Best Cottonwoods Poems
Renegade trees are popping up all over my yard.
Reminding me that I am the interloper; it is their turf.
This is a forest, wild and well-guarded by giant oaks and cottonwoods.
Soldiers who will be here hundreds of years after we are gone.
I sit in the middle of the forest, in the meadow where my gardens are.
Marveling at my red knock out roses, which are a vivid hot pink.
A tiny stick of an elm tree has popped through in this garden.
I am nurturing it, like a mother nurtures her baby,
This is Kansas where tens of thousands of elms were murdered
By an elm disease.
There has not been an elm tree here for twelve years.
Miraculously, this might be the only elm in Kansas for all I know.
This baby elm is proof that we do not own the land.
She will be here, giving shade hundreds of years after I am gone.
You’d think a dog named Lucky,
Would lead a decent life.
But Lucky had his troubles,
And they followed day and night.
One day Lucky ran away
In search of greener pastures
Just to find a field ablaze,
Thus the start of his disasters.
Although Lucky didn’t die that day
And no limbs or parts were broken,
Lucky smelled of smoldered hair
And you’d swear he kept on smokin!
And Lucky liked to chase the cars,
Till the day he lost his nerve
When Lucky met a big ‘ol bus
That couldn’t stop or swerve.
I’m not sure just how it hit him
Or how he’s here today.
But he’s never walked straight since,
And one eye veers away.
My Lucky always clashed with cats
And was leery of their paws.
Until a “Tom” of forty pounds
Let Lucky feel his jaws.
Hair and fur balls filled the air
Like Cottonwoods a bloomin.
Poor ‘ol Lucky lost an ear,
And now looks twice as stupid.
I confess, I named him wrong
And why he stays, I’ll never know.
I guess that I’m the lucky one,
To have Lucky here at home.
Now this is quiet a famous little stream, many untold story
The muddy waters run slow, but don't let it fool you when it comes alive
Divides the United States and Mexico, but it is just a line
Old Cottonwood trees and quick sand, some cross it for glory
A history of out laws crossed it fleeing into Mexico, some did not survive
Maybe holding up a bank or stealing from a gold mine
Long yesterdays ago, Pancho Villa and his raiders came
They robbed and killed, then head back to their sanctuary
Some though him to be a hero, to the poor he was a giver
He was an out law, that is where he got his fame
Even today there are those that will argue to the contrary
After he did his damage, he always crossed that river
Those muddy waters have seen a lot and still active
It has been a battle ground, many old cowboy songs sung
But like history, the old river changes too
Sometimes history is not very attractive
Those cottonwoods have seen many horse and cow thieves hung
Back in those days that what they had to do
The tides of the old river have changed. smugglers bring drugs to this side
No longer six shooters, it is machine guns now days
No more cowboys and Indians, now cocaine desperado thugs
Anything goes there, no such thing as pride
And the old river once again has had to change it's ways
It is all because of damn old drugs
I fondle the brush strokes of a brown afternoon,
inviting me along, to the land of down under.
I will take a small journey, under gunmetal skies,
through country as rough as the crackled veneer.
On the trail of the outback, while the afternoon sighs,
there are three saddled horses, two men, and their packs.
Roustabouts are riding, with the sun at their backs.
A pall of white petals drift over their heads,
from a rift in the cottonwoods, that frame the river’s bed.
I will drink in illusion, as the horses refresh,
as they prance through deep waters,
on that calm, summer's day.
I am thirsty, and eager, to reach out and touch,
and to ride in the outback, beneath silver skies,
on the one extra horse, that lingers nearby...
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Based on the Painting "A Lil' Bit of Aus..."
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I paced placidly along picturesque pathways,
Around the vast verdant valley that led nowhere.
Oh Debbie, my Debbie, disappeared in thin air!
I'll search and I'll search and mutter a prayer,
I texted her and called her, but alas all seemed in vain.
Ah Debbie, my Debbie, I shouted her name.
All echoed back at me. still, I yearn for her love.
I imagined her hot lips, lingering on mine,
Yet she escaped me and flew like a rock dove,
But why, oh why? We fitted like a glove.
The blissful breeze blew through the cottonwoods,
"I'm here! I'm here!" Her voice echoed impulsively,
Elated I searched among the trees near a river.
I saw her there, beneath the willow, seductively.
I ran and hugged her tight, with all our fecundity.
Tresa faerie was excited.
Today was the day assignments were coming out.
She had been in training for six weeks.
She wondered where she would be placed.
Alaska? Paris? Tokyo? Hawaii? New Zealand?
Kenya? Texas? Rome? California?
She was quivering with pure excitement.
Would she be an April Faerie?
An April faerie gets to paint the flowers.
She had put it down as her first choice.
Second choice was not bad either. She might be assigned to a prophetess,
Whispering premonitions in her ear, being rewarded with love and affection.
Prophetesses were known to take especially good of their faeries.
Third choice was tree faerie; she loved trees, especially the Cottonwoods,
And the oaks, the elms, the weeping willows, the Rose of Sharons.
Which reminded her of flowers. Yes, being an April faerie was her first choice.
She sat up especially straight, wearing her favorite colors of pixie dust.
Her faerie wings had never been more shiny.
Her friend Garland winked at her.
He waved his envelope at her and laughed.
He was sitting up front; had his assignment first.
The instructions were to wait until everyone had their envelope,
but Garland never heard instructions; or followed them if he heard them.
The way he was grinning, she knew
he probably got his first choice – fire faerie.
His job would be to inspire people to have campfires,
sing, and listen to each other.
Her envelope was placed in her hands.
They were shaking now. She ripped it open.
Desk faerie! One of the worst jobs of all, a muse to a writer! What?
Disappointment flooded her; she was shaking now,
and harder, for she was crying.
The instructor came over, took both her hands
and said, ”It is the most important job,”
For writing the truth reminds people what mistakes have been made,
and shows them how to correct them, live with each other,
love each other, and it changes the world.”
She was not convinced.
A muse!
She was a muse?
She had never wanted to be one.
Muses had bad reputations, like brownies and elves.
She would HATE being a muse.
She hated it already. Until she was assigned,
and then she immediately loved it.
It is all a matter of being assigned to the right person,
you see, and she was…assigned to you.
White Sand and Temporary Oblivion
For an aching moment
I faced dazzling
Gypsum and glass as splinters
Of sunlight pierced the air
Bouncing bright off the landscape at
Alamogordo ---fat Cottonwoods and
not a tree in sight not
Here, the sight of the unholy Trinity
test
Blessed and blast
A fitting slant rhyme for our
slanted
times
askew at
1700 Silica Avenue in a decidedly
different Manhattan where no
Dandy boulevardier would dare strut.
Castle Bravo likewise
No place to dwell as we
Did our best
to incinerate the century
Trolling for a toll in the ashes of the atoll.
No sufficient payment was made.
But all that brightness
those purblind moments flirting
With nothingness all
retreated
Like genie to bottle
Heard whispering,
"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds..."
Certain whispers linger
Portending brighter, more permanent
Non-being; so be it.
Marigolds with your ruffled edges and your prissy girly ways,
You uplift me on my most almost horrific downward days.
Lilacs fragrances wafting about in every one of my Mays,
You make me proud with your natural floral turn of phrase.
My most exotic friend, the mighty magical solid red oak.
Her shiny pointed leaves almost always telling me a good joke.
The best one of all is how she grew from an acorn, one that broke.
When her tiny tree stem began to grow in a mushroom’s cloak.
Knock out roses, scarlet cone flowers, hollyhocks and violets too.
Adding rainbow colors to the lawn, the pond, and the sky that’s blue.
Weeping willows, cottonwoods, elms, and hickories long overdue,
My green thumb is excited I had so much to do with planting you.
Morning light drifts soft and meek
through cottonwoods that lean and speak,
their shadows brushing childhood’s cheek
down by old Duck Creek.
Barefoot summers, warm and slow,
grass stains where our young dreams would grow,
the world felt small enough to know
down by old Duck Creek.
Cicadas hummed their dusty tune,
a cloudless Texas sky in June,
and time moved gentle as the moon
down by old Duck Creek.
Now memory walks where I once ran,
a grown heart holding what it can,
still hearing God in wind and sand
down by old Duck Creek.
From the Painted Desert, head west
Past sagebrush, brittle bush, desert scrub
And The Petrified Forest at rest
To the Rocky Mountains above
Go past the Continental Divide
Below Douglas firs and pinyon pines
Head down the sunset side
Where the Colorado River cuts and winds
Many generations ago
Native Americans were inhabiting squatters
There were herds of buffalo
Along with now extinct muskrats and river otters
Beaver, cut cottonwoods and willows
Leopard frogs slept on limestone pillows
Mule deer and bighorn sheep
Climbed up and down walls so steep
Follow me down the foot trail
Like indigenous butterflies with swallowtails
In to the Valley of the Sun
Where Hopi civilization begun
Tassel eared squirrels frolic about
Bald eagles fly over and scout
Stream orchids, honey mesquite and arrow weeds
For pocket mice and other rodent species
Gray fox, weasels, bobcats
Spotted skunks, ring tails, and bats
Call this canyon their home
Where bark scorpions and rattlesnakes roam
While gila monsters and red spotted toads
Search for midges, flies and black widows
It took this river millions of years
To make this home for all who are here
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Intruding the evening and throbbing like pain
there's a gathering contusion of purple and blue
that fills the horizon, and rattles the plains
With a change in the air, and foreboding, it weighs
turning the sky into gun-metal gray
There are birds I can see, that have bent every limb,
hovering high in the cottonwoods, while cocking their heads..
A hawk circles low over fields growing grain,
scanning for shelter, sensing the rain
Bold, unafraid, something shatters the bones
of an earth that is weary, .. thirsty, and worn
It scatters the birds as we look up the road
where the sun has retreated and troops have composed
There is pathos, confusion, in wind driven clouds
swept in from the rim of darkness, and now
the tongue of a serpent has severed the sky
bleaching the landscape, and blinding the eye.
Earth trembles in pain, dueling swords will collide
Count to ten, as they say, sparks will fly once again
The war isn't over……… Take cover and run!
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2/23/18
Contest: "Describe a thunder storm without the sense of sound"
Sponsor: Brenda Chiri
I loved those trees,
limbs draped in plump wild grapes,
bursting with flavor on my tongue,
while juice stained my fingers.
Tall cottonwoods shadowed
the creek where we splashed—Sis,
brother, and I—and a giant sycamore
shaded Granddad's spring. We slaked
our thirst from the granite dipper
hung on a nail he'd hammered
into its trunk at kid level.
We watched water belch like corn,
rattling a popper lid, and ripple
over rocks in the streambed,
where minnows and crawfish
hid from prying fingers.
Hawk-eyed, we scouted
gnarled branches in the orchard
for ripening fruit, luscious and tangy,
spurting juice to drip off elbows.
Hazelnut bushes flourished
by the back fence; black walnut trees
shaded Grandmother's back porch.
Our uncles helped burst crack-jaw shells
with hand-held rocks on the stone slabs
stretching toward the gate.
I do not envy the children
whose play-field offers brick and concrete,
severe and naked, whose only fruit
blows down alleys and into streets,
as the refuse of city dwelling.
Behind, left in dust, of the old gravel road
is a faint trace of Marlboro and a soft summer wind
Skies burn orange and amber, and a blazing red sun,
that is filtered by a windshield, that's never been groomed
A radio station, has more static than tunes
and the song of the work day are tires, worn thin
The sun's going down, where the road never ends
There's a bend near the hill, where a windmill spins slow
and where dozens of blackbirds create ebb and flow
They dapple the rain clouds, like bats out of hell
then will perch pole to pole, plucking heartstrings, as well
Headin' home there are doves, that will bend every limb,
sittin' high in the cottonwoods, while cocking their heads...
Where a hawk circles low over fields, leveled plain
waiting for thunder to bring home the rain
She waits by the door, beneath light from the porch
It halos her hair, like a torch that she's carried
from the day they were married, in a little white church
that has baptized a newborn, asleep in the crib
He drives an old pickup, with a paycheck so slim
He has sweat on his brow, and grit on his chin
He is bringing home flowers, his heart and his grin
There is smoke in the horizon, from a fire within...
Not far, there is heaven where all reason begins
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"Sing Me A Country Song" Contest:
Resubmitted for Skat's Contest: Premiere Contest: #9
Written : 10/12/13
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CHURCH PICNIC
There was no time, now was forever,
he said I love you, she believed him,
at seventeen they had to love and run.
Under cottonwoods the world was theirs
while the river kept on crying by,
and she never guessed it might be more than fun.
Her daddy was a Baptist preacher
he'd keep his little girl, if he could reach her,
but seventeen and picnics--life moves on;
and a girl shows her virginity
to the alderman who needs to see,
and the serpant in the garden waves it's tongue.
Her lavender was still a blessing,
She whispered words of her confessing,
he laid her down to to save her in his eyes,
under the cottonwoods, the need to cry
came too late for her to wonder why,
while her Daddy preacher man got ready to baptize.
I can hear the horses snorting, outside my bedroom window,
Even though it comes, from so many years ago;
Cotton from the cottonwoods flying through the air,
Making whitened dapples on my palomino mare;
The hounds are all out baying, it must be dinner time;
In my tiny little neighborhood, I was never scared of crime;
Family surrounded me, aunts and uncles all around,
It was quiet on our little street, no sirens made a sound;
My cousins and I would play outlaws, and we’d hide out for a day;
Making mighty forts from the fifty tons of hay;
It never really changed much, as I grew up through the years,
And remembering that it’s gone, always brings me close to tears.
(My Parents sold the house I grew up in last year - It still breaks my heart)