Best Bole Poems
SONNET FOR KELLY
The Spring has come a little late this year
Siberian winds and rain have chilled the soul
Though calendar proclaimed that April’s here
No tiny leaves yet rimmed the Elm tree bole *
But One brought inner Spring to heart and mind
And raised the spirits strength to face our chore
Providing us a warmth for which we pined
Then gave us boost that we might start to soar
With raven hair and sparking ebon eye
A glittering jewel on grey cold cloth she shon
Then life here was revived till by and bye
The long awaited Spring gave a new dawn
So we’ll recall long after our departs
How she allayed the cold and warmed our hearts
April 2018
* Reference to Robert Browning poem: ‘Home thoughts from abroad’
Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
Stiff pleated fronds in concert rise
to wax under the April sun
and trill their canticles begun
in verses jade that they comprise.
Chartreuse of thorny branches splay
a tumult to belie the grace
that on display they interlace
like rose stems on a breezeless day.
Atop the thatched denuded bole
gush fountains cast in cardamom,
an opalescent diadem
that glistens on the mossy knoll.
In thus exuberant array
do cloistered peacocks mime ballet.
1/20/18
The sun closes in on itself imploding.
Storm clouds clots like cream.
The sky tinged a rancid yellow of dream
raises tornadoes like totems scolding.
A wet haze weeps through the pine trees
furthering the sky’s somber malaise.
Life, a missing actor on the stage,
the rare and ripest red of blood, ceases.
Yet, the bole of trees carved, coalesces to form
the winged memory of bird, man and bear,
letting all of those who have forgotten stare
upon the aged markers of clans long gone.
And so life, death and the day end eternally glazed
making way for rain-bowed hues within the maze.
Poet: D. Guzzi
Date: 8/13/11
Bare tree branches waving histerically at the ground
Wind is blowing Shadows, to be lost and never found
The wind she whistles, alluring, as the Sirens of old
Nakedness of Winter Nature, shivers in the cold
As snow floats down, a blanket weaves around the soul
Warm, the squirrels sing and dance in the nest inside your bole
As evening rises, the wind ceases, the freezing cold stands still
Wind stands motionless, behind the rocks up on the hill
Everyday the trees absorbs the warmth from the SON
Soon the buds will sprout, Winter will be gone
Dedicated to Toquyen Harrell
The white-breasted nuthatch
upside down the ancient bole.
If it has no soul, neither do I.
Pencils criss-crossed on the desk,
sticks tangled on the ground.
Oblong lenticels, yellow stars.
We try to worship the divine
in our sexual partners. They **** and sweat diurnally
and fear their deaths. But the abstract
God has also died. He lied to say he was
eternal. Earth must burn, universe grow cold.
Old field species become ornamentals.
Mosquitoes prey on us, and black flies.
The body decays, and this is what you come
to love. And the ants that carry it away.
This morning, the profusion of species
contents me. The temperate zone is warm, late May.
The posture of that bird is good to emulate.
A lone cottonwood tree stands on the rolling Colorado plain.
A rippling stream flows nearby, its existence to sustain.
Its lofty branches reach for the pristine Colorado sky.
Tho' badly scarred, the ravages of time it continues to defy.
I tarry 'neath its welcoming shade to muse about its past.
For a century or more it has witnessed the passage of time so vast.
Why did this sturdy sentry survive when others fell away,
Yet, shedding a blizzard of cottony snow each ensuing May?
I wonder if it was a landmark beacon for hardy pioneers,
As they traveled e'er westward seeking new frontiers.
Perhaps a patrol of cavalry paused 'neath its welcome shadow,
To take respite from their weary trek across the sere plateau.
Scars remain where buffalo scratched their hides upon its bole.
I suspect that it was a sanctuary for graceful antelope on patrol.
I could imagine a majestic eagle perched atop its aerie,
Reposing from its search for prey across the endless prairie.
Rustling leaves startled me from my nostalgic reverie.
Were phantoms of the past gathering about this very special tree?
I felt as tho' God considered this solitary tree renowned.
I respectfully withdrew, sensing I'd intruded upon sacred ground!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
the acorn in the oak
bark bone fingers crusted brown
waving sinew, shedding sky
tap root summon’d deeply down
sighs like summer sound in rain
building up then down the shade
sunlight filters dappled beams
stormwinds wild up the glade
growth rings tell of time and fire
knots hold moments, seasons pass
thunderhead now roaring branches
whirlwind leaves in leaning grass
now black clouds spill heavy ink
first a smatter, soon much more
trunk soaked humid, lichen slick
ozone bite, ionic pour
for a moment pause creation
flash the static, crash the drum
rock the heavens, cloak the sun
clouds bursting out electric thrum
flashing pulse and threading sap
plasma blaze down wooded stroke
crack the mighty, split the bole
greenfather fallen low and broke
spent the clouded day turns blue
as from a storm new days are born
and next to ragged roots and grounded trunk
the oak waits quiet in the acorn...
I can't blame the teenage girl for being forward,
then passive aggressive. It shouldn't make one angry;
she has her interests and that which bores her.
Or the adolescent boy for being antsy, a little loopy
and aloof. Under that hat he wants to be good,
is deeply disappointed with the world (and the food).
Robert Francis: the finest poet no one reads.
We care not. Such prisms of philosophy need
no acknowledgment. The catamount is only believed
to be extinct. The wildlife tree, a mere bole,
deep in the forest, far off the road, when it falls
takes many squirrel turbines and spider spans down with it.
Noon, Julian has nothing much to do
and likes it that way. That way nothing much gets done today.
Every man, every tree, lives with disabilities.
Crooked finger, rotten bole, under stars, over soils.
The I in my old poems is no longer me. The one
in this one will be someone else soon.
When life seems empty
And there’s no place to go
Unlike most artists I became Salvador Dali
My Life daily tasks as a poet
It’s allow my spirit to go from high to low
With my blessed hands and my tired feet
a hard working peasant woman with diamond toes
I set the countdown each passing day while I slave away.
Those Infectious bole place in high positions,
Governor of all the Nurses
Using their authorities to weaken the spirits of the peasant
And the down trodden souls who line your corridors both day and night
however, this burden that seem too heavy to bear now....(bibilical
God will lifts away on the wing of prayers.
The wind blows clean
scouring in Sakkara, Necropolis of Memphis
gem of Upper Egypt.
The purity of sand and sky
maintained by late rising
in the twentieth century.
The titan walls reach from a sea of silica
crystalline grit of ground quartz
once drowned,
devoured by desert, now disgorged…
the mill of life having preserved
the germ of memory eternal.
Far from the light surge of
incandescent and florescent,
from the leavings of modern man
Sakkara rises again, for such as we to glory in…
Imhotep’s caress of stone, song of sand
Rises, as morning follows night,
Rises like bole of palm
stroking the cheek of Ra.
Tonight we sit ‘round ye ol’ Christmas tree,
But not the tree of yesterday or yester year you see.
Lights shine from the bole and tips so free.
We do not sit on stools or bended knee,
Nay, we sit on floating bubbles filled with glee.
Tonight we sit ‘round on Christmas eve.
Each branch and each stem hollow and clear,
With glorious colors rushing from there to here.
Self-driven instruments give us reasons to cheer,
While grandad is grinning from ear to ear.
The world is at peace; today leaves us no fear,
No one looks to tomorrow, no matter how near.
History’s Christmas gifts once sat down below,
But today they fly high, and are able to flow.
Their covers like metal adorned with a glass bow,
And brilliant tints that shine, leaving the ceiling aglow.
The children stare at the presents wanting to know,
How presents arrived when Santa’s is yet to show.
The Misses and Meemaw dawn matching shirts,
Both steady in the kitchen hydrating desserts.
The rehydrator jingles several festive alerts,
“Supper is ready”, sang like a Christmas concert.
Papa gripes at the boys “Someone’s gone git hurt.”
The boys outside giggle and play in the dirt.
Time to set the table, a task easy and quick,
With just a command a table rises from the thick.
Soon from the thin came golden chairs of glass brick,
Chairs light as air, glistening, and ever so slick.
Plates soon filled the table, candles lit by the wick,
By the snap of a finger the flames came like magic.
So we have all gathered round in the most merry mood,
In awe of what has been hydrated and brewd.
We grasp the utensils that are glistening and blued,
As we will be ready to eat and prayer will conclude.
I apologize for the inconvenience, or if I seem shrewd,
But this conversation is over, it’s time to eat food.
A Futuristic Christmas 12/10/2015
She nested upon
her self-made pyre
preparing for
another genesis
in blaze hues of love
and together they were
a combustible fire
She, the creature
exquisitely
forged by fire
eternally
existing within
love's dimensions
designed
to mesmerize
us, by swirling amber
scarlet, and purple
plumage
with flecks of cobalt colors
delicately dissolving
amid the firelight
shadows, a macabre dance
her last love song
Seemingly born
to say goodbye
and sweet is her demise
this touch of heaven
healing the wounded
weeping
eternal teardrops
of Truth and beauty
into hearts, selflessly
with nothing to gain
consuming pain
all things made new
And so it begins
again and again
as it ends...
one of life's treasures
never-ending hope, her
sacrifice of love
____
20 Titles From 20 Friends contest prompt:
Another Genesis (M.L. Kiser)
Blaze Hues of Love (Eve Roper)
Together They Were a Combustible Fire (Caren Krutsinger)
Forged by Fire (Line Gauthier)
Love's Dimensions (Winged Warrior)
Mesmerize Us (Gershon Wolf)
Cobalt Colors (Connie Marcum Wong)
A Macabre Dance (P.S. Autry)
Last Love Song (Sherry Asbury)
Born to Say Goodbye (Silent One)
And Sweet is Her Demise (Andrea Dietrich)
This Touch of Heaven (Arturo Michael)
Weeping (Richard Lamoureaux)
Eternal Teardrops (Michelle Faulkner)
Truth and Beauty (Agnes Krampe)
Nothing to Gain (Freddie Robinson Jr.)
Consuming Pain (Maureen McGreavy)
All Things (Charlene Bole)
And So It Begins (Jan Allison)
One of Life's Treasures (Old Buck)
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Under the tree in Africa, we sap strength
from the songs of the sparrows before sunlight.
as we walk to the farm, the
morning breeze brush our
body from the billowing branches.
We pick up our hoes and cutlasses
and keep our basket and calabash,
the big Agbadas of the elders and our little
catapult hang on the bole as we plough and plant.
Under the tree in Africa we relish
the radiance of reality as we rest
after the rigor of raising ridges.
we break the dried branches to make fire
to roast the harvested maize;
we stroll with the spirits as we slumber,
listening to the whispers of the wind
and wake up to feast on the roasted maize
with some cold water from the serene stream.
Under the tree in Africa we share
the shield of shadows,
shying away from the sun
as we walk back to the village.
We use our traps to tame birds;
making some meat available mama's,
meal by moonlight, throwing stones at some
ripe fruits we have a feel of freshness
and get some fruit for friends and family,
we get locked in luck as we get lots of grains
and goodies that gives us passion and pride.
At twilight, under the tree is a place to be in Africa,
the elders drink from the cup of culture.
Passing the calabash with love; there is enough Palm
wine and bush meat to go round,
quarrels are settled, feuds are finalized as the echoes
of the evening resounds.
The day's delight are shared, friendships are
found and formed as fresh fragrance flows.
The children chant with vibrating voices, moral
melodies are mimed with clapping of hands under
the tree in Africa.
Graceful games and spirited sports go on as
communal creeds cruise in their conscience.
The elders feed their seeds with the water of wisdom
as they share folktales and facts,the children are charged to
be charming as they listen to the tales by moonlight..
In Africa the women sings with virtuous voices
as they make mats, beads, basket and raffia
under the tree.
nursing mothers keep their sucklings on the mat
for the cool breeze to caress their soft skin,
at twilight, women roll out local pots, mortal and pestle,
to prepare pounded yam and melon soup for their household,
as the food-is-ready alarm sounds, folks and friends
gather to dine and wine as the moon peeps through
the leaves under the tree in Africa.