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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...

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2013

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... 

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

We Are a Poem


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.

Copyright © Ilan Benjamin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Under The Wise Old Oak Tree

In luscious green fields 
As far as one can see
With her eyes closed embracing her tree of life, 
Her supple body 
And soft cheek pressed against the rough bark
Awaiting her beloved

Hugging her from behind
He’s hands cupping her bosom 
Pulling her ever so close
Gently turning her to face him
Passion in his eyes

The wise old oak tree
With whom she shared so much
Her memoirs since her 3rd birthday
When her puppy died
All her little concerns and secrets
It is here where their lips first touched
It is where they will lay to rest 
 Long silence, no more voices inside her head
No need for words while with her beloved under her tree
Though many years have passed
The old oak ever majestic 
Has lost some branches during the winter storm

She sighs with contentment 
Enjoying the shade it provides
After their walk and teaching him all about hugging trees
They settled on the lush green lawn for a sunset picnic
He picked up his guitar and sang to her 
 Love songs from his soul
It is where tonight they will
Consummate a lifetime of songs 
Exploring and learning
The air moist with mist blanketing 
Their pleasured sighs
In tune with the nocturnal symphony 

Copyright © Shining Bright | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


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.

Copyright © Gideon Cecil | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Master Carpenters tree

The impressive mighty trees
Are birthed from such small seed
Drawing resilience from the sun
And earth’s fertile garden bed

Trees wooden trunk has shaped 
And sustained for centuries many in varied ways 
Some over and upon oceans wide
Where waves stroke shapely hulls 
And lull to sleep the hapless venturer 
Trusting in woods durable strength and buoyancy

And from such crafted boughs 
And whispered sounds 
Her meekness and strength is seen and heard 
Like the creaks of grandma’s rocking chair
Where the hapless wanderer was first rocked to sleep

Trees have cradled and rocked in their arms 
High and low of this world
The greatest of these was in a lowly manger 
In an animals crib 
But for this one tree its destiny was marked 
Chosen before time

For on this tree’s wooden shoulders 
It bore God’s greatest gift–
A Holy Child born - Like it- 
For one purpose only – 
To become accursed - on its wooden cross 
To bear the sins of All 
The Holy Son then rose - triumphantly from earth’s fertile soil

Into His Father’s arms

© Brenda V Northeast 11th   March   2012

Copyright © Brenda Victoria Northeast | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Tree's Blog

George and his stupid acorns.
He has no sense of boundaries--
danged things falling on my head.
And Celia. She thinks she's all that
with her new clothes: red, yellow,
green, orange. How passe!
And then Baldy, the coward,
so afraid of winter he went stark
naked even before fall started.
And here come  those helicopters again,
courtesy of Myrtle the maple. 
They get into absolutely everything.
Sometimes I think I'm the only one with
any sense around here. You won't
see MY leaves going all psychedelic
or turning brown or flying helicopters.
Me? I stay green all year round, and 
I don't go dropping leaves and nuts 
all over the place. Sure, I have cones, 
but they're actually more like accessories.
You can use them in arts and crafts 
and as Christmas ornaments,
Speaking of Christmas, what month is it?
November you say? Late November?

Wait! What are you going to do with that ax?
Hey, let's talk about this...   

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Japanese Garden

The snowbird trees are putting on their colorful autumn coats
Preparing to follow the sun southward
The provincial evergreens are hunkering down for winter
All are well groomed in this spiritual oasis

A gently convex (concave if you are a koi) wooden bridge crosses a pond
The bridge is framed by the textures of nature
I leave my point of view 
And walk onto it

Looking down I see koi lounging and strolling
Or perhaps they are wavy reflections of the koi-colored leaves above
I hear the murmurs of respectful visitors to this cathedral of nature
Reflecting their souls

Looking back to where I was standing is not inspiring
Nature pounded into efficient shapes

My office

In which is hanging a window onto my deepest and highest thoughts
A large photograph of an autumn scene in a Japanese Garden

Copyright © Cordon Bittner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Trees Rooting with Me

Last Autumn we invested in a 0.5 acre
of Mother Earth's aria,
as sung to Thames River swell and tide,
New England new sprouting this our virgin spring wedding
with this home place,
space of grace.

My urgent first task, now largely complete,
was to partner with the trees and ornamentals,
in Bodhisattva warrior solidarity 
with human racing family co-arising co-respiring trees,
counter-revolutioning against upstart thorny opportunistic brambles,
wild grape vines
reaching over all our 0.5  arias of CoBreathing Allies
in brambly weedpatch ways.

I usually tip toward recessive underdogs
and creation stories,
as these are far too often disempowered PostMillennial Occupiers,
these brambles and vines flirting with monoculturing graves
of gracious Trees, and other beings,
draping together to suffocate 
0.5 decomposing acres of hungry thorns and briars
waiting for Bodhisattva SuperWarrior Me
to saw and chop and hack,
and sometimes shamelessly slash and smack,
invading over-populating brambly trends
of ivy towering thorns
with empire-building designs
embedding my delightful flesh.

Now, first spring posing tree re-liberation,
leaves speaking young embryonic appreciation,
gentle thank yous opening to more buoyant sunrise,
draped in fallen sins of past neglect,
daring me to turn my well-armed back,
to continue this solidarity with our still-enslaved neighboring trees,
gasping for strength to breathe
through coils of parasitic woody stinging strikes,
blood-thirsty for revenge
snaking dense networked vines
stretching down valley toward river source
of water's satisfying nutritious displays,
more generous than I would prefer,
taking no sides in this small revolution
within Earth's 0.5 arias
of stress-afflicted trees.

Without sufficient humility
I more resemble thorny brambles
than wise Elder Trees
rooting through compost-drenched systems
deep down to River's sacred bed,
rising to meet Full Moon nights of bright.

Yet, in self-defense,
and defense of trees and ornamentals,
I prize our diversity and harmonic balance;
not so much looking for a free ride
up to sun's commingling paradise.

Now free to speak their new spring intentions,
my neighbor trees, allies, 
co-inhabitors of 0.5 Earth acres,
remind me to do my best with them,
try to follow their strong-rooted commingling example,
and avoid proliferating over-populated competitions
for River's water
and SunGod's co-arising light.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

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

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

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.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

I Love Trees

I love trees.
The way they shade us in the summer,
The way they bend in the breeze,
Their lovely green leaves in Spring,
Their golden, red and brown display in the Fall,
The way they hold the snow in Winter,
The wood they provide for my home, my hearth, 
  and my rocking chair.
I love the way they clean the air  
  and the paper they provide for me to write on.
Yes, I am a Tree-Hugger.
I love trees.

By:  Carole O'Terry Duet
       Copyright: July 6, 2016
       "All Rights Reserved"

Copyright © Carole Duet | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Old Fig Tree

I only sang to the old fig tree
As it trembled under the wind
I promised you since you left
I'll drink grief enough for both of us
I'll open like the gulls
My wings on the  horizon
And under the November sun
I'll wade into a cold Natifah's brook
Inviting your friends who accompanied you in the war
To our old home
Sitting next to our old fireplace
Talking about our homeland,
How the men descended 
Two, three and four toward their death
Talking about storms that flooded homes
About horses that plunged into rivers
So that shadows became frightened in their land
Talking about one who
Still kindles the wet firewood
And how the rooms are filled with soot
After the flames stopped
Talking about what they did
What they couldn't do 
About your heart hungering for holiness
How you passed death twice
Thus death returned defeated  
Once you made from it, a home, a door and a lock.
We'll talk about all of this
Until the wind shakes and the fire is extinguished
Then I"ll recall in my mind
How everything around me was just empty seats
Ah how bitter you are 
O Wind!
When you took all the warmth
All the love in my heart.

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Tree Root Investments

Trees sprout nondual co-arising branch networks,
one system rising to greet sun’s light
creating healthy atmospheres for Earth’s political Tribes,
the other branch-system downward rooting  into Earth’s rich compost
feeding on gifts of co-redeemers past,
creating  healthy Earth skin,
Earth soil-soul economic nutritional exchange balancers
of vast ecopolitical harmonizing enterprise.

So too,
human nature’s bicameral-neural nondual mindbody network systems,
lungs partnering with Elder Trees
sharing climate control autonomic sounds and voices and RNA surfing syntax,
brained body roots absorbing Earth’s rich regenerative compost
from which we each emerge,
YangEgo Left culturally dominant language syntax
with YinEco Right Earth-systemic DNA fractal-networks,
dialectic peer-to-peer design and development 
of regenerative health and beauty intentions,
RNA/DNA solidarity co-revolutionaries
supporting Earth’s vast poly-enculturing economic pilgrimage.

Trees wax and wane through longer terms 
of aesthetic revolutioning purpose,
transgenerationally invested in Earth’s future fertile health.
We might become trees
wise to learn from Elders’ progenitive example.
We share an ecological heart
because we are one (0)-embryonic center
of EarthLove’s regenerate potential.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Banyan Tree In My Courtyard

 A banyan tree in my courtyard
 That I had planted ten years ago
 Looks beautiful with its large limbs
 As if a beauty queen of monsoon
 Were entering her adolescence

 It smiles when gusts of cool wind
 Touch it with adorable feelings
 Droplets of rain seems curious
 To entice it with intoxicating gestures

 When banyan tree stretches 
 For soft touch of rain drops
 I may feel its emotions
 When my love touched me first time
 In the college rose garden
 And it was raining then

 And today banyan tree of my courtyard
 Seems matured enough 
 To repeat history of adolescence love
 This amazing monsoon.

Copyright © KISHAN NEGI | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


                                  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

Copyright © Omojewve Emmanuel Brown | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Tree of Knowledge

The Tree of
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
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
Trees could be souls
from other times
Maybe even animals
Were all equal as
In this game of life
It's survival of the
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
Roots are planted
firmly into its
concrete foundation
Going nowhere in
But how did it get
there in that spot?
Is it satisfied
enough to stay
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
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
Knowing that it has
all those thorns;
nothing can hurt it
Attempting to reach
out & around
Scaling up larger
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
But they can't
conquer the elements
on their own
Smaller plants and
Shorter life span
but big help

Copyright © Miya Fontaine | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |




Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead, 
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.

Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams. 

Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.


And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of  love, faith and  hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.  

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2015

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! 

Copyright © Abdullah Alhemaidy | Year Posted 2014

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.

Copyright © Peter Kautsky | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Leaving Stems

Imagine yourself as a tree
with a leaf named Yang
and a coarising nondual twig named Yin,
having a sappy conversation about life and mortality.

Do you think this twig would be so foolish as to correct the leaf’s beliefs
that life and death are analogous to evolution and retrenchment,
dormancy decomposing into further incarnations of Earth’s soul,
feeding root systems of future tree’s healthy coarising development?

Yet, for the leaf named Yang,
once separated from your embryonic twig
and Yin’s ecologically breathing economic and politically symbiotic treehome,
healthy life is but a nutritional season.

Your incarnate tree’s rings of revolutionary root systemic development,
of resonant evolution,
of regenerate virginal life
spans many growing seasons, as a tree
thriving, then gradually slowing, within your interdependent forest.

many enculturing centuries more,
as a speciating voice within Earth’s nutrient/boundary skin
of RNA/DNA scripted life,
further potential regenerations
of Earth’s abundant love.

Imagine Earth preoccupied leaves
decomposing sunny fuel and healthy nutritional function
for yin’s well-versed root systems
forging future virginal yet regenerate occupations.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Who Are We

First and last, Mom's embryonic parasite,
phylogenic tumor
with built in obsolescence.

Then, a moment between exodus from symbiotic womb
into Earth's promised Eden,
forested trees for GoodLife and of prior EvilDeath,
and then time to exhale again
one last self-regenerating timeless
fertile eternity,
regenerous nativity.

In between, ecopoliticians
hoping to improve our cooperative family improvisations
on a larger liturgical jazz-dance theme,
with occasional speaking while deep-listening parts
in EarthTribe's multiculturing womb,
embryonic ego-tumors
with built-in obsolescence;
a moment between exodus
and cooperative regenesis.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

This Tree Was

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.”

Kerplunk kerplunk

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…

Copyright © melissa mesch | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


Drought		8.30.15

Their sighs were barely audible
as the trees began to absorb each drop.
With palpable relief
the red bud, river birch, alder, dogwood,
pine and fir trees stopped shedding 
and began to perk up.

The longed-for showers had arrived,
the first appreciable rain since March.
March! It's now almost September.

Weather maps were consulted
more frequently than usual.
Radar was checked.
In the middle of the night 
a soothing drip-drip-drip punctuated our sighs. 

Some places, far away, are dry.
We know that.
Low humidity 
high temperatures
moisture almost non-existent.
That's the desert.

Not here.
Not in my backyard.
Several dry months in summer
but never persistent drought.

Until now.
It's here
in my backyard
Thirst in my backyard.

Grass has lost all
tinge of green.
Leaves and needles galore are nature's litter.

Forests are dry.
Wild fires abound.
Lakes and rivers have little water.

Watching foliage shrivel
is not an option.
Not yet. 
We can do little but
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
Shrug and water

Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |


This Christmas I want to be,
The symbol of a Christmas tree.
The symbol of love, hope and goodness,
As the past years have been full of darkness.

This Christmas I want to be,
The joy brought by a Christmas tree.
The joy that fills the emptiness and pain,
The joy that saturates the exosphere as rain.

This Christmas I want to be
The togetherness brought by a Christmas tree.
The unity that knits families together,
And the bond that keeps families stronger,

This Christmas I want to be,
The smile brought by a Christmas tree,
The smile that radiates people’s faces,
And inundates families and different races.

This Christmas what will you be?
I hope you can also choose to be something to me.
Be to someone a Christmas tree,
And at least this Christmas, let’s fill people with much glee.

This Christmas I want to be,
The salvation of a Christmas tree.
The birth of a sacred virgin’s child,
As the future savior so meek and mild.

This Christmas I want to be,
The optimism of a Christmas tree,
Putting all the bad things behind us,
We can look forward to a future were love will always find us.

This Christmas I want you to be,
The special thing you will like to give to me.
Be the gift and the nicely adorned treasure,
That can surprise my heart without measure.


Copyright © Jacob Osae | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |



One Day, I reached and sat on the highest peak that I could find.
After arriving, I quietly celebrated with pride my great climb.
After a while, I relaxed, looked all around, and reclined.

Inhaling the crisp clean air, I was rested and feeling fine.
Everywhere I looked, I was being captured by the tall pines.
None by God could arrest and speak such peace to my mind.

I was longing for Yesterday, supposing she would help me reach Tomorrow.
For comfort, Yesterday sometimes uses a stone, and not always a soft pillow.
I found Yesterday, although it was in a different state of mind, place, and sorrow.

Yesterday was unlike anything I expected, because time had erased its lovely face.
Yesterday had painted its own portrait, defying clarity and leaving so little trace.
I had accomplished my goal; but it left me win less at the end of an emotional race.  I was so overcome with tears, that I was forced to appeal to God for more grace.

My great quest for Yesterday was much more than a ride down memory lane.
She was much like Today, playing her part; and some things about her caused me a little shame.
But thankfully, Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow, always seem to work together with God to ease the pain.
12012015(Part Fiction)(Contest, Any Poem, sponsor, Broken Wings)

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

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.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Tree of Descent

The Tree of Descent   
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf *
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)

As she descended from her paradise, 
She said :
Oh Lord,  choose a land for me
Where I would strew, out of my womb, 
Tribes of greenery
So my limb would rise again toward you,
As I dissolve salt 
And conglomerate it to be fresh dates
Praying that dream-doves of the captives,
And the flutter of their wings,
 May illuminate the courtyard of the creature’s inner soul,
If the sun should set within him;  
Then he would realize
How the root becomes hymns, 
And bread
For eyes waiting at gates corroded by the dessert,
And bitten by hankering. 

He said: “I’ve chosen you a witness …”

“I beg your pardon!”
She exclaimed,
“ A witness?!
A witness to infanticide? !!, 
To the bullets as they pass by reiterating the names of their hosts?
And to death as it rains down on the banks of the breasts.??”

Pity tears in her eyes
She questioned bleeding hearts 
With whispers of flush streams
With the woe of the fore waves.
How often they have witnessed
Sadness in the days of butchers 
Who, behind the trunks of deranged time,  
Kept burying the atrocity
of their innocence doves.

The rivers snuffed out the lanterns of their gulls,
And, under the stars of quiescence, 
Slumbered with fainting breath.

Fragments of wars waged by maniac rhetoricians  
Bent all the trunks of joy dancing within us;
Oh, how Mary kept shaking the trunk of the palm tree,
but embers of tragedy kept dropping upon her!

The grass was burnt...
The infant eyes lost their light 
In a clandestine rocking 

The “Fao” 
with severed head
 and red shirt
Bustling with screams.

The river was waving with the distressed ink shirt
Then, and again, hiding its face and crying
-	O Our Aunt, Our  Aunt,
Our towns
 Are now sand towns
And could no longer be saved 
By prayers.


Translation by:
Em. Prof. Inaam al-Hashimi (Gold_N_silk)
?April ?14, ?2013

*Saad Yassin Yousuf  is a poet from Iraq

The Original text in Arabic: http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=206108

Copyright © Inaam Al-Hashimi | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Political Faith Systems

eco-political traditions,
faith systems,
variations on an evolving creation story theme

Are both rooted in
and feeding on
multicultural evidence of faith in nurturance,
mental/physical health-integrative outcomes
of living trusted truths
through co-empathic forests of beauty

Or faith in more fundamental monopolistic
autonomous idolatry of ego's fragile powers

Or both,
as idolatry of gratitude for self
matures into love of 0-sum agape Oneselves,
no longer fearful of losing some value
I could never truly have had

In good-faith organic systems,
gratitude's gravity draws
in search of agape

Radiance flies toward Exterior Light.
Gravity dances with Interior Night;
a flight of fancy dance.

Radiant trees reach tender tendrils
toward touch of bright
and interior night.
Richly embedded birth searches below
with slender stealth
toward Other
where We are One nurturing co-arising Earth.

Love born again in perpetual orgasmic grasp
and release of nutrients,
information conjoins in-forming networks
toward ex-formed leaves
blossoming seeds spurting radiantly out.

Looking back through recycling times of organic egos,
Interior Landscape recalls gravity's reverse,
spiraling toward future flower,
reborn eyes
raining seeds of hope
for Exterior Landscape's richly composting ReGenesis.

Seeds spiral down,
culturing genetic
generic genesis ground,
religious trees of life and death.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016