Best Grove Poems
Nearby a desert, trees and peace both flourish in my city, Pleasant Grove.
Written Oct. 3, 2016 For the Where I Live One Liner Contest of Silent One.
*Pleasant Grove is a small city of Utah, USA, not far from capital, Salt Lake City
For twenty-seven years I have lived here
inside this little city, Pleasant Grove.
I live too far away from sisters dear.
Not easily from this town could I rove!
I live here with a dog, a cat and spouse.
I hardly know a thing about this town.
I’m here because it’s where we built our house.
A few main streets I’m used to driving down
yet hardly know my way around this place!
I also do not know its histories.
One thing I like (for me, its saving grace) -
it’s home to many varied gorgeous trees!
My own hometown I know much better though
I spent my childhood there so long ago!
Written Jan. 3, 2016
For the contest of Silent One: Sonnet about where you live
The grove of redwoods;
Silent, an ancient stillness,
Soothing and serene --
I once saw a goddess there,
Eyes of night and starlight hair.
During this unsettling time
I find much relief walking
beside the lemon grove.
I take my time on the
same route every day.
How the lemons
and my life has changed.
The trees have already flowered
and small green lemons appeared.
Soon they grew larger and bright yellow.
As I walk each day
ripe lemons fill the trees.
Some have dropped and scattered.
I wonder when or if they
ever will be picked and crated.
I watch a hawk soar above and I think
what it would be like to be so free
and able to land where ever I want.
Today I find one perfect lemon
rolled onto the roadside.
I pick it up and place it in my pocket
with an image of how it will taste
with dinner tonight.
Serenity in Scenes of Mother Nature Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
4-7-20
Joan Fingon
(A double etheree)
I
took the
“scenic route”
home through my town
today, driving down
streets unknown to me and
some I’d driven down before
but now could barely recognize-
so many new houses had sprung up!
Guided by instinct, I turned onto streets.
Mostly I guessed wrong on my directions!
What charming homes line those clean broad roads;
how gorgeous are autumn’s colors
all around; different from in
spring (when nature blooms) and
yet - no less lovely!
In fall’s dying,
what beauty
lingers
here.
When I was just four,
Baba would walk me through the olive groves,
his land stretching endlessly,
acres of trees—each one a memory,
each one rooted deep in the soil of home.
He’d set up a ladder for me,
let me climb,
picking the dark, ripe olives
from the branches heavy with history.
“Go inside,” he’d say,
“bring a bucket of water.”
I ran, feet light on the earth,
filled the bucket from the well,
its coolness a moment of peace.
But then—
a scream, sharp and raw,
cut through the air.
I rushed outside,
and saw the flames—
huge, fierce,
devouring the olive trees,
the ones Baba had cared for,
the ones my ancestors had planted.
In the distance,
soldiers stood,
their smiles cold,
ruining everything we had known,
burning the heart of our land.
I dropped the bucket.
The water poured uselessly on the ground,
while the fire took what we had left—
our home, our history,
our future,
turned to ash.
Under the wrought iron arch and gateway
crawling with both wild and deep red creepers
complimented by evergreens.
The fall colors are splendid.
Most of the flowers are giving way
to the chill, and the swans are graceful and content
with the breeding season now over
Walking slowly along the narrow drive,
spots of color scatter around the green grass.
What beautiful yards,
each house made of stone,
granite - marble - sandstone.
The foundation of the earth
Dark stone black, pink, white, gray, burnt umber, rose
beautiful houses inviting you closer,
please see my name.
I was here many years ago.
Cholera came to me and took my spirit away.
But I was pretty and young and full of joy.
For a little while.
Old stones to the early 1800's.
Stones with angels guarding a lamb
baby tears fall, in time giving the stone soft edges.
One from yesterday.
Come see me in my house. Mausoleum strong and tall.
Handsome and successful.
Each as individual in death as their homes and places were in life.
Over here, I fought for my country. Me and all my buddies here,
laid out under each of these many white crosses.
Hello, don’t forget my free spirit ... riding high over the houses
touring where ever the wind wishes.
Swirling fine invisible ashes through the trees
sparkling in the late closing sun.
A town’s history. Natural, tragic, sickness, murder ... all here
The history wraps around the casual visitor.
Keening out not to be forgotten.
Calling, we were important pioneers.
The end of day sun setting on their windows
Aglow with the spirit of yesteryear.
Adieu the king,
Long live the king:
The crown was in the grove
Where his forebears dwell
In their majestic transfiguration;
There he would inherit the fiat,
The power to say and to be;
In the grove of royal tutorial
Where prince became king
Where ancient secrets were learnt
The tryst of the dead and the living
Forest of rite of accession.
There fortune anointed me,
Made venus’s heart my portion:
The royal heiress smiled at me,
Her eyelids blinked and blinked,
Like fire fighters’ ambluance,
Her boby moving ups and downs
Like a piston of new brand auto
As she nailed her eyes on me
She made my spot her path
By my side she offered me wine
In a royal calabash of symbol
And laid her hand on me
Like a bed spread on yielding matress
Instantly I woke from my slumber
Like a chameleon rewinding back its tongue
And she piloted me to the chamber
In the interior of the royal
Where many games were offered;
Ludo and chess I did not play,
But played love with my princess;
Sure the gods are wise:
A night in the royal grove,
Remains love of my life.
The Bohemian Grove
There is a place in San Francisco called the Bohemian Grove. It’s a boy’s club you might say. But when is the last time you saw boys offer sacrifices to Lucifer and burn bodies at the stake in honor of their loyalty to him? And when is the last time you saw a bunch of boys planning out who will run for president and for governors and then throw the elections later in their favor? This is subversion of the powers of government. This is undermining the true process of our democracy. I wonder what the American people think about people who do such vile and lewd things? I say to hell with their owl and their altar to Satan. And to hell with all the parties that they throw in honor of their king of hell. When will the children of God take a stand against this immorality? When will we wise up like their wise old owl? The Bohemian Grove is a self-serving cesspool of the vomitus of Satan. The Lord will destroy this encampment and with his mighty right righteous hand bring it to a crumbling halt!
Many of the past presidents sat around tables at this so-called club and drew cards as to who would be the next president. They would get drunk on their own power and on the power of the dragon from the bowels of hell. They had orgies and got so drunk that only the Creator knew of the lowliness of their immorality. Each person that was sacrificed upon this property had their bones buried there. Each person upon this property that was offered as a sex slave unto Lucifer’s minions was ushered to heaven as their lives were taken from them. The Lord’s compassion runs very deep for those who are oppressed and tortured for the antics of the dragon and his minions. Our God rules from a Mercy Seat and as he sits upon his Mercy Seat he delves out the most amazing mercy to those who truly need it.
The Bohemian Grove Boy’s club is really no club at all. It is the organized crime center of Satan! It’s just that simple!
Gwendolen Rix
2-15-15
an open grove
allows in the moon’s glow…
faithful delight
Russell Sivey
May not be true to Haiku form but I couldn't resist the urge to write it this way.
Contest: In The Mood
Sponsor: Catie Lindsey
5/15/2013
One day in early April, I’ll be given a surprise.
Old Man Winter will have barely trudged away.
I’ll drive up to my house and before my eyes,
Spring will have returned in bright array -
with my front yard trees a part of her costume ballet.
The buds on my pear tree will become florets,
prettily unfurled a creamy white.
My plum trees in bloom will be two coquettes
posed charmingly to the pear tree’s right
and bejeweled in amethysts - to my delight!
The costume ballet is a gorgeous thing to view.
There is no dance, but rather you will see
a movement from block to block of every hue
displayed in early April most gracefully
by my own and every other costumed tree.
(My city is famous for its beautiful trees; hence
the name Pleasant Grove.)
Written Feb. 2, 2012 for Francine Roberts'
english quintain a spring day Poetry Contest
Fragrance enveloped me
as I stepped
into the enchanted forest.
Dim light filtered
through the canopy.
Brown clusters hung from branches;
dead leaves, I thought,
until I saw
flutters of orange:
I had found
the magical place
where the butterflies gather.
***
The drought
has been merciless.
Trees are white skeletons,
the ground littered with bark.
Sunlight hits the dust.
Where
will the butterflies
sleep?
8/3/2017
Paddling a canoe
Past green to deeper waters
Anxiously alone
Bow cuts the morning dew.
In the Prison of our minds
Half-conscious moving on
One eats the midday meal
During another weekday's grind.
Walk back from corner shop
With what you went to get.
Then a breeze invades your senses
And just briefly there you stop.
Awakened late at night
A sweat drop from your fear;
But you hear downstairs your cat purr
And collapse back quite relieved.
In the news a man was murdered
No one important, or so they say.
He had taken in a poison
And stumbled dead, was how it's worded.
The man worked selling lumber,
Had a girlfriend and ex-wife.
Arsenic was ingested
But just who killed him wasn't known yet.
His daughter is being questioned
She's five-years-old and doesn't know
Where her father has gone to
And crying, calls out for him again and again.
I guess maybe both of us may have changed to some degree;
But try though I may I see it in you more than I see it in me.
I guess I wasn’t so nice to you as far as that boy girl thing went;
But I know there had to have been a few memorable moments spent.
Ah but that train I ride it keeps rolling down the track;
And I guess there’s just no coming back
So while I’m stopped here waiting for the right time;
It’s okay to look around but if you don’t have a ticket it’s still my dime.
So maybe next time baby girl another life another place;
Who knows what mysteries might appear before you right there in your face.
sentinels
anchored on the coast-
cypress grove
May 1, 2018