Best Oak Poems
Painting sky before I was born,
Draping my grave in leaf and acorn.
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Contest: Crystalline
Sponsor: Rick Parise
11.22.14
This old oak-tree smiling through my balcony
Sways and swings cheerily, a happy emissary,
Budding new vigor upon tiny greenish leaves
Adorning exuberance of idyllic new morning,
Quivering golden-beams on dawning of spring.
When the sun rises, blushing mauve feelings,
Its gentle oscillations fetch tender sensibilities
Inviting sparrows to grace the stage of robins
In spontaneous outburst of ceremonial music--
Chirping, twittering, singing for the hatchlings.
As summer of my mind churns wistful stories,
Its white blossoms waltz tender warm breeze
And leaves flutter merrily, twirling to comfort me
When thoughts bygone nudge parched vagaries
Engrossed in realm of burned-out memories.
When autumn turns green into fiery-red leaves
As ruby sundown glitters on amethyst evening
And gusty winds rustle-in endlessly, ferociously,
Whirling flying colors, floating crimson revelries;
A few remnants cling-on, loath to forsake me.
Yet, brazenly I gaze away, ignoring its appeal
When harsh winter shudders essence of its being,
Quivering, shivering bare-skinned branches;
Staying beguiled instead on top of frozen hills
Where sunset articulates ochre-tinged themes.
May 26, 2020
Poem of the day on May 28, 2020
Placed 2nd: Brian's Choice Y Contest
What tales your leaves must whisper
of youths tall in your strong arms.
Pretending to be pirates
in a terrible, fierce storm.
Or lovers in your shadows
making vows they sometimes kept;
dreamer's secret hideaway,
underneath leaves, young boys slept.
Many years honed your boldness,
growing taller, stronger, blest.
You were proud to play sentry
standing guard so birds could nest.
You were the featured player
in those years of grandeur past.
Years have now turned against you
and have burdened you at last.
Growing older with seasons,
branches balding, and falling.
You stand proud as you listen
to echoes and their calling.
My good friend, grand old oak tree
I will sit with you at last
We'll tell each other stories
of those days that have long passed.
April, 2020
for Wisdom from Trees Poetry Contest
by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Gifting us a green canopy,
oaks bow with old South gentility.
For Brian Strand's the 'Podium placing promise(2)' Poetry Contest
For good, the Druid woods claimed this girl child for its own;
nymphs named the silk-skinned, raven-black of her, Fianna.
This night, she’s hurt hunting demons in her mother’s grove.
She recalls, her fright at five, abandoned in these woods alone.
Nymphs named the silk skinned, raven-black of her, Fianna,
by-blow of a Moor, left as dross in these weird weeping;
she recalls, her fright at five, abandoned in these woods alone.
An adept now, she aids the Weird in its fight with rising hell.
By-blow of a Moor, left as dross in these weird weeping,
raised by the fey, she was taught good from evil well.
An adept now, she aids the glade in its fight with rising hell;
her blessed-onyx points, caste blackhearts from the dell.
Raised by the fey, she was taught good from evil well.
The Blood moon’s rise brings hell’s minions out in droves;
her blessed-onyx points, caste blackhearts from the dell.
Defilers die by her hand and Druid bow bespelled.
The Blood moon’s rise brings hell's minions out in droves.
Rain caught in the leaves revives; moss clots her blood.
Defilers die by her hand and Druid bow bespelled,
as she protects the oak and ash from whispering hell.
Rain caught in the leaves revives; moss clots her blood.
This night, she’s hurt hunting demons in her mother’s grove
as she protects the oak and ash from whispering hell.
For good, the Druid woods claimed this girl child for its own.
First Published by After the Pause
The cold north winds that stripped you bare,
Shall bring a white cloak for you to wear.
This is how my Autumn trees look already.
11.19.2014
For Rick Paris's
Contest Crystalline
4th
the Oak Tree
You were always someone special
In the midnight hours in my dream
I could really feel the tension
A tree, a limb, a friend
No matter how hard life came at me
There you stood perfectly
Letting me lean up against your stand
I will never forget the day you swayed the first hi
I talked as if you were hearing
A tree, a piece of wood in my path
A punching bag
My Oak Tree you will always be
One day in my sorrowed life
I stopped by just to reminisce
Your beauty, I find so divine
Your leaves took me backwards
I fell in love with your soul all over again
With a beauty, I find so divine
Hope you will always be there my friend
Indulging the felling you transcend
A cold spot never found in you
Re-breathing your surround, no need to make a sound
The power you have when you make my heart mend
My Oak Tree you will always be my friend
In the lowest day of my life
I went on a secret walk to look for comfort
The beauty of you is no longer there
Walking around with an extra deep pain of hurt
Not sure how one could bare such a loss
Dropping myself to my Knees upon the dirt
An empty spot is the only thing there
My friend I thought you would always be there
How can they take you away from this world?
A lonely field
No root, no seed
Loneliness no one to lean up against
You will no longer be there
How could they cut down, my friend?
My friend the Oak Tree.
Where are your seeds?
By;PD
[in Rhyme Rhupunt: a,a,a,b c,c,c,b]
At water’s edge there danced below,
amid the ripple and the flow,
royal blue and sun aglow—
and ragged clouds in limpid sky.
Standing tall and stately there,
swaying in the languid air,
a mighty oak in quiet prayer—
and not a soul to reason why.
Long ago when earth was young,
and all alive had common tongue,
songs of praise were often sung—
to sacred trees that beckoned all.
But time will always stir the brew;
Men soon forgot the hymns they knew;
came next the ax, its certain hew—
then dread silence, gruesome pall.
Yet Oak survived, of all that were,
whose buried might began to stir—
its dreams for earth none could deter—
for it had promises to keep.
Oak then rent thunderous all the earth,
forged resplendent its rebirth.
accorded thus eternal worth—
serene the tree then welcomed sleep.
It was always there, rooted deeply, in my backyard.
That mighty oak, it was so beautiful, so noble, and strong.
~~~
As a child, I would climb up into its arms, and sit there for hours finding comfort.
It became a part of me, its' spirit ran through me and we were as one.
~~~
Through the years, as I grew older, I would take my burdens, and sit by my tree,
And, it would unburden me.
It was my pillar of strength,
~~~
Now the mighty oak lies toppled. I touch his withered limbs and cry.
And as his spirit rushes through me, I hear him say goodbye.
~~~
And my world is changed for ever; it can never be the same.
For - tonight my father died.
In oak-heath forest you might be
one wonderful spring day.
Go search for heath beneath a tree.
Perhaps small faeries you will see
and other wee folk there at play
in early dawn’s first ray.
One time while I was walking there
one fair May day, I saw
a sight so beautiful and rare:
Wee folk had gathered unaware
that I was watching with such awe
I must have dropped my jaw!
A babe they baptized underneath
(now are you listening?)
dew's water dripping from white heath
which formed on the babe’s head a wreath.
I’d happened on his christening!
Dewdrops were glistening.
June 22, 2022
I found a dove lying broken
I knelt just as it died.
It had chosen my high window
as its own patch of blue sky.
A young dove it appeared to be,
too young to know or care
that windows are seductive
when one's flying in the air.
It was too young to wonder
where Summer's leaves had gone,
or to know there'll be new buds
along with Springtime's song.
Too young to taste wild berries
hidden by an early snow.
Too young to soar and soar someplace
where only birds must know.
Too young to choose a handsome mate
and raise its very own;
to age with grace and wondrous tales
of places it had flown.
Gently it's placed beneath an oak,
on fallen leaves to lie.
While its spirit, at last released,
will fly and fly and fly.
camouflaged body of singular bird,
on late Winter oak’s
white, gray and brown bark,
would assimilate feathers,
except for a blooming red head
that rises from the hollow’s depth
3/11/2022
Bite Size Poem no.39
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
An oak tree stood beside a narrow stream
All bent and twisted like an agéd man
So gently flowed the stream through ancient roots
While laughing with the innocence of youth
In summertime the children came to play
Within the cooling water of the stream
Or rest beneath the gnarled oak tree's limbs
Spread, father-like, to shade them from the sun
In autumntime, when gusts and breezes blow
The leaves would float like dancers through the air
First here, then there, they softly tripped, until
They lit at last to grace the frozen ground
In wintertime, the sprightly youths would skate
Along the crystal surface of the stream
Above, the windswept branches firmly stood
Like blacksmiths' limbs are hardened from the forge
In springtime burst the oak leaves forth anew
As kingly robes they grace the ancient tree
Inside its keep the squirrels and thrushes chirp
Secure from danger's threat and free from care
Time sped, its unrelenting chimes yet tolled
The youths that loved its shade have passed away
Yet still he laughs and seems to mock at time
He stands as stout and tall as ages past
But time, its current flows at even pace
And now the oak is bent with cruel decay
Though doubled at the back like aging man
He stands there yet, a monument of strength
~ Written for "Personification" Contest. Second Place.
A towering inferno loses
a cluster of flames once held dear.
19~11~2014
Sponsor: Rick Parise
Contest Name: Crystalline
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A BONUS CRYSTALINE NOT FOR THE CONTEST
Hard Oak
Softly swaying - in sensual ease
embraces a warm autumn breeze.
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*always read the fine print
Other Then The Title This Next Crystalline Is Written In Special Ink That Only The Best Of Poets Can See And Read. It Is The Best Of All My Writes. It is inspired by "The Emperors Clothes."
ONE MORE BONUS CRYSTALINE NOT FOR THE CONTEST
The Naked Oak
19~11~2014
Maroon leaves loop the skyline's soft shine,
claret pearls on the sun's neckline.
Copyright, November 18, 2014
Faye Lanham Gibson