Best Crabapple Poems
At first I thought you were just being nice
To make a good impression on a first date.
"Her true self needs time to break the ice,"
I thought as we talked until it was late.
I saw you again, but you were still the same—
Uncommonly gracious, loving, kindly spoken.
"She’s not being real, playing the same game."
I was quite certain I was seeing only a token.
But additional encounters proved me wrong.
You were as fetching and fabulous as before.
"This lady is a treasure; she sings a true song."
Hence, fond feelings for you I couldn’t ignore.
I worried if I were worthy to seek your hand.
You had character smiles out of my reach.
"Face it, fool, for you she’s simply too grand."
I saw myself as a crabapple, you as a peach.
But there came a day when I had to do it
Lest another suitor claim you as his bride.
"Have I the courage, the charm and the wit?"
Perhaps not, but I must know that I tried.
Decades have passed with you as my Sweet.
It may seem impossible, but I pledge it’s true.
"She continues to take me off my feet."
And that, my love, is the wonder of you.
Splashes of pink from the flowering Crabapple....haze through
the sturdy square of lemon yellow glass - framed in Knights's Armor
....at parade rest on my porch.
Inside on the ledge, my Christmas Cactus welcomes Spring....with
bazookas exploding triple pink perfections in every direction!
~~~ these are my favorites ~~~
~~~ rising from the soil~~~
~~~ shaped in glass ~~~
When I'm pink, sound disappears
....and comets are late for tea
Perfect prisms of lemon light my intentions....prevent my escape
Sometimes, I wonder how long it will last....before the lemon sours
....the cactus only bristles....and the crabapple is bitter, once again....
....dedicated to AG....xxxooo
Reposed in the ghost of light below the dell
Where brunette pine needles and thirsty oak leaves dwell,
The wind hisses in the canopy
Delivering dreams from the crabapple tree:
The cotton white petals flutter toward my lips
But brush on by with soft ginger wisps
That shroud my eyes from the blinking sun,
Then dusts the ground in a snow-like pollen;
Ripe round blooms cup fondly in my hand,
And the flesh blushes while it nears my breath.
The taste revives my memory; I stand,
And float to the tree which marks her death.
Spring is the best time of the year for this old crabapple tree. Winters are too lonely and summers too hot. Autumn is nice but people prefer the lake or forest trails. But spring always brings visitors and when they come, I always share the sweet smell of my new blossoms. I play them a soft melody when the wind blows through my leaves. Sometimes, they carve their initials in my branches and profess their love to each other. They snuggle together on the grass at my roots lean against my trunk. I listen as they make their grand plans for their future. Eventually they will share that special kiss. For fifty years I’ve loved being part of this wonderful tradition.
Time comes and time fades
human nature does not change—
Only the clothes we wear
My Valley
Tucked away in the north-central part of the state, about ten miles or so from where the clear and slow-moving water of the Grand River mixes with the quickly rolling mud of the Missouri River. Was my isolated valley. A tiny insignificant place dotted with small farms and rolling pastureland of bluestem, switch, and Indian grass. Somewhere just off the beaten path and a little left of “where the hell am I anyway”. From high up in the hills where the Crabapple and Cottonwood creeks merge just outside Log Cabin Station, there is a small creek that begins to snake its way south for thirty miles or so along the northern boundary of that rich Sugar Maple bottom land. For seventy centuries the Sioux Indians fished, hunted, and thrived there. They were the first to speak its name. The abundance of wildlife in the area led them to believe that that small waterway was the ‘River of the Great Spirit’, and they called it…Wakenda.
Life moves in circles,
Like the oceans ebb and flow,
There are no shortcuts.
Tiny crabapple feet ply the soft, fertile earth
new moment of soil floods his open, seeking face
each day the child learns a song of green rebirth.
He beckons to the willow; wonders at her girth
I carry him close--we grace willow with embrace
tiny crabapple feet ply the soft, fertile earth.
He speaks with the daffodil, sharing her mirth
and sighs, contented in his own cosmic place
each day the child learns a song of green rebirth.
I watch as he contemplates the wind chime's verse
while his fingers explore clover woven like lace;
tiny crabapple feet ply the soft, fertile earth.
Wholly in love with the world in which he's immersed,
drawing from each aspect of the wild rose's grace,
this way, the child learns a song of green rebirth.
To him, every moment so tastily diverse
and our garden, mystical as far reaches of space
tiny crabapple feet ply the soft, fertile earth--
each day the child learns a song of green rebirth.
summer breeze tickling crabapple blossoms
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Snow swirling in winter air
birds take to crabapple tree in limbs
shaking the fruit everywhere
Red now spread upon blanket of white
still none view the snowcat in sight
carefully she creeps through that blanket of white
Yet her purr becomes disturbing this night
Just in time -- the birds take flight
Whilst bidding the snowcat a hearty -- Good-Bye
Not a leaf left on the crabapple tree
instead little red apples hang
like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
Little red apples that spend
most of the winter covered with snow
waiting for the robins of spring
to fly back for a feast
so little pink flowers can bloom
and become little red apples again.
Donal Mahoney
Try as I might,...I could not get it right
My small fingers that fumbled over the ivory whites
While scowling her face with that crabapple frown
One, two, three, four...one, two, three four...., her eyes looking down
"Try once more..." she repeated, and I would struggle, so hard....
She would point at the notes, with a yellow Number 2 .....
And circle the flats, and would circle sharps too
One, two, three, four......one, two, three four...
Don't bother to look at the exit or door
The room was too warm..." I keep the thermostat at eighty she'd say"
It helps old bones, , rhumatism, you know..it keeps the aching away"
A scent of Vick's Vapo Rub when she leaned in too close
"For my horrendous allergies".... she'd boast
A Kleenex all waded, a ball in her fist,
Her glasses hung from a nose,
That constantly dripped
One, two, three four,...one, two, three, four...
Oh how I wanted to run straight out the door
"Now, try it again", she'd say, as I glanced through the glass
Out to the sun and the summertime grass
With the sidewalk so ripe, for my playing 'neath trees
For some hopscotch, or jump rope, or roller skate keys
A day, ...not for Mozart, or Bach, or Beethoven...those guys...
What could those grim, long dead, wearing wigs in disguise
Understand of a little girls heart? One, two, three, four....One, two, three, four,
Oh how I wanted to run out the door
But now................My dear teacher....I wish you could know
How I grew to love music, and remember the days
When you gave me the knowledge and spirit to play
This beautiful gift, which I cherish today.........
One, two, three, four.....
May I play you a melody?......
And then, if you don't mind...
I'll be happy to play you one more....
__________________________________________________________________________
Miss Ella Mae Engle.... Rest in Peace, God Bless You, and Thank You From My Heart
Laurie’s favorite tree is blooming,
And cold is in the air,
Crabapple blossoms, pink like kisses,
And I can only stare.
How long now has it been my Love,
Who made days blossom bright?
Since you and I did sit together
On the daylight edge of night?
I cannot say, I do not know,
For time remains the same.
It does not take from me your face
Or the echoes of your Name.
Together we have found a bliss
In Love that does not fade
And we will, when the blosssoms’ kiss
Its final exit hath made
Remain as one, heart held to heart
In the shadows of the glade.
Areola of rose,
blushing,
blossoming,
promising
The thorny-stem whistles
thirsty
posthaste
vainglorious
The crabapple-peach
spurns the rakish stem
pretends to twirl
capriciously unloyal
The un-civil war
an unbecoming ghost
Tara's salvation
the groom gone with the wind
The impassioned rose
scarlet and needy
a Southern conquistador
hopeless and heartless
Vows to seek her groom
relentlessly
frankly for honor
scheming in the morrow
4/10/2019
My Mother is silly;
She fell in love with Billy,
And they went to Italy
Where it was chilly.
They became married
And my Mother carried
Some berries,
To make crabapple stew!
Summer is tethered to the scent of a rose,
and bubbling brooks, where minnows nip at bare toes.
Spring urges Summer on, and indeed, it shows;
freeing the rivers and lakes that Winter froze,
while greening the dried grasses of the meadows.
A sizzling hot Summer sun shines down all day,
warming swimming pools where children splash and play.
And, bronzes with an ultraviolet ray,
as folks flock to sandy beaches, come what may.
Children launch paper kites on a rising breeze;
and eat apples picked from wild crabapple trees,
while playing outdoor games, and skinning their knees.
Dreading the thought that Winter will reappear,
I find that Summer is the best time of year.
I'll choose Summer over Winter any day!
I hate the cold, frozen feet, and runny nose;
as well as shoveling snow from the driveway,
I'd rather swelter in Summer's heat than freeze.
Fall shifts my metabolism into low gear
till I find myself wishing Summer would stay.
The Big Crabapple has a new lease
Since the squeaking wheel gets all the grease
Ventilators galore
And still they want more
For Trump's tax obligations to cease