the common graveyards
I am like the grave which the moon discards
Or like that remorse where the long worms stroll
And strive to destroy my dearest ones, of all
I'm an old boudoir, full of faded roses
Where a whole mess of old style models, dozes
Where the mournful pastels, and the *Boucher's Pales*
That from an old bottle, their perfume exhales
Nothing equals the long limping journey days
When beneath the heavy flakes of snowy years
The boredom, fruit of the languid indolence
Takes the shape of the immortal existence
Here-after, you are no more, ô living matter !
Than granit wrapped within a haze of terror
Dozing deep in the lost, misty wilderness
Like an old sphinx in a world of carelessness
From the chart is forgotten, and whose wild spleen
Sings only to the rays of the sun, unseen,
My own translation, with little different vision.
*Boucher's Pales*: paintings of Francois Boucher,
I tried to give the closest meaning and words at the same time, to the most highlighted expressions revolving around the poet's gloomy mood and his own conception, as a poet, of the world and his own forgotten existence while he is still alive.
Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2017