Best Beeches Poems
I saw magical faeries.
Tripping in and around
Sparkling wings shining
In the dazzling sunbeams
That transversally filtered
Through the mighty beeches
Of a Bavarian forest.
A royal feast proclaimed.
The mighty Queen arrived.
And took her place on a throne
In a prominent part of the glen.
Sumptuous abundant delicacies
Appeared out of nowhere,
Cheeses and pixie pears,
And saffron flavoured cakes,
Plus, milk laced with honey.
Enchanting lively music
Advanced towards the glen.
Happiness and Felicity
Thrilled the expectant audience.
Soon, darkness fell around,
But innumerable, bright glow worms
Lit up the secluded grassy glen.
Dancing thus began in earnest.
Until they tired out and all returned
To their cosy leaves to dream
About their lovely Fairy Queen.
Categories:
beeches, fairy, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
How lovely to spend time
On a hillock overlooking the bay!
The ruddy sun just warms enough,
So I’ll enjoy my perfect day.
The sea is not perfectly calm.
Waves roll towards the beach,
What are they whispering to the sand?
What thoughts I wish I could reach?
There on the other side of the lake shore,
I spy a fascinating pristine vale
White beeches cover most of the land,
Except for a cottage that stands in the dale.
It is the place I want to go
So I take a leisurely walk
Ignoring the restless harbour bars
Avoiding friends who would want to talk.
The air is fresh in the awesome vale,
I watch a hawk attack a sparrow,
But my mind is on the cottage,
As I wend my way though it is narrow.
She must have sensed I was so near,
As she comes out and there we kiss.
I hear the dulcet sounds of mellow tunes
Euphoria reaches its peak, my mind in a mist.
Inside the cottage lavender perfumed,
She brings me the delicacy of an ambrosial repast.
Satiated we rest on a soft sofa
My dearest love reaches its peak at last.
Categories:
beeches, love,
Form:
Rhyme
Martin came to a cleft in the rocks
The oriole must have gone this way
It was narrow and curving
A sudden turn, and everything seemed to change.
Shrill, reedy music of pipes filled the heavy air,
A smell of musk of goats and their dung.
Invisible cicadas sustained the piper's lament.
Suddenly, he found himself in front of a small but deep lake.
Weeping willows, large copper-coloured beeches
Surrounded by a large pool of azure water.
There was a calm tranquillity about the place
Whilst the air was saturated with a fragrance
Of exotic flowering lavender-like trees.
He heard a splash, and out stepped a young woman.
Her canary yellow elegant swimsuit
Clung wetly to her honey-coloured body.
Damp citrine hair formed a frame around an oval face
That was highlighted by an upturned, pointed nose.
He did not move but stood mesmerized,
Looking into her blue, limpid eyes.
A sweet smile shimmered on her lips.
"Hello," she said in a mellifluous voice.
Her smile was inviting. "My name is Goldie Oriole.
Come, sit near me
And tell me how you found this place."
To be concluded in Part 3
Categories:
beeches, bird, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
He heard the crows,
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows.
There was for him,
always, uncertainty in the cawing,
an uncertainty he couldn’t hear,
though he tried for most of his life.
There was brotherhood, yes, brotherhood—
an association-brotherhood, a knowing, an approval,
with only one man to answer—himself.
If he could be the man with the answer,
he would really know the crow-uncertainty-language,
then his own, yet unknown need for approval would be released.
He thought, Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Magnanimous tutors all, crows, Kafka-ing their way through life,
with K their jackdaw father— great approval there.
He thought, Don’t wait for that one.
He wondered if he’d been under a spell,
the crow-uncertainty-language-spell
of Beckleigh, beeches, bluegills,
shrubs and lightning bugs that sang their own cawing-choruses
in waxed paper covered mayonnaise jars.
Beckleigh, where he and neighbor children
called out from tree-castles,
from every named and friendly bush,
and in mimetic blessedness
that flowed from every child’s heart,
cast their primal caw, caw, caw in tones that pleased the earth itself.
Each step they made, each caw that came
pledged allegiance to some truth,
with approval from below shooting up their legs,
and wind and sun sweeping it into their nostrils.
Dedication and commitment never fell out of season.
One day after years took hold of
Beckleigh, beeches, crows and caws
he heard the distant cry of uncertainty,
like Echo, throwing her voice across the chambers of his heart.
He sensed an essence, perhaps love itself—he paused;
morning-cawing-crows,
morning-language-cawing-crows,
caw, caw, caw.
Oh, to be in the crow’s nest at feeding time.
Categories:
beeches, animals, childhood, imagination, nature
Form:
Free verse
The vividness of the dazzling tones
of an Autumn's landscape is alluring,
making the beeches gleam when it rains;
it has captured me into the realm of fantasy,
as I am taken onto a road walked by a couple
that strolls side by side so gladly and serenely.
Gogh's ghost speaks to me from a gilded frame,
he invites me in to accompany him to his home...
down a path that he has walked before;
he senses my contentment of wonder,
so gladdened by his September landscape,
then slowly he unfolds his mystery to me."
He explains why he painted the flamboyant scenery,
" Any man affected by such a vision
must not stand still and contemplate it;
he must grab brush and paint and live
his last noble moments in the shadow of solitariness. "
" After I died, my paintings have made fortunes,
I was paid little, not enough to survive my day;
at times, money was scarce even to buy
a canvass, but relying on providence
I have been rewarded for my patience,
and seeing you admire what I've created,
makes me happy and worthy of my accomplishment. "
" Thank you, kind friend for your valued company;
I am a few yards from home: a grave with a granite
headstone is the coldest place in the depths of the earth!
Here, I'm warmed by sun rays...a return to a past life;
may I ask you to take me back to my gilded frame?
I feel a complete stranger after a long absence;
my real home is not where I was born and painted...
it's there in that landscape I call sweet refuge. "
I walk him back as he straddles on his tired feet,
and looking at me he warns, " Aspiring artist,
don't let time be your merciless foe, defeat it
with every ounce of courage, get to work! "
I heed those prophetical words and ponder
them along the lively path that resembles the one
he had painted for humanity to appreciate beauty.
Painting: " Les Alyscamps " by Vincent von Gogh
Written on 5/6/2016
Categories:
beeches, art, autumn, beautiful, beauty,
Form:
Free verse
A restless night, another hum-drum day,
Resolve to take a pleasurable walk;
I make my way towards St Mary’s church.
Across the street, a sixteenth century home –
Maltravers Manor, testament to time.
I’m heading for the ancient Hollow Way
Where towering beeches shade the wagon route.
“The Hatchet” standing at the crossroads, empty !
Bereft ! No pints are pulled here any more.
Along the High Street, past the Corner Cottage
Perambulating slowly now I pass
Refurbished “Childrey Stores” and Chapel House,
The Primitive Methodists’ former home.
And next, the Childrey pond comes into view --
It’s guarded by a dozen angry geese
And to the right the Old Post Office stands –
No stamps or letters, now a family home.
Beside the bus-stop here’s the “village” hall
In red brick builded by Victorian hands :
The Working Mens Club And Reading Room
Where farming labourers were wont to meet.
Next a modern non-conformist chapel
On the site of earlier Methodist Hall.
Then looking West a high brick wall contains
A cedar, vintage, sixteen forty six,
As high above a noisy rookery sways.
We now fork right by Rampanes Manor House.
Set in the wall, a dedication plaque
Records the founding of the Old Schoolroom,
Of seventeen thirty two, for local boys,
Established by the knight George Fettiplace.
Along Church Row we pass Cantorist House,
Originally the Chantry House for priest,
Three almsmen, to assist in singing mass
For the soul of Sir Edmund of Childrey.
Enter St Mary’s by the southern door,
Then down the aisle, I’m heading for the chancel
Where ancient brass recalls five hundred years
Of folk who lived and died in Cilla’s Rill.
I’ll leave as campanologists arrive
To ring the changes loud across the land.
Through the serried ranks of slate and marble,
I weave a path towards a wooden bench,
And here I’ll rest, below the old Scots pine,
To watch the setting sun across the fields.
Categories:
beeches, history, journey, travel,
Form:
Iambic Pentameter
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
Categories:
beeches, imagination, mystery, nature, tree,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I often visited this forest,
making acquaintance
with a centennial maple tree;
there I conversed eloquently...
as if I were talking to a trusted friend.
I went back yesterday around nine
to admire its shimmering green foilage,
and discovered it was cut down to a stump...
before crashing and breaking the brenches of birch and pine,
as black ooze bleeded, fuxed and bubbled under its cracked bark.
And wondering what causes its fall,
I searched for a cause by examining its trunk...
leading to its rotten roots detached from loose soil;
was it too old to withstand a fierce Autumn's storm?
Or did a violent torrent add to its toil?
Unfortunately, nothing I do or say will comfort it,
its death has came too suddenly and violently,
taking down many beeches and firs beneath it;
now, a wide space above it has let in sunlight...
taking away the cool shade that sheltered me.
I grieve for the anguish and helplessness that it felt,
not having been there to embrace it...
as soon as it plunged to the untroubled ground below;
ah, if that tempest had never come,
I wouldn't be weeping and be overcome by sorrow!
Categories:
beeches, nature, sad, seasons,
Form:
Quintain (English)
The beeches
Three queenly beeches on an English hill,
Tree spirits, sisters, who kept watch for centuries.
Root ridges cross and knit a wooden carpet;
Bare branches tangle, twist, and leave a mosaic,
Like stained glass windows, of pale April sky.
January 4, 2017
For contest Rooting for 8 to 5
Sponsored by nette onclaud
1st place
Categories:
beeches, nature, tree,
Form:
Verse
Hallows Eve to Candlemas,
the sun now turning south,alas;
November sombre,December dark,
January,February cold and stark.
Catkins litter the forest floor,
beeches shed their leaves galore.
Gales melange the mix,as decay brings
nature's bionomics.
Hexagon pointed stars move and shift ,
into a patterned powdered drifts.
Rain filled days of slush and muck,
webs on shards of gossamer
stuck.
Twilight months in winter shade
until the snowdrops matamorphise
in the glade.
Categories:
beeches, nature, seasons,
Form:
Prose Poetry
In brooding dusk they gather from the East
Arrive in twos and threes upon the trees.
Autumn beeches, now devoid of leaves,
Begin to darken as the branches heave
And teem with animated rooks.
And jackdaws too, all jockeying for space,
Amid this vibrant, raucous, corvid mass,
Jostling, shifting, squabbling for pride of place,
To raise their voices, demand attention
Speaking freely in this parliament.
When sunset beckons they slip the air
In charcoal squadrons to the field below
Where, in serried ranks along each furrow,
They bow and scrape in search of meagre fare
For supper and the long dark night.
The leader signals, adjourns the meeting –
Vast clouds arise, a thousand wings beating,
Driven as a single being, Westward
To their high swaying roost – murmur greeting,
Huddle together against the cold.
Categories:
beeches, bird, nature, night,
Form:
Verse
It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,;
Autumn rust,red,gold,so gay
Drystone walls edging fields,
Apples gathered,holly berries
Flash so brightly
Look like flowers
Sun shines sideways,shadows long
Of trees appear.I dwell among
Woods of gentle beeches sing
Swaying with the sideward wind.
See their roots, all intertwined.
Feel their geometry in the mind.
Look up now into the sky,
See the V formation high.
Geese fly home at end of day.
My heart is moved by patterned dance
In this peace and great silence
My mind widens like the sky
And in this moment I would die,
So I would stay with this still vision
Of geese set out on autumn mission.
Snails in rain pools slither near
My feet upon the terrace here
And look,upon their whorled backs
All the sense of life is packed.
And yet so easily Life’s destroyed,
When blind foot steps into the void
Categories:
beeches, allegory, beauty, metaphor, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
Silent beeches.
Beckleigh beeches.
Great temple beeches.
Caw, caw, beeches.
Childhood beeches.
Country club beeches.
Enveloping beeches.
Belonging beeches.
Memories beeches.
Just where does the bark end
and the skin begin?
Categories:
beeches, introspection, nature,
Form:
That was the place of our first encounter, a grove that
painted our inner feelings, much more on these smiles
lit by sunshine; that was our favorite refuge when spring
gave us her wonderful gift, and dreaming we fell asleep.
Both moon and stars gleamed over us and thin clouds with their gentle
caress awoke us to pretty moonlight; and having forgotten how to get
back home, we decided to stay and spend more time in fervent kisses..
Fireflies seemed fairladies ready to grant wishes, and our only wish was
to add another romantic night, but stars jealous of them asked the calm
wind to blow, and it loudly blew dispersing them in the beeches above.
That sentimental adventure not planned, but merely fantasized
became real and remembering it now with extreme, nostalgic joy:
it binds us even more to the tender memory of the eternal spring;
a spring wild and young, and as trees bloomed, so did love in us.
Written on 6/7/2016
Categories:
beeches, beauty, happiness, love, moon,
Form:
Free verse
re-post inspired by Constance contest
WINTER HAIBUN
Hallow Eve to Candlemas,the sun now turning south,;November is
sombre,December dark,January,February cold and stark.Catkins litter the forest
floor,beeches shed their leaves galore.Gales melange the mix,as decay brings
nature's bionomics.Hexagon pointed stars move and shift ,into a patterned
powdered drifts.Rain filled days of slush and muck,webs on shards of gossamer
stuck.Twilight months in winter shade until the snowdrops matamorphise in the glade
shapes spread statuesque
foliage in Winter clothes-
melancholy me
Categories:
beeches, poetry, winter,
Form:
Haibun