Best Sycamores Poems
What's not to love about a summer day?
Kissed by the sun, the warmth of its embrace
To feel the cleanse from sweat at work and play
While honeysuckle breezes cool my face
With hillsides blanketed in purple vetch
Magenta morning glories and light blues
Imagine all the butterflies they fetch
A scene to romance any poet's muse
But when it gets too hot, I seek the shade
Barefoot in clover 'neath tall sycamores
Or take a watermelon down to wade
A spring fed creek, to cool, while I explore
That evening, in the swing, I watch fireflies
Then pray I wake to see one more sunrise
May 9 - 2018
Daniel Turner
~
Dressed in a shade that the sun couldn’t find,
all on a cool summer’s eve
Seeking a scarf only meant to unwind,
wrapped in an untangled weave
Picking a fabric, the color of love,
stitched with a thread of desire
Taking your hand neath the heavens above,
warm in our flannel attire,
more than enough to inspire
~
Following pathways, the shape of your smile,
skipping like stones on a lake
Counting the ripples in circular style,
drenching the shore in their wake
Picking up pinecones now scattered the floor,
left of an overgrown scene
Acorns and clover and toadstools galore,
woven in soft evergreen,
what could this possibly mean
~
Heartbeat directions now lost to the breeze,
footsteps will know what we planned
Calming, the moments we talk to the trees,
sycamores do understand
Midnight adventures by firefly light,
glistening, leading the way
Wee hour wandering as they take flight,
below a lanterned array,
stars in a shimmered display
~
Find what you will in these words that I share,
tuck them away safe and sound
Breathe in the thoughts as you exhale the air,
now that there’s no one around
Kiss me tonight where the moon shadows dance,
soft on the eve of the morn
Holding me close at the edge of romance,
watching the sunrise adorn,
happy this new day is born
~
By chance, I found them, there...
Three pressed leaves, with brittle veins of delicacy
Tucked between the pages
Of a tattered book of poems
Overlooked and gathering dust,
A cover worn, with broken spine
It had your names, an autumn date,
With script inside, a faded time...
Caressed in yellowed tissue, these three from ancient trees
Discarded long ago from russet crowns
A memory, kept, of time, so keen,
Of a long ago, brisk autumn day?
Where leaves had fallen so bold and gay, then twirled on down
From breezes that gently made the Sycamores sway
A place you walked and held his hand, and knew forever your love would be
Perhaps beneath those trees you made a plan for me
When winter's chill and stolen years had not yet come
Where fragrance of fall and new young love was found
From soft carpets of scarlet, red and brown
You chose these three from all the rustling hordes that grew
A tree had finished using them, in remembrance of you
They were yours for awhile...for your love, perhaps a lover's bed
now....here in my hands they lay....
They are mine to to keep, pressed leaves,
To keep for now, close to my heart instead...
taciturn springs rising
from within the quarry
of deep earth's wisdom
urging lyrical waters to transpose
while held like singing seas of living reveries
of history and infinity
misting to meld with rainfall dreams
Falling like ancient messages
into the orchard of molecular landscapes
drawn to penetrate its legacy
embedded in the rockeries and rills
blanketing the groves of dirt and ferns
teeming in the arcadian oasis
feeding feast or famine
flourishing the solicitude of springtime
in spider spun dreams
of longings in ancient oaks
merging with the ebb of shedding sycamores
in salted seas teeming and exalting
the rhetoric of existence
in musing opaque vapors
mingling into pervasive clouds
bleeding life
cached in the creche
of pastoral beginnings
of everlasting eddies
watering the garden of dreams
April 22, 2020
Rewritten: October 3, 2020
Your Best Free Verse 2020
Sponsored by John Hamilton
~
The heavens sing in star dust whispers
beneath the moon’s enchanted smile
While hand in hand we slowly wander
past sycamores in autumn style
The breeze is cool this path a’ winding
so fresh the scent of twilight bliss
Enchanted moments come this season
in shadows dim I steal a kiss
Of lips divine in endless wonder
my heart it beats a rapid pace
Your skin as soft as jasmine petals
embroidered in a springtime lace
To hold you close this shimmered evening
below these velvet skies above
Is all my dreamed September wishes
coming true with you in love
~
On a broad street 'neath spreading sycamores sits a stately dwelling.
Its elegance and surrounding grounds are so very compelling.
Gracious gardens and towering pines enhance its wide expanse,
All girded by a charming, yet sturdy, white iron picket fence.
Gingerbread ornamentation adorns its every eave and gable.
At the rear of the house stands a horse and carriage stable.
In my minds-eye I sit upon its front porch, so very inviting,
To muse upon its past and what made life there so exciting.
I see eloquent ladies and gentlemen arriving for a gala affair,
Happily anticipating the fellowship that awaits them there.
Outside huge flakes of snow waft gently to the earth,
But inside a blazing fire welcomes them to its cozy hearth.
The grandfather clock in the hall intones its sonorous chimes.
For decades it has dwelled there, overseeing happy times.
In the parlor a grand pump organ reposes by yon wall,
If only it could speak, what special memories it might recall!
The house has weathered the ravages of time with exquisite grace,
Providing warmth and comfort, when life moved at a slower pace.
Built to last for generations, built when guild took pride;
There, generations of genteel folk, loved, laughed and cried!
Entry for Nayda Ivette Negron's "Enchanted House" Contest
autumn rainbow jubilee
shades of autumn burst
colorful hillside hues ~
inner fire of fall
umber oaks shed leaves
tall forest giants shiver ~
sleepy acorns doze
fiery scarlet leaves
sugar maples glow like coals ~
flurries of orange
fall breeze fantasies
gold flutters from aspen trees ~
overcoats of snow
birch trees ochre leaves
black and white tuxedo bark ~
kinglets swing on boughs
multi-colored leaves
rainbows green pink and saffron ~
sycamores spread fruit
shapely hickory
furrowed dark grey scaly bark ~
squirrels hide tree nuts
spiny light brown pods
autumn storms harvest chestnuts ~
cold reigns in raindrops
autumn jubilee
bounty of leaves nuts and seeds ~
beauty walks the earth
10-27-22
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
I took the wrong turn where the sycamores grow,
With no map in my hand and nowhere to go.
The road was untravelled, a quiet mistake,
For the sake of the turning, for destiny’s sake.
Then I saw you, just standing, caught in the rain,
A fortuitous meeting that severed the pain.
Not planned by the hours, not set by the clock,
Just a gentle collision—a fortunate shock.
Now our garden is lush, though we planted no seed,
For the wind brings the blossom that the spirit may need.
And the beauty we hold, in this wild, blessed place,
Is the accidental wonder of finding your face.
Written: June 22, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Silent One
Quote: Your name is upon my tongue, your image is in my sight, your memory is in my heart. Where can I send these words that I write ? By Rumi
*******************
Remember Me—
Not as a wimpy palimpsest pressed in dust,
but as a melodic requiem
Swelling through sycamores,
a voice that thrums in amber air.
Stands out as brilliant, warm, and vivid—
candles in our memories for days.
I was your hubris and nemesis—
your panacea of song,
a sylphlike sigh whispered
woven in the welkin’s velvet veil
pure awareness of your heart.
Do not shred me into ephemera,
nor replace my passion—
with forgetfulness
I am the obelisk in your memory’s scope
the oculus through which eternity gropes.
Since death may alleviate with deceit,
Since shadows unravel the nexus of our days,
my love wincing, scintillating—
a sumptuous aurora
that presses the stygian night.
Remember me—
in the whispering calyx of summer blooms,
in the susurrous lagoon
where cicadas chant,
in every wistful whisper of wind
that morphs weariness into wonder.
I am not lost,
but vestigial luminous flame
a perpetuum pulse
a virtuoso of silence
hunting for your sapphire necklace
everlasting will,
singing still—
commit me to your memory.
Written: June 23, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Robert James Liguori.
Note: The poem is about interrelated art. Visualizing the picture while reading it makes it more captivating.
***************
I stand before the canvas—
the earth stretched wider than shepherds’ strides,
longer than harvest songs,
its pigments spilling caravans,
wild horses scattering sparks,
a child chasing butterflies
to the rim where sky melts into amber.
The horizon folds into shadow,
shrinking when one heart grows narrow.
The brush has balanced it
on a mustard seed,
fragile, trembling,
straining to hold two brothers
quarreling for olive shade.
How can a heart turn narrow,
The strokes seem to ask—
born in camps vast with mothers’ prayers,
raised in tents whose ropes clasp another,
taught to break and share bread,
guided by women who lit lanterns
against the boundless black?
In the lower corner,
iron glints—
a figure sharpening blades
to silence the olive’s song.
But across the canvas,
summer lingers:
cicadas thrumming in amber dusk,
children weaving laughter through sycamores.
Painter’s hand insists:
a heart is made for vastness,
for ardor, for sharing,
for love that endures.
And beneath the final strokes,
a refrain is written:
Let no heart grow narrow.
It was born wide as the welkin,
deep as the harvest,
tender enough
to hold the whole world.
Accordin' to my totally unbiased and very detailed research,
Jerimiah Flood pastored the Happy Valley Baptist Church.
From the pulpit he flailed his arms as if fightin' a hive of bees,
Elicitin' "Hallelujahs" and bringin' sinners fallin' to their knees!
His boomin' voice disturbed the peace of those who chose to sleep.
Interminable two-hour sermons were tolerated by his faithful flock of sheep.
He preached hellfire and damnation and the dire results of sin.
He was a'gin any form of gamblin' or dancin' and drinkin' moonshine gin!
An all-day meetin' with dinner on the grounds was an annual tradition,
A time to repent for sins of commission and omission in order to avoid perdition!
Dinner was held under the spreadin' sycamores if the weather allowed.
A half-hour blessin' by Jerimiah was normal as hungry stomachs growled!
Tables groaned 'neath heaps of fried chicken, baked beans and pertaters,
Green bean casseroles and garden fresh stuff includin' beefsteak termaters.
Most disturbin' and unknown to the reverend, there was a little tad of booze,
Snuck into the gatherin' and surreptitiously shared by old Deacon Hughes!
Pastor Flood served the faithful congregation for nigh on forty years,
Baptisin', marryin' and buryin' through many happy times and tears.
Oh, I failed to mention Sister Lois, ancient organist and director of the choir.
Her tea was spiked and she became so inebriated she was invited to retire!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Autumn brings leaves in multifarious hues,
Time's flow quickly readies us for winter's blow.
Fun days on our patios will soon turn to blues,
As it takes its leisure neath a blanket of snow.
The Sycamores have shed like some molting dog,
And each Crape Myrtle is dressed a yellowish red.
The huge Hackberry resembles an old upright log,
Now, too soon our days may be filled with dread.
The Hibiscuses are a gathering of pithy stalks,
Where once dinner plate size red flowers hung.
Now no cars come, stop and give strange gawks,
But things will be normal once spring has sprung.
Fallen leaves unmistakably are whispering to me,
Dancing at my feet they swirl along the ground.
As if they can't decide where they're supposed to be,
Each movement choreographed to whispering sound.
The clouds drape low,
shrugging blue mountain shoulders,
melding with ghostly river mist
ascending in specterous vapor trails
salted with primordial tears.
Between stately mottled sycamores
and aged medicinal white oaks,
slippered phantom figures glide,
clad in hides of deer and mountain lion.
Down to the silvered stream--
a mirror for chalky spirits and bright stars--
they slip to drink of pristine springs.
The powerful spell impacts within, without,
invading every animated sense.
A dream, an apparition?
I wonder at the dawn of bright sun rising,
green moss clad boulders warmed, fog dissipated.
I discern the curious sensation
of withdrawing from an ancient trance.
The happy river dances down the valley,
bordered in mountain laurel ruffles, pink;
the fragrance of breakfast bacon wafts,
a tantalizing, hunger inducing wave,
and campers' laughter echoes off a dream.
Copyright, August 19, 2014
Oft' my thoughts drift back through the mists of time,
To my childhood and my humble Indiana home,
Those blissful days of youth so carefree and sublime!
My memories of those blithesome days would fill a tome!
When I hear, "On the Banks of the Wabash, Far away",
Along its slopin' banks I can see the towerin' sycamores,
Dancin' in the breeze on a languid Hoosier summer's day,
And I see a boy with willow pole catchin' catfish by the scores!
The Wabash flows silently through the verdant Indiana plain,
Meanderin' through forests and many a sleepy Hoosier town.
How I pine to return to the soil of my birth once again,
To be that barefoot boy amblin' to the Wabash a-fishin' boun'!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. l in Barbara Gorelick's "A River Runs Through It" Contest - Jul 2011