Best Roots Poems
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
Roots and Dandelion Dreams: A Mother's Heart
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
At dawn's first blush,
milkweed pods,
burst with a sigh,
A feathery shower of,
silk sending secrets...
on the wind's soft cry.
Yesterday they wore a crown of pink
Today they are set free;
like dandelion dreams floating on the vast sea
a thousand wishes taking flight.
I see you spinning gracefully
on dandelion fluff.
each strand like a
glowing thread
forming a halo.
Your laughter flows like
a babbling
brook over stones.
while your tears resemble mist
clinging to ferns in
the whisping breeze.
As twilight falls and fireflies twinkle
like scattered stars,
a new constellation is born.—
a flickering dance in the dimming light
as transient, as a summer evening.
In your eyes wild irises bloom
reflecting the evening sky as
they search for their fragrance.
Amidst meadowlarks songs
welcoming the dawn in morn.
my heart remains intertwined
with yours like a nurturing vine
that delves into the soil
forever connected to you.
You write the poetry of life
moments full of freedom.
Like a ballet of butterflies
a child experiencing wonder,
both wild and free.
No need,
for preaching!
just the melody of the wind
whispering through
the pine trees.
A communication,
a connection that binds eternally.
With patience engraved
in the face of mountains
I stand as a protector.
a sanctuary in this forests
intricate beauty.
While shadows dance in a transient
vanishing performance
My love stands firm like
a redwood sentinel enduring
all challenges.
In the settling of dusk,
where fireflies sparkle,
My presence is like a meadow
where bluebirds dream.
For you,
my child,
are a hawk,
on the wind's caress.
Soaring on thermals,
a spirit,
etched upon your face.
My heart,
a beacon's steady fire,
guiding,
through the unknown,
In this life's,
choreography,
bathed in your,
boundless exploration.
Mother
Sheltering, strong
Branches rustle tales
Roots grip the earth deep
Child
I live on an island in the Pacific region
The largest body of water is the OCEAN
Like, can we be more Pacific?
I think Christopher Columbus got lost
Because the directions were not pacific
Oh, excuse me, the Pacific Ocean
Where you will find the small islands (micronesia)
Where you will find the black islands (melanesia),
Where you will find the many islands (polynesia)
Generally, the islanders are like coconuts
So hard on the outside
But succulent on the inside
Yet they always end up wanting Samoa
Get this,
An assault by an Islander
is called a Hawaiian Punch
At times, these islands need a therapist when they are in a tropical depression
Some islands have sunk
Oh no do not laugh
That is not funny atoll
Sea yourself out
Therefore, I live on an island
A small island
I am a MICRO
I mean, how can I get more pacific than that?
Written: November 11, 2023
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Zeal, which requires forbearance as its root,
Akin to a home built upon sleek clay
Yet, as brave as all the walls on the route
And its high spires proudly rise to the sky.
Though skilled creators leave behind a trail,
Aesthetic pyrrhic shapes on every hand.
Shining sculptures in shady nooks prevail
And waterfalls dance in some pastiche stands.
Yet, when a gloomy easterly breeze blows,
The worst wind blows, and dewy showers fall.
Always defeating a hindrance that flows
Then! The ornate design crumbles and crawls.
Earning love spells the skill to endure pain.
Masonry-like friendship called to remain
*
I
am
slipping
into a dream,
I am in a forest
of trees so beautiful
and I see myself a tree,
my roots deep in the earth
my branches raised to the sun.
I am strength and I am courage.
A river flows past me like a stream
of glass. I am tranquility and serenity.
The winds are whistling through my weeping
leaves like a violin crying and echoing in the forest.
I gave
to life
all the
soul I
had in me, all the tears, trembling, throbbing- and all the pain fell
as Autumn leaves. My pain drifted away in red, and orange decay
I rested under the sun and placed on a cloak of pure white beauty,
then in the Spring I put on an emerald gown so pretty and lovely.
__________________________
January 25, 2017
Poetry/Shape/My Roots Are Deep
Copyright Protected, ID 01-868-807-25
All Rights Reserved, 2017, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest ,Show Me Your Shape Contest
sponsor, Anthony Slausen, Judged 2017
Third Place
__________________________
Submitted to the Standard Contest, But Seriously Contest
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged
First Place
__________________________
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1053)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/17/2022
First Place
Tree Roots and the Light
The tall Tree was Flying, its leaves high in the sky,
Trying to go beyond the flying kites, towards the light,
Its roots were trying to penetrate the soil,
Heading in the deep darkness, it kept moving without a shine.
Higher its branches touched the Crown of mirth,
Touching the lofty heights of light and the sky,
Its leaves and branches were flying and dancing,
In the joy of touching Light and those untouched, heights.
Some where, not far beyond the skies, lives dearest of our heart and soul,
I saw the Tree kept moving towards that One, it always adored,
While its beloved roots too, were silently busy in supporting,
Without which, the Tree can never even stand to touch the lofty scores.
I thought and wondered, which one contributes more,
In touching the limitless, lofty heights and the glow of the sky,
The stem, which is blessed to touch the sky, or the roots that resembles,
A true beloved without which, the stem even can not stand for a while.
The Tall tree was standing before me, unfolding its love towards the Sky,
With a high and prideful head in the sky, the tree was heading towards the glow,
Far away from its beloved roots, to feel the serene touch in the limitless sky,
Going a little closer to that Glow, which we adore and love and call Almighty.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 22 08 2010
rose bush starkly bare
snowflakes shimmer on branches
roots dream thrilling days
January 16, 2022
"Winter Haiku" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Tania kitchin
Syllables (5-7-5) checked by HMS.com
SECOND PLACE
A Brian Strand Hiku Poetry Contest
FIRST PLACE
In the jungle where animals roam free
From atop the highest tree
A seed falls to the ground
In the earth, its' roots of life are found
The mighty oak was once a seed
An acorn with the instructions it needs
To become what it was meant to be
From the jungle floor it rises to become a sturdy tree
The seeds of hope reside within our being
In winter, there is the hope of spring
When there's drought, there is the hope of rain
When all seems lost, hope still remains
In this vast universe love is king
It's the reason for sunshine and rain
The reason why we're here is plain
The seeds of love dwell within all things
simple dreams
grand ambitions
building on the past
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Life, in the cruelty of morning light,
Is a strand of copper blond hair
With auburn roots, asleep on a pillow.
Are you waiting for the snail mail
To bring you the implant
That will explode in your head?
Or will you dedicate your life
To multiplication of garbage that oozed
Into ancestral rivers, lakes and skies?
Will you let blood bubble on the Tigris
Or become a collector of limbs in Grozny,
While I inaugurate a thousand Darfurs?
Will we terrorize freedom in freedom’s name?
Goliath, let us fortify, let us amend,
Or one day David will pelt us with a catapult,
Blood will copiously flow
From our forehead into our eyes,
We will be blinded, unless we already are.
Deep cleansing milk has to be sold by the gallon,
And, of course, Listerine.
Poetry and we have roots like an ancient tree,
Deeply embedded in the mysterious soil of time,
Each verse, a branch reaching towards unknown heavens,
Seeking divine light, yearning to touch eternity.
Under the canopy of night, our leaves rustle like whispers of stars,
Each word, a leaf of unspoken desires and dreams,
Poetry flows through our veins like magical sap,
Nourishing our souls with the essence of the world beyond.
The subtle roots intertwine with forgotten memories of ages past,
Through invisible layers of time, through layers of silence and light,
Each branch, a story engraved on the bark of our hearts,
Our flowers bloom in verses, a mix of eternal joy and melancholy.
In the wind of the night, poetry and we dance like a tree of mysteries,
With a strong trunk, we withstand ancient storms and pain,
Our roots bind us to sacred earth, to the unseen realm,
And the leaves carry our song to hidden skies.
Each poem, a call to the secret light of infinity,
In a melancholic symphony, our roots deepen in enigmas,
Through the shadows of night, we seek answers under the enigmatic moonlight,
A tree of poetry, bound to the soul, dreaming endlessly of eternity.
Poetry and we are one, a sacred tree in the garden of the universe,
Our branches stretch towards guiding stars, eager for sacred knowledge,
In our poetic roots, we find the essence of the unknown,
And thus, in our mystical melancholy, we weave our destinies with immortal words.
Under the starry rain, our roots nourish from the essence of the cosmos,
Each drop of light brings verses entwined in eternity,
Poetry and we, a tree singing its quiet, profound melody,
And in this mystical dance, we find our way to the light of the eternal present.
Along the long, silent halls they drift,
thoughts curling tight like thorned tendrils.
Calm resists.
Walls lean close, sighing with quiet cracks.
A tremor passes through you.
Whispers press in like tidewater.
Yet your roots hold in secret.
You break and the light drifts past,
soft and silent.
I love you…
not in the noise of blossoms
screaming their radiance into spring
but in the way roots strip themselves into
world's silence, quiet, hidden
yet steadfast in every tempest
I love you…
in the silence that follows laughter
when memory brushes gentle against my chest
and I know that even years cannot erase
the warmth sent in your name.
I love you…
like the coastline greets the tide
forever restoring
even when the waters are hauled away
by the pull of far-off moons.
I love you…
not because love is endless,
but because even in endings
you are the place
I begin.
Soft hands fold laundry,
laughter spills like loose buttons~
warmth in wrinkled sheets.
No blood binds us, yet we stay~
roots tangled, holding the earth.
What reminds me always of my own identity
being born in the Philippines, a poor nation;
faith and history that nurture my thinking,
their colossal meaning shows how I am doing.
Perhaps an upbringing in my own family culture
can add a vital implication in my behavior
yes, it’s pretty evident as I keep going
with my own certainty in language articulation.
Our constant struggles, miseries and beliefs
provide a perspective that comes with faith;
it’s a way to get plunged into the mainstream
that life in the Philippines has shaped my whole being.
Major hurdles as reflected in various situations,
the core truth of being subject to wrestle with life,
along with the fullness of time and the so-called ‘leb’
a challenge, indeed; the incarnation of my interior sense.
It is an awareness that poverty in most parts of the country
makes me realize that something has to be done so far,
it’s a person’s longing to achieve that goal of going elsewhere
like in the States, UK, Australia, Hong Kong or Malaysia.
That quest for greener pastures and other human aspirations
employment takes the centerpiece as a redeeming treasure;
like a “chiaroscuro” in the haven of human acquisition
where hope begets hope and where faith begets faith.
Well, seeing the reality of my own people’s struggles
I cannot help but be responsive to what they long for;;
a call from within drawn across the cry of the poor,
my own people, my sibling souls in the right direction.
I’ve developed that attitude of love and compassion
especially to those who’re eclipsed by epic proportion
in their search for peace, justice and Christian thought
with their roots plunged into the depth where we are.
The grandstand is gelid by a sharp wintry breeze
Carried off from the field are the last of dead leaves
The shrill of the whistle, muffled calls from the crowd
From the tunnel stampede, metal studs echo loud.
With high, flick-tossing coin each Captain his reason
To kick-off with his mates a new rugby season.
The kicker announces starting ball high and long
And on lumbering wind sings a rugby man’s song.
Fifteen players below impatient stand waiting
Eyes fixed to the heavens, the ball falls rotating.
To arms of the hardest with sweetest possession
Grueling match has begun— the rugby obsession!
Steaming bodies in scrums, deep grunt of engagement
Weary boots grappling earth now frozen like pavement
By tackle-ruck-lineout, each man one-and-for-all
With a powerful push a try-bound rolling maul.
Players leaping for joy, heads of others hang low
Elation, deception such do rugby games go.
So Grand Final is here, a long winter has passed
The crowd and the speaker say it happened too fast;
Cut-throat right to the last; Wing, Second Row to Prop
A try, then conversion, to make every heart stop.
(Far left of the uprights flew last quiet ball spent
but with westerly drift over black dot she went!)
…
And with sweet summer grass blowing crisp in the sun
where butterflies frolic, spider webbing is spun
White sidelines are missing, fields all ripe, rich ‘n’ green
Rugby season has passed, but young spirits are keen
A rugby ball punted, a lone boy, polished boots
To play for his country, his dream built on grass roots.
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Alexandrine Poem in balanced six syllable cesurae for each 12 syllable line