Best Tree House Poems
Luke was building a tree house
He was building it all by himself
A rusty old hammer, several bent nails
And wood that used to be someone’s shelf
We could all hear Luke working so hard
Hammering and sawing away
He was such a busy little bee
He didn’t even have time to play
He’d get the job half completed
Then it would all just fall apart
But he’d just pick up the pieces and start again
The kid certainly does have heart
Finally the tree house was finished
Luke was as proud and as happy as could be
He’d done a good job, but there was something missing
And unfortunately that was the tree.
But Luke shouldn't get too upset
Shouldn't let it get to his head
He may not have made a tree house
But he had made a lovely shed.
A sanctuary beholden to the eyes of the seer,
Open hearted lays a crystal entrance to the golden,
And perhaps an even more extravagant opening,
Lies the broken, wooden entrance for the good.
The moribund dream of it in its starkest slumber,
Yet is within reach for all who yearn.
It lies not on metal, nor stone,
Nor freshly laid yew, stained by paint and human toil.
But by love and grace, forever orbiting,
A pastiche of beauty, greater than the yonder,
For the exultant and the brave,
In the tree of wisdom they shall reign forever.
THE BULLET TREE
No one knows how long the bullet has been lodged in the big old maple tree
Mr. Ailey claims he knows but Mr. Ailey is an old old man
No one till Teddy so far as we know ever tried to dig it out
Mr. Ailey says the growth at last will push it out
Ailey says “The shot was fired at trailin’ injun’ horsemen”
He rubs the wrinkles down off his face and says
“It was a Wells and Fargo stage a rollin’ down what now appears yer Downin’ Street
That there tree was jist a sturdy pole when ‘Ugly Ben” a sittin’ shot-gun fired a round
At them them injuns” Then old Ailey clucks his teeth
The bullet tree is just down the terrace from the deaf lady’s house
It stands on the dear lady’s property (Mrs. Troutman)
“That there house ya see” Ailey’s pointing with one crooked finger
“That there house useta be nuthin’ but prairie dog territory” He coughs spits a string
“I come huntin’ buffalo afore even that there tree was more’n a shootin’ twig
Ta git back ta Ben Now Ben come back one day ta see ifn he could find a shell or two
When he come upon the bullet lodged in tha tree
So he drove it in and pushed the empty shell casing in in back of it
Thet there bullet Ya see? Goes tat ha very heart o’ thet there tree”
Even at our age we didn’t believe half of what the old man said
Teddy tried to pry the bullet out one day
But the deaf woman crackled threats from her porch
Her voice we thought what a porcupine might sound like
Anyway the deaf woman’s cackle was a bad omen we thought
The bullet tree at last became a challenge
To dart after careful observation then
To touch the dented weathered circled end
Without arousing Mrs. Troutman
TREE HOUSE
My
Idea
A simple
Tree house
Kids wanted it so
I built it, hand-made
Stone-base to avoid wet-rot
Lower level a stage for kids’ shows
Uprights were his football goal-posts
Imagined as the gun-deck of a pirate ship
Upper level the main deck for crew of pirates
Or an airy sleeping-house for nights camping out
Final top level for look-out over the sea, two miles away
Always adding new features: ladder up, rope fence, trapdoor
With hand-saw and hammer, no power tools. Becoming complicated
Always unfinished, summerwork only, too busy at the office to finish it
It became too elaborate, too complex: tree house to end all tree houses
In five years the tree grew bigger: original planks and branches out of alignment
Growing kids’ interests and needs fell out of alignment, waiting too long for the house
Kids were small when I started the house. When we finished it, it was too late for them.
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NOTE
Based on an actual tree-house I built for my three kids in the back garden of the house.
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Written by Sydney Peck for nette onclaud's Contest "ANYTHING HANDMADE"
THE BULLET TREE
No one knows how long the bullet has been lodged in the big old maple tree
Mr. Ailey claims he knows but Mr. Ailey is an old old man
No one till Teddy so far as we know ever tried to dig it out
Mr. Ailey says the growth at last will push it out
Ailey says “The shot was fired at trailin’ injun’ horsemen”
He rubs the wrinkles down off his face and says
“It was a Wells and Fargo stage a rollin’ down what now appears yer Downin’ Street
That there tree was jist a sturdy pole when ‘Ugly Ben” a sittin’ shot-gun fired a round
At them them injuns” Then old Ailey clucks his teeth
The bullet tree is just down the terrace from the deaf lady’s house
It stands on the dear lady’s property (Mrs. Troutman)
“That there house ya see” Ailey’s pointing with one crooked finger
“That there house useta be nuthin’ but prairie dog territory” He coughs spits a string
“I come huntin’ buffalo afore even that there tree was more’n a shootin’ twig
Ta git back ta Ben Now Ben come back one day ta see ifn he could find a shell or two
When he come upon the bullet lodged in tha tree
So he drove it in and pushed the empty shell casing in in back of it
Thet there bullet Ya see? Goes tat ha very heart o’ thet there tree”
Even at our age we didn’t believe half of what the old man said
Teddy tried to pry the bullet out one day
But the deaf woman crackled threats from her porch
Her voice we thought what a porcupine might sound like
Anyway the deaf woman’s cackle was a bad omen we thought
The bullet tree at last became a challenge
To dart after careful observation then
To touch the dented weathered circled end
Without arousing Mrs. Troutman
Tree house is a house of forefathers
Roses beautify bed together
Enlisting its use which no one bother
Empty envy, loving hearts rather
Humidify the clay moulded by porter
Oath we should take either
Useful for future said by author
sensible use which do not destruct weather
Eternal joy of protecting it is wonder.
by:-
vrushani thaker
Father and Mother,
years and years have gone by
yet love has kept its home in your eyes.
You've got a love you can sink your teeth in,
you've got a love I can believe in...
Like fresh cut lilacs
and the swing outside
on the very best tree besides
the Cherry and Maple,
Bradford Pear and Apple
we all used to climb
in the summer heat,
running fast
on dewy grass
wearing bare feet.
Dad and Mom,
we Maple Tree love you.
Although things have and will change,
something about your love
will always stay the same...
Small house
in a small town
white-gold rings
and life's simple things
are what you're about.
Three kids who adore you with all they've got.
You're rich with what can't be bought.
You've got a love like:
that
I was four years old
with my two favorite people,
holding on to my fishing pole.
I hear Dad's laugh
and look, Mom fell flat
in the river
with water clear up to her shoulders
and we all laugh.
Yeah, you've got a love like: that
You've got a love you can sink your teeth in,
you've got a love I can believe in.
Like huddling together
through a storm in the summer
looking at both of you I wonder:
Aren't you afraid of anything?
You...weren't.
After we caught fireflies
Mom, you helped me name mine
and let me keep it inside.
You nursed Joel back to health
after the bee hive
and earring incidents.
Susanna too with her 'Job' blisters
and falling off the slide on her head
and you pulled out the stones in my knee
while I ungratefully screamed.
And Dad with your arms of love
coming in for an 'everything's ok' hug.
Thank you for that.
Dad and Mom
we Maple Tree love you.
Small house in a small town
white-gold rings
and life's simple things
are what you're about.
Three kids who adore you
with all they've got.
You're rich with what can't be bought.
You've got a love like: that
I'm sitting in the garden
With my small son on my knee
He looks up at me with big brown eyes
And says “Tell me about Granda's tree”
My father planted a tree
In nineteen forty two
He nurtured it and hadn’t bargained
On just how big it grew
When I was just seven years old
I had a love of climbing trees
Many times mum put plasters
On my bloodied and skinned knees
I can remember one day
Wearing my new party dress
Peering in through the window
A grubby bedraggled mess
I’d climbed as high as I could go
Then heard a quite loud crack
The branch it snapped in two
And I landed on my back
I’d excelled myself on this occasion
You could say I’d gone the whole hog
I’d landed on a little offering
Left by next doors dog
I remember as a little girl
My father built me a house in the tree
A sturdy wooden house with windows
Especially for me
When I was in my tree house
I could be almost anywhere
In a tropical jungle
Or in a cave hiding from a grizzly bear
Hanging onto my rope ladder
With a plastic cutlass on my hip
I could be looking for buried treasure
My tree house a pirate ship
Underneath the carpet
In the middle of the floor
My father had lovingly made me
A little brass-hinged trap door
Whenever I got fed up
Of being stuck inside
I’d open up that trap door
And go straight down the slide
Sometimes I would stand
For maybe half an hour
And pretend I was a princess
Imprisoned in an ivory tower
Some days I’d be a cowgirl
On a wild west ranch
And sometimes I’d pretend to be
A monkey swinging from a branch
One day I picked some flowers
And mum asked what they were for
I said “they are for my cottage
With roses around the door”
My son is looking wistful
Then he smiles at me
He says “mummy I would love
To see my Granda’s tree”
Tears come into my eyes
My son’s smile turns into a frown
I say “The tree's no longer there
The new owners chopped it down”
My son says it is sad
That the tree's no longer there
But no-one can destroy the memories
That my son and I share
Nestled high on a tree top..
Inside my tree house..
High upon a hill..
Away from civilization
Away from the restraints of society..
A society in which is corrupt at times..
A society in which life is only a matrix of robotic forms.
Robotics exist as such..
As do humans that function in their own reality matrix as machine..
Men and women believe they must contribute to this society ..
Only as a business transaction..
A business transaction in the reality matrix ..
That one's life is only based on survival mode..
One must switch a lever to always remain in survival mode..
One's life isn't for living..
One's life is for survival..
An intertia of survival mode..
Maintains a narrow view of the matrix on the whole..
Narrow version of robotic forms it is..
Men, women, and machines..
Humans behaving as robotics.
Robotics behaving as humans..
A society in which conditions one's mind..
A conditioning of a mind..
In which will allow one to believe, we are a mere tiny speck of dust..
That lies in this massive universe..
Just a meaningless speck of dust..
A speck of dust in the wind..
Wind blows..
A speck of dust evaporates
slowly but surely..
No longer in existence
A meaningless life..
Filled with only a value of what one can donate to the society..
With much blood, sweat and tears..
We pay dearly for contributing to the society..
The reality matrix of robotic forms..
One cannot hear
One cannot listen..
One can only do..
As society instructs..
On the whole..
The reality matrix is extremely meaningful..
One's life is indeed worth living..
One's life isn't based only on survival mode..
So here I am nestled high on a tree top..
As I enjoy my lovely tree house..
High upon a hill..
Peaceful in every which way..
Serenty is priceless..
Joy is priceless..
Love is priceless..
As I breathe the fresh air of life..
As I glance at my luscious sorroundings..
Consisted of nature and greenery..
A greenery that seems velvet..
Velvet greenery by day..
Shimmering moon by night..
A glistening starry night..
Only the illumination of the moon and the stars..
I feel gratitude..
Gracious I feel..
As i am divine..
Divinity speaks to me..
And I hear..
And I listen..
Here high upon a hill..
In my lovely tree house..
Away from the matrix of robotic forms..
Mom’s Tree House Apartment
Step inside, warm feelings greet you…
On the entryway wall, President Kennedy signed a condolence letter
from 1962, addressed to my Grandma, thanking her for Grandpa’s service in WW1.
Below, perched on an old credenza, the Milk Glass Chicken still delights her
grandchildren with a treat hidden in the Baby Chick alongside!
Glancing to the right, Dad’s Rosary collection (much used) hangs majestically,
a reminder of long-gone family members from cloistered communities, Mom
and Dad revered.
In the living room, above the expansive soft couch that always finds a family member
dozing peacefully after a long-journey home, a massive burl wood frame cradles
A fox -hunting lodge scene, with participants positioned around a blazing hearth,
regaling the hunt, while enjoying a pint.
Consuming Dad’s last days, I joined him for countless hours deciphering every person
In the painting, assigning rank and position to each, with intense minor details,
Joyously discovered, as if for the first time! A memory Dad possessed from his youth,
fox-hunting with his Dad.
In her bedroom, along the wall, Dad’s English Saddle, gallantly laden with his favorite
things, settles the atmosphere.
I pick up his favorite red hoody, and still inhale his courage.
My quiet place is high above the maddening haste and
I can go there at my leisure, to this five story back yard walk-up, and
On the platform of this wooden stair castle in-the-air-deck, I
Can look over the city, awed at the wonders I see and write about.
The telephone is turned off to my delight and the only sounds
Are my sighs from time to time, and the whistle of the tea kettle.
No plants to water, no pets to feed, just me, pencils, pads and
My special someone, who says his sole purpose in life Is to make me happy.
I stay here as long as I desire, in this quiet place writing, and best of all,
He only plays the music I want to hear…Frank Sinatra, singing anything.
It's not a tree house that hides me
From the world; I ignore
Yellow jackets so they won't sting
Watch butterflies adored.
It's Not a tree house, inflated
Balloon, my quiet place;
I love, laugh, write here, time is naught,
sun caresses my face!
We hid in the cottonwood tree’s magic treehouse.
Spying on our neighbors.
Laughter rang out occasionally from the windows of some of their houses.
We clutched our stomachs and laughed.
Mr. Pete gave his wife a big hug at their house.
We all went, Oh, yucky!
We were eleven, and loved the height of our tree mansion.
Feeling like detectives, or FBI agents.
Eleven is such a magical time.
We used to haul all kinds of pillows up there.
It was my reading nook. On reading days, I was
off with pirates, or Pippi Longstocking, and we
were on the sea, which I had never seen
in real life,
but imagined
was quite
wonderful.
You can never get 11
back, so please enjoy it!
With crimson spots on our fingertips
Blood started by a sharp pin prick
We mixed our blood in the tree house out back
And solemnly sealed our best friends pact
Two small boys at the young age of ten
Making a pledge we would honor time and time again
A bond that would hold for over sixty years
Helping each other through the turmoil and tears
When you broke your arm, I carried your schoolbooks
You took the blame for the piece of candy I took
We stood up together against the bully at school
I helped you learn to swim in the neighborhood pool
I practiced your lines for the high school play part
You helped me cope with my first broken heart
You didn’t live in the Honor’s House so we could be roommates
We always fixed each other up so we could double date
We were each other’s best men on our wedding days
And Godfathers for the children that came our way
You helped me through some financial times that were tough
I provided moral support when your divorce got rough
You sat up with me all night when my wife passed away
I helped you come to terms with your diagnosis that day
I watched you pass peacefully into the cold, dark night
And I know I will join you later when the time is right
With crimson spots on our fingertips
Blood started by a sharp pin prick
We mixed our blood in the tree house out back
And solemnly sealed our best friends pact
Whenever i feel lonely,I sit up here and think,
About the things that ive done wrong,and the hearts that ive caused to sink.
I wish there were ways i could change some things that i might have said or
done,
But somethings said out of anger,can only hurt someone.
My mind begains to wonder of what might have been,
Had i not said those awful words that cause you so much pain.
I guess its my way of striking back ,for the pain that you caused me,
But i see now that was wrong,for here i am now on bended knees.
Your love ive lost forever, I will never feel the same,
I go through life day after day wondering whos to blame.
Was it you ?Or was it me? Or are we both at fault?
For all the things that went wrong,now dont seem its worth a grain of salt.
Now i must leave my tree house,and hurry off to bed,
For tomorrows another day and i must rest my head.
I know my little tree house will always be there,when ever i want to think,
About the things that might have been, had we only have found the right link.
DAD'S TREE HOUSE
When I dream of Santa,
of course, you are he
stacking my presents
under the tree.
Even though I plotted
how I could catch you,
sleep came so sudden
that I never met you.
But as I grew older
those things I forgot.
You wanted my life now,
every dream, every thought.
I laughed, I smiled at you,
but I was not free
for the world was your tree house
where you could hide me.
Janet Marie Bingham