Best Sycamore Poems
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The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
viewing it now, after all these years...
The street seems narrower, and the trees have grown tall..
And where once open fields spanned both sides of the road,
there are small tract houses, where fences have bloomed.
Neighboring orchards have all disappeared
But, somehow we knew the house would be there....
As if seen from a distance, edged by seasons, yet clear
There's the path that we laid one hot summer day,
in the yard of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew....
Someone else left their footprints that lead to the door
There's a rusty-red bike, and a skate left behind
by the squeaky old gate, that tomorrow will find.
As suddenly as wind will spring from the dust
thirty years fell away, and flew into in the past
And quickly alive, all the memories rise,
like a whirlwind of leaves, in a springtime of lives.....
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...Our first Christmas trees, and our first holidays...
Anniversaries we spent with just pizza and wine
The place where I cried long into the night,
as the child in me grieved for a mother who died...
Long, starry nights, I was bathed by the moon
rocking my babes to a lullaby tune
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Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white trim
Strange, it may be, but I'm glad it's still yellow...
Still wearing the face of the warm summer sun
The sun- yellow house, with a flagstone path
Where old slate stones bring the sun to the door
It's a path we laid on a warm summer day
in a place that we knew as our very first home
Just a small yellow house, with its snow-white trim...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...
Sycamores certainly speak French, cypresses - ancient Greek, the Old Testament's olives are bilingual: they speak Hebrew and Aramaic. Birch is a Russian tree though growing in Canada. So small and frail (they wither abroad), already gone into a winter trance, she is silent but she is silent à la russe. That's how silent bears in dens are, that's how drunkards listen to the voice of the devils dissolved in their blood, that's how old believers pray, that's how a poet meditates on his faraway homeland and, finally, that's how silent my girlfriend was, accompanying me to the airport. What are we doing here, you and me, between fall and winter, at the crossroad of four Canadian corners?
a hush of partings
of pursed lips and lonely hearts…
we should go home birch
10.12.2019
December Or January Haibun Contest Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
The shy answer troll in the sycamore tree
Refused to come out for the chickadee.
So we sent our best fairy named sweet pie.
Her wand carved a mark in form of a zee.
Geese overhead flashed a pretty vee.
Sweet pea was the most polite she could be.
She did find out he was Larry McGee.
The next to try was a red bumblebee.
I am sent to ask you to please agree.
To attend our mixer beside the tea.
Our fabulous music and food is free.
The guest of honor is Simon Legree.
Larry McGee got down on one knee.
And took out his favorite fiddle wee.
He shook out his favorite BVD
Began to practice with a hee hee hee
Entire meadow was happy with glee
When the fiddle and the troll they did see
He apologized to the chickadee
She totally accepted his apology
“to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature” William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601
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The house seemed smaller, seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared
But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet the same
There was an unfamiliar small red tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...
Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives.....
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes....
Yes....it is all still there, in the little yellow house
Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...
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4/20/11 Submitted for Constance La'France's Contest "The Tree"
By Carrie Richards
Window covered by a sycamore tree
Constant friend of my snowy Maple days.
Memories spring as insects on a tree
Turn my gloomy days in glorious days
Hippocrates got his inspiration
for search in medicine he began.
Buddh sat under it for meditation
and enlightenment of mind to attain.
Desdemona sat sighing under it
in agony to hear willow song treat.
Flying to Egypt Mary stopped a bit.
Crann ban “Money tree” in Irish spirit.
To demystify health, to personalize,
To me sycamore is to poetize.
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December 2, 2014
Form : Sonnet {Iambic Pentameter)
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place Win
Contest: Structured Forms by Georgio V. Venetto
Wind carrying seed
sycamore helicopters-
sister spinning wool.
giant sycamore
branches reaching to heaven --
a shady haven
2/19/2013
"To hold as 'twere, the mirror up to nature. " William Shakespeare," Hamlet 1601."
Window covered by a sycamore tree
Constant friend of my snowy Maple days
Memories spring as insects on a tree
Turn my gloomy days in glorious days
Hippocrates got his inspiration
For research in medicine to begin
Buddh sat under it for meditation
The enlightenment of mind to attain.
Desdemona sat sighing under it
In agony to hear willow song treat
Flying to Egypt Mary stopped a bit
Crann ban “Money tree” in Irish spirit
To demystify health, to personalize
To me sycamore is to poetize.
** The notion of a "mirror held up to nature" has been taken over for any mimetic theory of art — the idea that art should represent reality and nature as closely as possible**
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Revised and Reposted May 4, 2014
Form : Shakespearean sonnet in Pentameter
Dr.Ram Mehta
Contest: Shakespeare by Frank H.
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Dr. Ram Mehta
Date: 4/19/2011
Fourth Place win in :
Contest:The Tree sponsored by Constance La france-A rambling poet
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* I wrote a sonnet Maple Memories in 2000 while living in Windsor-ONT
and was posted on 6/29/2005 on PS as Maple Memories.
The present poem is re-written for the contest.
** Maple Days- Maple is the national tree of Canada.
* Buddha is pronounced one syllable
I was born to breathe free, outdoors
count my rings and you will know how old I am
I come from a family of sycamores
I own a massive trunk when eagles soar
they perch upon my branch they do yes mam
although my roots run deep inside the floor
I am durable with growth you can't ignore
my peels are white, tan and green dear Sam
adaptable in most soils I outlive the albacore
I prefer direct sun and in Egyptian folklore
I am also known as the Holy Tree of man
connecting both worlds now forevermore
Often found by river beds by open shore
my bulk is sensitive without sham
I was born to breathe free, outdoors
I come from a family of sycamores
Sept 2, 2022
( A Shakespearean Soonet - with 14 syllables- rhyming abab,cdcd,efef,gg)
My balcony was covered by a huge sycamore tree,
My constant companion during the snowy Maple days,
Memories come as insects around a flowering tree
Turning my gloomy days into that of glorious days.
First candid approach in medicine to initiate,
Hippocrates sat under sycamore tree to explain,
As Buddha sat under the Bodhi tree to meditate,
Nirvana or the enlightenment of mind to attain.
Father Cavanaugh aptly called it ‘The tree of vengeance’,
Othello’s Desdemona sat sighing by sycamore,
Flying to Egypt Virgin Mary rested under once,
Known to be as crann ban “money tree” in Iris folklore.
To demystify health care and known to personalize,
My sycamore exists to socialize and poetize.
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Fifth place winner in
Contest: Shakespearean or English Sonnet in honor of John freeman
O sycamore seed!
how you descend on a wing,
to the earth below.
the sycamore tree's
white bark color of fresh snow..
last gold leaf spirals
the death of me late
the very dream of your time
how do you find one?
Upon such unnatural paths do men set course
Jacks walk the trail with axes, and their horse
They have come to rape the forest by brute force
Rested, and ready from yesterdays good night
Minds fixate on profits, hearts ignore the blight
Taking with them every last tree in their sight
Leaving a grave yard behind when they turn, and walk away
There will be no sleep lost for nature content with their pay