Best Sap Poems
Green is more than a color it’s true;
In viridescence there’s the promise
Of life springing anew,
Or maybe that’s found
In hues vibrant chartreuse.
Pea is the eyes of a jaundice and spite
It’s a virulent shade
Which foreshadows a fight
That’s driven by envy—
An emotional blight.
And once March is near
Let’s not forget Shamrock--
To the Irish it’s dear
For old countries remembrance,
They even color rivers and beer.
And the list could go with endless zeal
Shades of green with names
Like Moss, Mint and Teal.
Pear, Avocado, and Apple
Each have their own a-peel.
JSC 3/23/2015
"It's Spring--Show Me the Green" Contest by Francine Roberts
“Poetry is eternal graffiti written in the heart of everyone.” — Lawrence Ferlinghetti
When starlings were swimming in the azure lake
When bats and owls began their nocturnal ride
When all the Earth under a dark blanket lay
My Muse, like a sweet temptress, came to me
To set this captive free, to give free rein to my fancy
She sang into my ears the lovely strains of a placid melody,
Bathing me in sheer delight, creating in me a passion too intense
To articulate my disjointed thoughts into vibrant melodies of beauty
Soon fireflies of thoughts came flitting like bees around a looted honeycomb
In a butterfly net, I trapped them all clustering together in a clumsy heap
Making my darkened zone bright with little arcs of shimmering light
I placed them carefully in an ordered strain, word after word,
In meaningful sequence, fashioning them into a beautiful symphony
When your Muse comes knocking at your door
Delay her not, but let her in and go for a merry ride with her
There, let her magic wand kiss and caress you
From head to foot and all over awakening your fancy
From deep slumber, that songs of passion are born from you,
Gushing forth in streams of honeyed dew,
For poetry is a life cherishing force!
Nov. 23.2022
~Placed Third~
Poetry is a Life Cherishing Force Contest
Sponsor – Sotto Poet
Re submitted for Brian Strand Contest. No.1170
From dry wooden cracks
Seeps the elixir of life
Oozing out of its earthy shell
It crawls upon the outer walls
Of its once eternal prison
It flows and covers
Encompasses and drowns all
Preserving death within its clarity
All else seems insignificant and weak
Thus it perishes before the creeping nectar from within
The elements awaken
And let loose upon the forgotten and the lost
Time passes and clouds pass by
Frayed by the undying winds
The Sap Turns to Amber
Carries within its crystal the tales of an era
Trapped now in golden glass
Forever preserved, yet still forgotten
So the amber in our hearts preserves
Our defeats and triumphs
Within its recesses
Only the foolish are captivated by the luster
And only the wise see through to its core
Me doing programming
Being a part of a wonderful team…
Knowing, not snoring
During the meetings…
During discussions about the sky
Which is above us…
About its azure
Bright blue in color in cloudless skies…
(Now read slowly)
Sun shining brightly
Intervening with slumber.
Runners, joggers, wheeler, hikers -
They feel the power of nature's glow, with breeze and sun
Then with such course, the walking dead joins in? or shun?
Each runner's course is rough, then smooth
They and the jogger feel lifted up, by golden rule
Hikers hike, and what do they feel? zeal!
Like wheeler; they, too, zip up for fresh air's meal
Runners, joggers, wheeler, hikers; they all know who rules
Even walkers are a pert of their pool... in which
The Maker of breeze, and nature's glow and sun
Holds reservoir of sap fit for everyone.
*
If there's one thing worse than winter
It's more winter that makes us whimper
80 years of this crap
I'm nutso, what a sap
Think I just heard you agree in a whisper
© Jack Ellison 2016
(this has happened a few times to me when
trying to sleep out on my deck in the sun!)
I longed to nap
and laid me down right here.
Then peacefully I closed my eyes
and drifted off round “sheep one-hundred-four.”
But what a sap!
When sleep came very near,
my body jolted; with surprise
I wakened from the sound of my own snore.
For paula Swanson's "The Light is On, But Nobody Is Home"
that delightfully delicate desert rose,
that same alluring adenium multiflorum bearing the wondrous pinkish-fuchsia petals & white outlining angles
brings with it the death-sap used by hunters in africa,
that which in a barrage of many poison soaked arrows
will slowly kill a giraffe as it tries so desperately to
get away from its
trackers---
as the magnificent animal
of gorgeous sepia, sienna, amber & saffron
treads closer to the ground with every step
as the cardiac glycosides fill its body through its bloodstream at an extreme
toxic
level,
our minds run rampant with horror
our hearts gush red with a disgustingly hypocritical sense of
“compassion” which
stares at us back from the mirror of
time,
laughing at our own self-corruption,
as orwell in shooting his elephant,
fleeing the body before it had actually passed,
not able to watch what he himself had caused the death of,
hearing only later that it took the beautiful creature
a half hour to die---
with this same thirst for beauty,
we ourselves approach the objects which operate with a thin skin
holding a vat of toxin within themselves
ready to explode
the moment we ingest them physically, metaphorically or whatever you claim to be
“spiritually,”
if you believe in such idiocy---
regardless,
we all pay the price,
walking for hours, maybe days
in the desert &
choking,
while our fellow humans,
the trackers, follow,
like the grim reaper’s own paparazzi
ready to report back
as to how our whole story played out,
sickly & stupid as we were,
seeking sweet nectar where there wasn’t even a taste &
justifiably suffering the
consequences.
The wild hair of the trees
lay down on the ground.
Others burn up in a blue smoke.
The severed branches in small heaps.
I saw, in the middle of the sawdust,
The pieces of the great plane tree,
Where we carved our names.
The drawn heart, smiled at me,
Even with its sap tears,
the wounded sapwood
a kind of last farewell.
-
RC
-
La chevelure sauvage des arbres
s'est couchée sur le sol.
D'autres se consument
en fumées bleues.
Les branches sectionnées en petit tas.
J'ai vu, au milieu de la sciure,
Les billots du grand platane,
Où nous avions gravés nos noms.
Le cœur dessiné, me souriait,
Même avec ses larmes de sève,
d'aubier blessé,
en une sorte de dernier adieu.
on the reference of a
friend who used to be
close, s/he asks the cartomancer
to come to the house---
as this is not a privilege
often granted to those whose cards
are to be read (so the “reader”
claims), extra funds are required
to lure her in &
the sap in question feels that the
frustrations of his/her life have led
them to this place
of concentrated desperation &
loneliness,
are grounds enough to shell out
the moola, to roll out the red carpet
if necessary, in order to
provide the best atmosphere for the
“reader,” whose life has been
based on “interpreting the
tarot.”
offering the tea of her choice &
brewing it whilst they both sit down,
the woman’s stereotypical garb
woos the sap into thinking that this
woman has some kind of ancient
presence & the power of the
mythical washes over the sap
like a gentle breeze tickling the
back of her/his neck on a chilly
October afternoon.
after the tea is poured, the cards have
been chosen, the “reader”
does not break eye contact,
proceeding to tell the sap a tale
that could be weaved (and quite
probably has been) for anyone
who asks the reader to come to their
house, who seems so distraught &
alone, who evidently has come to
a major turning point in her life,
weighs upon every word that
the “reader” spits at them.
dewy eyed with brand new hope,
more horrible than the loneliness
that led them to this charlatan,
the sap sees her to the door,
constantly thanking her for the
things that s/he heard which s/he
liked, like a mouse sticking its
head into the trap right before it
sets it off, licking its lips &
thinking that it found the peanut
butter all on its own &
oh how lucky it is
to have this feast lie before it.
A hungry beast edges,
coming for you, sent by a
shining, busy man;
you can do nothing.
The dingy spit spills
from claws that look like
spinning sawblade dinner plates.
An oven belly smolders so brightly
for your flesh.
Truly, I am sorry...
But your druid spirit will be shredded,
sacrificed to Frankenstein,
and machined nonchalantly.
Come now, there's no fruit in struggling;
their smoking fires are funeral pyres for the
dead
god
of
nature
I can see it in your face.
Please, poor sap,
you are trapped.
The sad truth is
you'll never know
why fall leaves you.
From the root, the sap rises up into the artist,
Flows through him, flows to his eye.
Activated by the force of the current,
He conveys his vision into his work.
He stands at a fixed place as the trunk of the tree
He does nothing other than gather
And pass on what rises from the depths
Neither he serves nor commands but transmits.
What a transmission of the classical music
It is certainly a form of meditation,
His consciousness is not in the lower vital world
And playing something soulful in high consciousness.
+++++++
April 29, 2014
Form Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Third Place Win
Contest: Rock My World by Debbie
Tip your wing to the deep blue sky
your free to roam your free to fly,
Feel the wind upon your face
gliding free in the open space,
Soar above and be our guide
for knowing you holds no stronger pride,
No braver spirit no brighter eyes
in the night we'll watch the skies,
We'll sing for you a native prayer
feel a breeze and know your there,
Watch over us as we would you
for the lives you touched are touched so true.
Our election is over and Doug Ford is the chap
In the face of we Liberals, a humongous slap
One Ford was enough
We've fallen on our duffs
Our Canadian maples have been drained of their sap
Michael slaps his forearm as he
thumbs through a
book of epitaphs,
inscriptions cemented upon a
brown volume filled with tacky
sheets
holding memories under the spotlight
like that prickly
crown of thorns
filled with creamy sedation. He
cranks the volume on his tiny
speaker
hoping to cling to Stevie Nicks'
familiar gravel smoothing
with pungent aroma
reminiscent of wood-chips and
coriander, until a twitching, frenetic
squirrel
emerges with mange in his scowl.
He darts with corduroy
fingers through a
navy backpack filled with bandages,
alcohol and jangling pill bottles before
sighing
in the serene orange permeating beneath
the direct label
warning of risk.
Despite the tremors and menacing
stings, he mashes the crispy shell with a
spoon.