Acorns Poems - Poems about Acorns

Snap crack the hard Pebbled acorns ricochet As if thrown by invisible Hands of nature’s forces Some fall straight Others propel with Unjust uncertainty and Deliverance passerby Pegged and peppered Squirrels intent on Getting their winter Food source fulfilled Scurry around burying The acorns in Potted plants, piles of Leaves or any such Hiding spot I often wander how They remember where Each...

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Red Oak menstruates in the heat of summer Beech and maples stand back from her labor Moonlight lifts her skirt Wind drifts through her leaves She stomps in circles only the owls divine Piper of voles She checks the many holes up and down her body Shivers An ancient skin crawling with leafhoppers and katydids Pinches herself of replications Like a plate glass window shattered...

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Autumn aromas. Apple crisp, pumpkin spice, cinnamon cider, Watch out, a spider! Crisp air and cozy coming. Chestnuts roasting, marshmallow toasting, turkey roasting, host boasting. Oak branches cover their little brown spinning beginnings. Solid trees regal and strong, two of them hold an owl’s song, outdoors: orange, yellow, brown, fluttering down. Raking. Reading, reflecting, red delicious eating. Nippy nature walks. Napping. November moon, are you ready? Winter...

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This is the change in the acorns. These black ones are from yesterday. The brown ones are actually from years ago, that I had saved in a basket. I have had the area tested with a trustworthy testing person and waiting on results regarding toxins. It is up in the air whether...

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Acorns fallow where do squirrels feed Snowdrops late this year The seasons awry and still we feel the cold as the arcane wind barricades itself amongst the pummelled fence Here a strange madness begins to find out its root of dreams amongst the dying trees...

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When we kill a tree Does a forest sigh Rustle with grief that One of them should die. Is there apprehension, Do the trees even hear, The clinking clanking sound As the felling gang draws near. The real flowers of the world, The lungs of the Earth, Helping cleanse the air from the moment of their birth. Their beauty being replaced By a much lesser scene As we uproot...

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Acorns falling down And the squirrels are loving it On the ground below...

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It’s Saturday morning. I’m at the acorn, my favorite coffee shop, on my iPad and deep in concentration. I’m time traveling back, to things seen and said, trying to create a story poem about recent happenings - or failing that - something quick and arbitrary. I hear an “Ahem” and look up. A skinny, twenty-something man,...

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ripe acorns falling squirrels' lush verdant abode sequestered clearing 10th place "Squirrel Haiku" Poetry Contest by Robert J Ligouri 2/22/22...

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Since we were created as part of nature…part of her trees…her mountains…her brooks…it’s no wonder we find comparisons to nature…everywhere we look. For instance…I often think how we, as babies, are similar to acorns in the snow…how we’re both created in innocence…how there’s so much we don’t know. How we look to our parents to help us...

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On the path of the colorful trees, in autumn days I walk; And I am filled with the beautiful sights and forest sounds. In the chill season of glory, upon a vivid nature catwalk, Acorns and leaves are falling, and perfect silence abounds, Save the haunting autumnal birdsong, which forever surrounds. The frenzied squirrels are feasting, and leaves rustle slow, And...

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climb slowly little squirrel cling to the lichens and bark enjoy your travels, bring home cheeky souvenirs 9/26/2020 “or bust,” an idiom expressing a determination to get something done or die trying. Used in travels. For example: “Florida or bust”...

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Coffin dodgers and nursing home lodgers, wrinklies, pensioners and plain old codgers. A drain on society, archaic models of piety, bed blockers, youth knockers, paragons of sobriety. But is all that we see, all that it seems, the elderly, like you, still have hopes and dreams. Still carry the baton for tomorrow's youth, the keepers of history, the sentinels of truth. Though the...

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I make my home in an old, gnarled oak tree, well, that is where I was born and I never left; it is a woodpecker hole- mother made the nest, I had seven siblings but they are all gone; and mother left too . . . I am not sure why. I spend my daylight hours collecting acorns, they are...

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juggling acorns oak blinks his consternation autumn wind scare...

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