Best Natureold Poems
It stood on the other side of the wall rooted firmly
for the white bougainvillea tree did not belong to me
Wondered why it always branched this side
paving my walkway with blooms of white
While I patiently waited for my rose bush to flower
it nonchalantly continued its year-long showers
Unbothered unfettered by the gardener’s reaper, it grew
in every direction, old branches shooting off the new
Assiduously each day I tried to broom them away
but they, like a mother’s kisses were always there
Falling softly like advices from an old friend
they were fragile, paper-white, yet persistent
With gentle breeze they glide to me be it summer rain or spring
Innumerable, countless like God’s many blessings.
~~
In an old fashioned garden behind a stone wall
Hollyhocks and sunflowers growing so tall
Red rambling roses drape over a fence
Old fashioned flowers with colours intense.
Lupins and larkspur in lilac display
Buddleia blooming where butterflies play
Surrounding moonflower whose petals unfold
A bright splash of starburst, marsh marigold
Herbaceous borders, rosemary and rue
Columbines and clover full damp with the dew
Scents long forgotten their perfumes endow
I loved them long ago, I love them now
These old fashioned flowers, I planted them all,
In an old fashioned garden behind a stone wall
~~
There is a big Eucalyptus tree right behind where I live
The trunk is large, with the branches straight and long
When the Arizona Sun is blazing down, makes nice shade
Even when branches die, they still have more to give
At sunset, a breeze will blow through the leaves like a song
The day is over and dues are paid
One recent summer's eve, storm clouds boiled in the West
A quick sand storm, lighting and thunder everywhere
A hard driving rain all night, streets ran bank to bank
The old tree stood fast, passed the test
A dead twisted limb laid on the ground, like saying a prayer
For the state that it was in, had only God to thank
Out of bed at five, hot cup of coffee in my hand
Went outside to make an overall inspection
Was everything still standing, or had everything washed away?
The early morning air was fresh, rain had bathed the land
Looked up and down the street, then in a westerly direction
The old fallen branch, there it lay
It caught my eye, seemed to be the right size
From past work injuries, my knees would go out every now and then
The branch needed a friend and I needed a walking stick
Picked it up,it was around waist high, I knew I had a prize
My work was cut out, had to give a new skin
Some sand paper, couple coats of varnish would do the trick
Took off the old gray scale, down to yellow wood with brown grain
Patched the cracks, so it would not split, couple of wraps of bailing wire
By God, it was starting to show some character
We started to smile and I had a good cane
Like a miracle, saved from the fire
Now as one, we walk together
Form:
Mr. Rodgers was a dear old man there was
nothing he didn't understand he would feed
the chickens and talk to them a mile away
dear mr. Rodgers please don't go away he
would always say good morning and good
evening he never said an unspoken word of
of meanest every sunday he was ready for
church and never missed a beat nor a button
on his shirt all the ladies liked him so
well but everyone could tell his heart was
still with his beloved wife sarah who has
gone to heaven I wish I could meet old mr.
rodgers we haven't seen him in weeks last I
heard he met sarah at the side of the road
I will never forget old mr. Rodgers and all
that he stood for I hope I will be able to
meet him at the side of the road someday.
Copyright@July2005
Patricia Jaye
Form:
It’s an old dog day
when the dragonflies play
and the pines smell sweet
in the Big Thicket heat.
A shallow creek a-runnin’
and the lazy turtles sunnin.’
Soft sand under feet
in the Big Thicket heat.
Cicadas sing and fly
in a raucous lullaby.
A siesta can’t compete
in the Big Thicket heat.
Then night gently falls
and an old owl calls
while tree frogs greet
in the Big Thicket heat.
Now Daddy tells stories
of the Old Woods’ glories
and our day is complete
in the Big Thicket heat
Form:
I heard them in the news today counting
Down the hours
That ignore in sterile rooms
The fresh outpouring of flowers
On the eyes, like songs
From trees laddling
Into pots of fragrant
Desire.
Do think that God must wait
Upon their measurement
Of time
Into old teacups and calendars
So small
A trout would lose
Its life in it?
When spring was at their gate
I already had her
In bed all night
A hundred hours ago
When you saw
The flowers
Brush aside the snow
And burst
Into the arms
Of old lovers.
Let there be
No weather forecast
For my love
But let it ever rush
Upon me
Like the surprise
Of morning
Water on the skin
Full with the pranks
Of spring.
I have a picture of a tree,
its gnarled trunk thick and wide,
support branches reaching a hundred feet high
Once started as a seed,
has grown to become truly mighty,
generations have played under her leaves,
climbing high into her crown,
a dizzying height,
tire tubes and swings,
wore deep grooves into her lower branches,
evidence of childhood attention,
remnants of an old tree house,
still may be seen,
yet, can no longer be reached,
to high the old oak tree
I love Mary encased in a heart
carved into her bark,
hastily scratched through,
then added Sue, Lucy, and June,
all share the same fate,
carved by a young fellow
whose name is unknown
When in full regalia a majestic sight,
her leaves rustle softly in the wind,
designed to send gentle breeze,
where lunch is laid,
and children play
For eons she has pleasured many,
harmed none,
adding beauty and grace,
to the old home place
In her time,
she had weathered many a storm,
although, her limbs and leaves did shake,
she stood defiant in their wake,
she stood her ground,
refusing to be brought down
Now I know she was awfully old,
she looked terrifically strong,
as big as she was,
some of her roots, her foundation,
had cracked, been ripped apart,
deep scars that never healed,
ran throughout,
never deeply rooted from the start,
her massive weight,
kept her, from falling apart
Then came along the worst she had ever seen,
throwing at her winds over one thirty,
her powerful branches,
reaching so high,
snap like twigs, are cast aside,
her broad trunk taking full impact,
finally succumbs,
pushed over onto her back,
her foundation ripped from the ground,
stood skeletal, hovering above,
what was once her majestic crown
If you listened closely when she hit the ground,
the moan of hundreds of children
crying out, was her last sound
She lay there for weeks,
until, finally,
cut up, burned, and hauled off,
nothing remained
I have a picture of a tree,
where once stood a mighty oak,
a miniature shoot now free of the land,
reaches ever higher
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. "
William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Long ago another planted you,
My cherished Ginkgo tree.
She tamped you in so carefully
And bequeathed you unto me.
Did she then live to see you grow
So stately and so tall?
And to see your charming bright green dress
Turn golden in the fall?
You’re clothed in pretty fan shaped leaves,
A tree beyond compare.
How many robin families,
Have nested in you, Maidenhair?
Although other trees have broken,
‘Neat the north wind’s violent gale;
You, Ginkgo pay no heed at all.
To winter’s abusive rail.
Your forebears came from China,
Where they were long revered,
And studying under their branches
An old sage with his beard.
Your kind was here as early
As the first ferns and their spores.
No tree has longer history,
Your fathers knew dinosaurs.
Strange that old Mother Nature,
Decided you should survive so long,
While we humans sometimes die before
The last verse of our song.
The answer to long life and health,
Is in the leaves of the Maidenhair tree.
If you let me pluck a few of yours,
I’ll brew up my cup of tea.
If only the one who planted you,
Had known of your power.
She could have drunk of Ginkgo tea,*
And been here for happy hour.
* Ginkgo leaves are touted as being healthful . Won a 5th place
Joyce Johnson Revised April 19, 2011
From my private files, not posted. undated.
For Constance's contest "The Tree"
Have you heard of the wise old Owl
Who sits in the old oak tree
Have you wondered why the wise old Owl
Attracts the forests creatures to he
Well, what this old Owl could do
He was always prepared to listen
And for that he passed on his wisdom
Soon the forest began to glisten
Then came that terrible day
When others thought he knew nothing at all
All the creatures ran amok
In a frenzied do what you like ball
The old Owl was having none of this
And he called on the forest elders to court
If you keep carrying on this way
What you have, I shall have to abort
And behold the very next day
The forest became quiet and serene
On the old oak tree the old wise Owl declared
What you have now achieved, humans can only dream
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-14.php
The old man, who slowly walks with the cane
Many years ago, he looked just as you do
He was handsome, virile and tall
Living then so easy, no matter the weather
Today, his bones curve; and once steady gait, slowed
He recalls that each season came bearing gifts
Spring, brought youth and delightful promises
Summer, glorious heat to warm and nourish his body
Autumn, a gift of reflection and he'd count blessings
While winter, pretentious, came empty handed
And youth fell for his clever guise each time
How he would dazzle with breathless beauty!
Coming at precise moments of vulnerability
With his pristine cloak of soft white to beguile
He would pose as a friend come for a visit
While he convinces that he'll never remain
All the time he possess your body stealthily
Then wait in silence, lurking in your bones
As he runs schemes to steal away your youth
That old man, now frail, spend days before a fire
And in solitude, reminisces about his past
He did not see winter as ancient or deceptive
Had no clue that winter is never to taste joy
Today, he still brings out his best brandy
And gladly shares with his permanent guest
The youthful years have all dissapeared
And like the magical portrait of Dorian Gray
Winter appears younger and prettier, still!
~*~
This was fun! : )
Oh, the air’s a little fresher
When we feel that new spring breeze;
And the sun’s a little brighter
When the dogwood paints the trees.
And the redbud comes a blushing
On those ancient Ozark hills;
As we now hunt those ghost morels
In the hollows and the dells.
Oh, the tulip trees come dancing
As squirrels commence to chatter;
Yes, old spring fever’s in our blood
And our troubles just don’t matter.
The bird’s put their hearts in singing
‘Cause just what’s a spring all for?
It’s a celebration living
As our hearts and spirits soar!
Yes, the wind’s a little cleaner
As that old gray winter flees;
And that gold sun lights up our souls
As dogwood resurrects the trees.
Form:
Hundreds of snowdrops
Flowering under old trees
Cold horses awaiting
Their food to be brought
Paint-flaking windows
Reflecting thin sunlight
Large piles of wood chopped
To warm up the freeze
Cows at the farm-gate
With milk-swollen udders
Birdsong awakening
An old hive of bees
Arthritic limbs crackle
The old cat’s awake now
One eye open
A paw stretched
Assessing the scene
Form:
The Old Red Barn
I look out over the field laid out before me,
The smell of fresh cut grass and dirt fill my senses.
A white fence is running laps around the field
while the round bails of hay wait to be collected.
As I lean against the fence looking at the scene before me
I see the rolling hills like waves of green so bright I have to squint.
Trees are scattered along the landscape like spots on a Dalmatian
while creating the perfect shade for the exhausted livestock.
Off in the distance I can see a deer walking across the field
noticing each movement as it stops to feed.
The old red barn stands alone matching the beauty around it
reminding everyone that passes the beauty that comes with age.
The scene before me is a constant reminder of the changing of time
in a fast past world there will always be the memory of the old red barn to slow things down.
Form:
I believe that all things, living or not have a spirit
Rather it be an dead tree limb or a live oak tree
If you know how to listen, it will let you know it is there
It is like the spirit that will not quit
You never know what you will see
Or what the wood spirit has to share
Early each morning, I like to carve on a piece of wood
Roll a smoke, hot cup of coffee, the sun is just getting out of bed
Not a noise being made, my thoughts are silent
Knife in hand, just me and that old piece of wood
To the spirit, like words are being said
I know that if there is a message it will be sent
Cut a little deeper here and shave a little more there
A little sand paper and a good coat of varnish
It is all very therapeutic to me
Don't need any pills, but at my watch I stare
I know it is almost to the finish
Just thinking, once this was part of an old tree
It is three in the afternoon, I missed breakfast again
I spent the whole day and was not even aware
Just like I was in another world on a visit
But it is not like that I did not win
Carving all day without a care
Knowing tomorrow, again I will spend it with THE WOOD SPIRIT
Form:
Quiet save for a morning glory’s cue
Daylight decks the sky cerulean blue
Sunday and like the hues of color wheels
Old Man Dan hunts for all his fishing creels
The rye grass cradles tiny spheres of dew
Dawn fishing allures in lieu of a pew
Like osmosis, moisture fills his old boots
As the last morning owl gives a few hoots
Trout Royal Red is already awake
Waiting for Dan in the depths of the lake
Three pounds of beauty, paint on his sleek back
Royal Red knew what the old man might lack
Sharpen arsenal now, fish where it’s dim
You know he will not dare bite on a whim
And Old Man Dan has a trick up his sleeve
His light-tinted fly spent two weeks to weave
His tackle befit with two pound test line
No wet or dry flex just regular twine
No weights to be used, tossed from the jetty
The fly should track the natural eddy
From his boat he tossed his new-fangled bait
So natural the drift only to wait
Red spied his game moving at the right speed
Closer he came from behind the tall reed
He strictly examined his tasty prey
For t’was a real bug, it would have to pay
Closer he came to the well-tied disguise
Knowing full well it could be his demise
Soft and ductile he gave it a small bite
Then Old Dan jerked with all of his might
Royal Red noticed a slight scent of snuff
Then spit out the fly aware of the stuff
Old Dan fell overboard with all his gear
The only thing left – a pain in his rear
This comical scene smacked of déjà vu
He had been there before - a time or two
Red took a break aside the still water
Smiling inside providing Dan fodder
Eyeing Dan’s canoe tarry upside down
He sped swiftly to hide from his mad clown
Madder than hops Dan drug his boat home
Cussing and swearing he took on a foam
He would come back the next date of the sun
Certainly it would be his day of fun