Best Chinaberry Poems
I recall a dirty sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home
Categories:
chinaberry, childhood, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
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In the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.
While a tiny thread weaves daydreams
among tulips and chinaberry,
creating comfort along a beckoning horizon
as footsteps are soft and freedom a gift.
Birthing a simpler life singing, whistling and
smiling as a weight has been lifted
like an acorn to a nest where hunger
is merely a fading illusion.
Borderless curves of a winding way
meander without consequence
when nature forms a calming view and
confusion is a season somewhere in the past.
Where wide eyes see the future as a ray of light,
a beacon illuminating every hope,
signaling that this is your time and place
and you rejoice in the feeling.
And as peace becomes common
along avenues of cobblestone stories,
welcoming gestures bloom throughout all…
in the absence of complication.
11/20/19
For the: In the absence of complication Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Categories:
chinaberry, peace,
Form:
Free verse
The true magic of the evening
A soft breeze rustles through
pine needles swishing
amidst fireflies at play on a warm
enchanting April night
I am a bit skeptical
as you take my hand,
satin fingers intertwined,
leading me to a secluded spot
We sit in quiet anticipation
as a bright full moon keeps watch
from its cosmic perch,
illuminating our magical evening
“It is almost time” you say as
the big dipper comes into view,
directing our focus to the grove
behind the chinaberry shrubs
We can hear them giggling
as tiny feet run atop fallen leaves
creating little crackles echoing
beyond the illumined forest canopy
When suddenly crickets and cicadas
perform a mesmerizing melody
wafting from tree to tree
and you point eagerly to the opening
As twelve little fairies appear, dancing in a circle,
singing along with the nighttime tune
Iridescent wings shimmer and flutter
as do our hearts as we watch
It only lasts for a few moments
and then they are gone,
when you excitedly lean over and kiss me,
then whispering you say,
“See, I told you they were real”
I couldn’t help but smile seeing the look on your face,
your smile glowing brighter than anything in the sky
as I fell in love with you all over again
Proving to me once more,
regardless of anything I could have possibly seen,
anywhere on this night we could have gone,
the true magic of my evening . . . will always be you
Good night Soupers
Have a great Easter weekend
I will see you again on Monday
Categories:
chinaberry, good night,
Form:
Free verse
The touch of gossamer wings
on eyelids busy with the darkest,deepest
thoughts of sleep
under the chinaberry tree
bending,sighing
one with the sea of grass
windy waves
chasing each other across the yard
gone to seed
with dandelionsandforgetmenots
blueblack cats
hiding from lizards
until it is too late
coming back to bring you
a surprise
a gift of love
a wriggly trophy
to wake you laughing
from your dreams
Categories:
chinaberry, family, happiness, nostalgia,
Form:
Blank verse
.
The poem was visualized on the front, screen porch,
in silence, in wonder...
It swarmed the Autumn-purpled flowers by the door,
leafed through reds, golds of the Chinaberry Tree...
sleucing words down Sunday-wet-tin,
onto the wooden steps.
The poem never stalked like Lady McBeth, through
darkness to her ending hall, last line spoken...
Never flew too close to the Sun, as Icarus,
gathered no Phoenix rebirth...
The poem did not herald a magical Sunday.
For the poem stayed on the front porch,
and was never written.
.
Categories:
chinaberry,
Form:
Alliteration
Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill
Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face;
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.
Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.
Streaming through, flows a river Brazos
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching
Mountain top promise land dreams.
Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—
To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.
The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective:
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home…
So it’s home again and home again for me…”
My Hill—My home…My family tree. Here I grew; here I be.
Categories:
chinaberry, allegory, analogy, anniversary, black
Form:
Prose Poetry
Sage Saga Of A Home On A Hill
Having drank from the sun at meridian,
The moon drunk with the light
Of reflection, always dissipated dreaded darkness
Seeking to veil the Hill—Raised bump
Of nature’s glowing face;
This swollen womb of nature nourishing beginnings
Of generations plodding centuries wounded
With trials and tribulations—Grand Canyon invisible walls
Mocking the abyss of Middle Passage ocean depths
Carpeted with ivory bone trees rattled by circadian waves
Splashing stilled sandy sea shore stones sunken in time.
Beginnings begin with the eruption of sunlight;
Rays flowing lava-like to chloroplast genes
Of generations of quantum leaping Greens
Synthesizing seminal spirits spewing
Audacious faith—audacious faith blooming
Mushroom cloud determination rising
As a risen national family tree;
Branches thrusting tentacles forever upward.
Streaming through, flows a river Brazos
Whose residents often crawled, netted and hooked
Their way to the Hill—accepting all aching
To give or receive freely—nourishment.
A gumbo gathering of love supreme;
Charged sable soul soars—sailing
Pillow puffed verandah skies;
Stoking old horizons—searching
Mountain top promise land dreams.
Where I have been I have just begun to go;
Returning to the beginning—
To tap the toasted roots anchoring the journey’s
Design—etched beneath the shade of limbs
Of an ancient Chinaberry tree
Looking out over the Hill—
Shadowing shelled street that oysters built.
The senior poem now resonate an ebony perspective:
“…It’s sweet to dream of Venice…It’s great to think of Rome…
But when it comes to living…There’s no place like home…
So it’s home again and home again for me…”
My Hill—My home…My family tree. Here I grew; here I be.
Categories:
chinaberry, allegory, analogy, black african
Form:
Prose Poetry
A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak
Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers
One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes
Categories:
chinaberry, childhood, nature,
Form:
Free verse
Making mud tamales
Sucking cherry tomatoes
Gorging on figs til
my stomach ached
Splattering a watermelon
to the ground
Ripping its guts out
Competitively running
from the start of Isabella Street
to the Rail Road Tracks
of our dead end street
I was faster than Larry and Mike!
Blowing bubbles
that floated to Neverland
Chalking a mansion
With rooms for 50 kids
flowers and space
everywhere
Chinaberry fights
launched from the
bricked front porch
Nefretitti poised like a
snake slithering styling
down the driveway
runway
Week long Scrabble
competitions
and hours of
conversations
about the universe
and universes beyond
Parades with high
stepping majorettes
avoiding the horse manure
Jacks, jumprope and
drinking Kool-Aid from
the pitcher
(Shhh, don't tell)
Simple pleasures
Simply learned
From children
Categories:
chinaberry, childhood, happiness, nostalgia, universe,
Form:
Free verse
There is much to be said about weaponry in my childhood.
About our weapons made for play and not for conflict.
But may just one lifetime-moment suffice for now.
A moment in the manufacturing of Bow And Arrows.
At about the age of 6 or 7, I suspect, I built a weapon.
Although not a weapon of mass destruction, it was the blink
of an eye from becoming the destroyer of one of my eyes.
I'd say 'the sling shot and bow and arrow' were our favorites.
I shall never forget, not the arrows, but the rubber band and bow.
We made them strong and tight. Although it seldom crosses my mind,
When it does, I feel the moment.
One day, I'd fetched my bow and rubber band.
I don't recall, but perhaps the arrows were somewhere near;
Or maybe yet to be carved from strong Chinaberry tree limbs.
Anyway, the lad labeled alone that day, connecting band and bow
As tight as could be. The bow was big and blunt, and had it been
Shaped otherwise, the lad would surely have lost one of his eyes.
The bow and rubber band were being pulled so tight that the band
Slipped from his tiny hands and punched him on the eye. His eyelid
Took the pain, but his eyeball, left untouched, remained the same.
100921PS
Categories:
chinaberry, boy, childhood,
Form:
Narrative
Deer linger in the bitterbrush
Below the gambel oak—
The brittle fern shows no concern
For killdeer or cowpoke.
The miner’s candle lights our way
Now lost in limber pine—
The water birch does not besmirch
Beargrass at timberline.
Sky pilots bend on mountain side
Dark as the black hawthorn—
A horned lark rests on the ninebark—
Between the two we’re torn.
We journey south through water oak,
Coral bean, supple jack—
We ride beneath magnolia leaf
And miss not what we lack.
A canebrake rattler comes too close,
Like death in the sweet bay—
Chinaberry makes us tarry
This oleander day.
Categories:
chinaberry, cowboy-western, imagination, introspection, nature,
Form:
Cowboy Poetry
My best guess is that I must
have been 6 or 7. Back then,
long before boys like me turned
into men, I had a friend named Jack.
Anyway, I was just a little boy
when I first met him. He was
truly at-one with the entire
family, but I recall him being
given to me by my father. clearly,
no greater gift had I received
before the gift of Jack.
I loved him so very much, and his love
for me and my family was no less. He
was my pride and joy; always there for
me, to serve and protect. Our time together
was a most precious thing, but was shortened
by his untimely death.
My entire family loved him deeply; and we all were
there as we buried Jack under the Chinaberry tree in
our front yard. I think that part of my heart must have
been buried with Jack, because I have never again been
able to love a dog or any pet like I loved Jack.
090922PSCtest, BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE. Strand
Categories:
chinaberry, childhood, dog, friendship, pets,
Form:
Narrative
If I gave it time, I suppose hundreds of things would come to mine.
Like the old two-story mansion where my father's friend made moonshine.
Like the feel of blue, an escape route, that turned many to singing the blues.
'That blue feel' was still strong and hung in the atmosphere like cloths on a back-yard cloth-line.
The combines and farm equipment now occupy the old homesites.
The Chinaberry tree, under which we buried my dog Jack, and the peach trees from which we feasted on sweet treats appear to have taken flight.
Yes, they are the landowners, but who gave them the right? Who gave
them the right to overlook and completely disregard as trite, the passage
to my past? Of course, they had every legal right, and I had none. Yet,
I felt that something of great substance was taken away from me.
To see and feel such blight breeds disgust, not delight.
Was not the lowly impoverished life, lasting for O so long
and burdening languishing souls for generations enough wrong?
It was once a place where I roamed but never felt I belonged;
A place of mere existence that I longed to someday make an exit.
Forty plus years and 2000 miles removed, but the memories persisted.
And the sweet taste of family created there never departed my sensory.
And the fragrance of love introduced there never escaped my memory.
But I wanted to see my birthplace again for myself with my own eyes.
I longed to see my Genesis where I often craved a rendezvous with Exodus.
Although the feel was strange, and the pain was real, there's no
denying that the little quiet village is very much a part of me still.
Some things from our yesterdays are untouchable and forever sealed.
And it is often difficult to explain the pain that in time shall all be healed.
040722PS
Categories:
chinaberry, family, home,
Form:
Narrative
Winter Coolers
The air of Delhi,
Giving the pure air bely,
One-time visit to our Suraj valley,
Where even stone mosses give pure air.
Where the discussion on the Chinaberry,
Giving Great Green Back Order,
To Cloud Computing cloudiness ( pollutants ) Maker,
Giving Originally order to Organized Oregon,
When Cloud bawls and fallen teardrop,
Telling The Kohinoor salvation,
Where on winter flour Dive from Sky,
The rind of the Seville Soar Orange tells the Winter Cooler Current.
Categories:
chinaberry, angst, color, drug, earth,
Form:
Rhyme
Even the most familiar surroundings were unrecognized
A most fathomless affair; the search for yesterday
The Old Library and playground were also gone
The Chinaberry tree, a landmark, was gone
A most strange emotion hovered over me,
And every trace of the homesite was gone
100722PSCtest, Bite Size. Line Gauthier. 2P
Categories:
chinaberry, home,
Form:
Verse