Best Elms Poems
Trees
Trees, trees, everywhere, and no one stops to think
What we may lose as all mankind nears a crucial brink.
When oaks and elms and other trees just simply cease to be,
Less Oxygen will be sent into the air we breathe.
Where will be the majesty of mighty cypress trees,
That pose in stately beauty for all the world to see?
What will be the price we pay if, someday, they’re all gone,
And we are left here breathless to, somehow, carry on?
The life of trees can be started by Mother Earth herself,
Or, sometimes, by some gardener in a pot upon a shelf.
Regardless, how they’re started, we need to wonder why
These beauties of creation are called upon to die.
Redwoods and sequoias that grace our western shore
Stand as mighty icons that we dare not ignore.
When left to die by nature’s plan I believe that you will see
They will outlive mortal man by at least a century.
To those who say God meant for man to use them as we need
I don’t believe He meant decisions to be governed by our greed.
I will not be labeled as a ‘tree hugger’ – not by any measure.
I’ll just continue speaking out for mankind’s silent treasure.
Written By John Posey
07/08/13
Like dancers,
the elms lift their arms
skyward.
The oaks clutch the air
with gnarled fingers,
bony branches
etched into the pastel evening.
It is time
to step forward,
uncloaked,
my naked shadow
dancing
on the canvas of the world.
1/22/2017
Brave is the rose caught in November’s thorn
While she endures nights of chill and snow,
Awaiting gold daylight's warmth to bestow---
And liven her frame…her mouth drooped, forlorn.
Gently, new moon peeps into kohl of eve
While its luster reflects on this bud , soft
Like a pubescent ovule held aloft
By elms guarding her round shape NOT to cleave.
Though one kind-hearted owl perches nearby
Mutely disapproving this ghastly tread…
An obscure fog sprays crystals overhead
Instead, wings lock against nip of the sky.
How unwavering…in her innocence
Morning rises, its lucent gleam so young
That frozen dusk pales with wheezes unsung…
Oh, grit of a rose saved by providence!
Written 9/10/2018
Contest of Broken Dream
Enclosed Rhyme - September, 2018
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.
Tassels of flakes studded in pearl
Drape the lane where ice-capped elms unfurl.
Andrea Dietrich's Frozen In Crystalline Contest
11/23/2014
Craze comes out of barrel of joy,
Joy, what makes you behave coy,
Coyness, a thing that would get a toy
From the soul, hands of a smart lil' boy
That his head bobs in saving his mother,
Mother, the filial original not really similar
Similar? To the father, rasp voice that quiver
From the garden of marital rupture. It'ld linger
Over the elms of gut, ebbing with the tide
Of bliss ended. Never should beings all hide
The love, warmth of family. Filial code to side
A broken china, a shattered shuttle that'ld bide
Brittle bliss. Come in the evenings and laugh
At the debris of the drum, a rumble of cough
Upon anodyne ruble of ruin. Feed from trough
O! Love if you aren't life. Then live quickly, rough.
The day that followed . . .
Blossomed blue, bright . . . beautiful
Clouds towering into the heavens
Wheeling white, wonderful . . . wordless
The clouds danced in the expanse
Rolling on a sea of silence
Sailing soft, supple . . . serene
Saw nothing
Cared nothing
Floated away
Alone . . . . . blind . . . . . marvelous
mute!
The trees . . .
The trees reveled in their own wild
E m o t I o n s
Old Man Walnut – a true heart-wood
Big boned brooded black
Dark, dangerous, defiant
Lady oak took red at the edges
A deep striking flame-red
Her heart a luscious lively living green
A gentlewoman of a long experience
Patient, Peaceful, persistent and powerful
Elms burst yellow – effulgent
Cried for attention
Demanded attention
Wind whistled wantonly through her leaves
Tall, tenacious, testy, temerarious
Some of the maples slurred
A bright primary red
Like harlots laughing, listening, languishing
Showed interest but cared for nothing
The Sweetgums stood aloof
Star-shaped leaves
Like bruises oozing deep purple
At first draft
S N
T A
O K
O E
D D
Abused . . . abandoned . . .
alone
Crape Myrtles cluster together
Gossiping busy-bodies
Bursting orange with outrageous desire
Watching, wanting, waiting, wanton
Modest were the Aspens
Slender and graceful
Giggling trees
But where they were
They were so many
They could afford to be
Modest, monomorphic, musical, memorable
The Pines and firs
Raising forth green among the colors
Unchanging
Unwilling to change
Criticizing by their contrast
every other change
The Woods
The woods
The chaotic woods
The heartless forest
And the trees . . .
. . . . .The boughs, leafs, limbs, roots
That whole glorious community
Simply went about its
Natural business
Another day in creation.
Live and Love Generously
Into the inky darkened elegance
of moon’s hushed serenade
Within the clove of stately elms
her presence soon promenades;
The Lady of Whitelace Castle
dressed in a grand and stately manner
shimmers about through frosty limbs
causing many to flee in terror
She brings with her an afterglow
that blushes the unearthly scene
she remains, to some, a welcomed guest
to others an astonishing dream
This lady in ghost white apparel
drifts about from tree to tree
searching in vain for love unattained
perchance could she find it in thee?
© Debra Squyres 2013/12/30
There is a piece of me, left in that little town, a square of friendly faces,
where furrowed brows of no one famous, work to make their dollars stretch
not far beneath the white crowned peaks ...
There is a piece of me, left in that old house, tall and proud
Beneath the sun in fields of green ...where horses ran...
A piece of me, still holds the reins and feels the wind against my skin ...
There is a piece of me, in that old school
Miss Marmalade.....(she had red hair), a voice of velvet, soft and sure
Her breathless verse of morning stars of Keats and Frost,
and unchecked tears...and clandestine trysts with old Shakespeare
There is a piece of me, reclining under the elms,
where a broken heart still casts a spell
A letterman jacket, of dark gold wool, his leather sleeves, steel blue eyes, ...
skies of love, and holding hands, football teams, and autumn leaves
There is a piece of me, that I still keep within my heart..
.....within my sleep.......within my dreams
__________________________________________________
For the contest: "Pieces" Sponsored by Black Eyed Susan
You'll find a piece in the puzzle, that is part of the past
under billowy white clouds, and the sizzling sun
in a wood sided home. where the trees are in bloom
where there's room for a childhood, that has only begun
There is a piece of the puzzle, outside in the yard
while wheels of a tractor come alive in the fields
There's a five year old girl skating sidewalks, with cracks
rollers, beneath her, singing "clickity clack"
while a rustle of whirlwinds is fast on her heels
to rife with the ruffles she wears on her back
Faces she knows will be leaning on fences
Lifting up smiles, and knowing her name
Where the same furrowed brows, and most without shame
work for the gain, of a few measly dollars
And mothers will holler..."Come home! Time for supper!"
As the sky has turned copper, at the end of the day
There is a piece of her, dreaming out under the elms,
where a heart might be broken, and the stars cast a spell
What is home harbors there, where her heart wants to dwell
In a room with a puzzle, spread out for her eyes
To sort out, and covet, and search for the sky
Where there's room for a childhood that has only begun
And a piece in the puzzle the color of sun
Golden threads finger through the fog
To whisper at frosted boughs
For dawn is yawning at quilted trees
Where sunlight doth tap the pane of silent glass
Reflecting the blaze burning bright
Through misty Elms denuded
Of shame through natures stark humility
Poet Destroyer’s contest: Autumn Day
11 September 2014
On high-back benches
weary shoppers clutch their parcels
and slump.
Wrapped in a yellow green haze
Van Buren station sleeps
beneath Chicago's vibrant streets.
Outside, on wood-plank platform
we drink-in the coffee warmth
of October's fleeting sun.
"South Chicago, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
Like some unraveling mass of I-beam steel
the tracks begin to rumble and shake.
The slant nosed Metra comes and goes.
Across the tracks in autumn plume
Grant Park displays her rows of golden elms.
A nor’ east wind dances bow upon bow,
with a gentle sway that shears away
a sifting rain of harvest leaves.
"Park Forest South, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
On the slant nosed Metra
I hurry home.
"The wind is the pounding of my heart.”
--Constance La France
Sound of the wind drifting through the trees
Softly, I hear it; it is the pounding of my heart
Keeping steady rhythm, while I am remembering
The times we made pulsing love ‘neath the elms,
Branches hovering over us like guardian angels
Waving goldish green banners, whispering low
Like the purring of your sighs after a long kiss,
Your sweet breath on my neck, the elms knew,
Trembling like wind in a slow-moving tremolo,
Its leaves gently playing nature’s marimba slow
Steadily matching my heart’s rhythmic cadence
Ah, how I remember well those fond embraces.
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Written August 1, 2022
Submitted to "Let Your Muse Be Inspired - R Form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
I am losing you again
White, oh your skin, whiter than pearls…
I sit here, trying not to stare,
Serene you are, as you lie in your bed,
How awful could agony become?
I am losing you again
Chapped and faded your divinely drawn lips…
Opaque, the spark in your eyes, it no longer exists,
Uttering out the words, "you had my heart from the start,"
Lament, your words are, as your lips part,
Does God really need another angel by His side?
Exasperating, your paralysis, suffocates me…
Abashed I awake, from a nightmare,
Throbbing, I almost submerged your sheets with gasoline,
Yelping,
Oh poor baby, you are so soggy from the chemo,
Undying, everlasting we are, hang on my love,
Rusting your skin, your sickness is so ruthless, to kill you,
Could I really break the wall my pride has built?
Angst haunted me as I listened to the mournful,
Notes of the saddest symphony existing…
Could I please place a red rose on your mahogany sepulcher?
Endless our love is, as a paroxysm of pain,
Rushed through my blood,
Amid the purple phlox, and the emerald elms,
Waves of distress, overwhelm,
As I realise how your anguish was so true,
Yesterday, I wished I had died instead of you…
Bells
Solitary heart, newborn in brooding silence,
Steps on a cluttered path
Through elms and boughs of broken limbs,
In a pungent, evergreen hush
Absent of astral cacophony
That falls like mute pennies from wishes,
No buzz nor whirling wings
Disturbs the tacit spell
Until a faint and far-off chime
Brushes against my startled heart
Like the flutter of a butterfly kiss
For at my feet coral bells harmonize
With snowdrops in strings of chimes
Awakened by the breath of angel wings -
Music born of stardust carried on wind chimes
Banishes black spells in lyrical pinwheels,
Melodic whirligigs ringing in silvery silk jingles
Like crystal icicles brushed by soft winds -
A carillon of the winter angelus
Pealing in effervescent tiptoes to remain.