Best Treehouse Poems
They went through the woods
in worn out shoes
to pick a life no one should,
to make a choice no other’d choose:
To defend the trees,
their roots, their spires -
even the leaves
were deeply admired.
So they took up their arms,
and sharpened their sticks;
they sounded the alarms,
and marched into the thick.
And all around them were burnt-out stumps,
fallen branches and logs.
Smoke tainted their virgin lungs,
and they knew they had to right the wrongs.
Then into the heart they slowly crept,
wielding their sharp tools;
They found where the Fires hid and wept,
and they pounced on him like childish fools.
Their tools of wood burned,
as would the whole of their world,
and for Ice they yearned
just before their eyes rolled back like pearls.
In the treehouse, we used to play,
hands dipped in paints and statues of clay.
Playing with the dollhouse, eating rice and curd,
I remember how treehouse became our world.
She planned things and I worked them to reality.
we had the small gang. Just me and her smiling perfectly.
But then one day, she went somewhere,
without telling, as if she didn't care.
She left with the countless memories.
And left me in infinite miseries.
She left me so saddened,
and I pity, when I see my treehouse so abandoned.
....
I went to the park to play
Early in the morning
Everything was great today
Even the birds were singing
The sun was out
The flowers were blooming
There is no doubt
That there was much wonder this world was bringing
Then I found a small seed
It looked like it was from a tree
I put it in my pocket
Then walked to home happily
Then I planted it in the ground
Then buried it a bit deep
Took out all the weeds all around
Then I watered it every other day in a week
Then it grew into a seedling
It grew bigger every day
It started to look amazing
Through March, April and May
Then it started growing
Taller and taller every year
Birds started appearing
They sing like a well choir
Then I decided to join them
And started to climb the tree
But then I missed a step and then
I scraped my knee
And then I started thinking
On how to get on it
To then a better remembering
With all of my wit
I will build a tree house
And make it a big one
A little bedroom inside would suffice
I would have a lot of fun
I would have my phone inside
And my tablet its true
And a cabinet that is very wide
So I can be in there too
Then we started building it
And then nailed it to the tree
Then we finished it quick
And put up some electricity
I then bought a small bed
To put it in the tree house
Then I got my phone like I said
I like my room it was as quiet as a mouse
I invite my friends to the tree
For a sleep over
We close the doors and the Windows pre
Going to sleep and check on our garden of clovers
No bugs get in
Everything's shut closed
We wake up in the morning
And see that my mom made us eggs and toast
I am very happy
To have my own room and place
To be able to live up here and See
All of natures beauty and grace
I have a second house
The tree house
Me and my friends likes to play in it
Even my friends are only a little bit
It is fun to play with them
As happy as you got a gem
But sadly
We have no more energy
The electricity was broken
It already happen
We cant fix it
Like your getting hit
But that’s fine
Cause the owner of the electricity have to pay the fine
For Ruining the fun
While we’re eating a bun.
treehouse still stands strong
unmoved by obvious change
its roots are God Strong....
it is drizzling outside
oak tree looks in window
gasoline lamp is not unlike a faerie light
cozy comforter made by grandma
plush pillows on couch
a philodendron hangs from the limb of the tree trunk
this tree house is my Shangri-La
My haven, a writer’s retreat
flickering candles give it an ethereal glow
My favorite biographies and adventure books
Waiting to be read in the rain
It is silent here, a reader’s alcove
There are flickering candles
I read my books, enjoying the ambiance
of my hideaway nook high in a cottonwood tree.
You're like the moon, with all your cathartic phases
And I'm like the stars
if each one was a mental cliff I lost my grip on;
There's just too many to count from the ground
Im watching paint dry
But it's all in black and white
And if you ever find the time,
You can admit that I was right
I forgot how good we both are
at not saying what's right in front of us
Im watching paint dry
But I'm not the artist
No, I've never been the artist
I'm a destroyer of healthy afflictions
And a collector of sensual manifestos
And trophies for all my attempts at accismus
They're like stars,
There's too damn many to count from this distance
Your voice was trying to be serious
But your eyes told me we were thinking the same thing
And the same time
If I'm such a martyr, then how did we get here?
My hands were pinned out to my sides
My fingers spread across a wooden dart board,
But your throws went between them everytime
You thought you were on top of everything
But then you looked at the scoreboard
You face turned ashen and I couldn't ignore
The look you gave me when you turned and walked away
There was nothing more to say
It's you who has the blood
dripping down your arms
I'm not sure what you made you think
A broken remote could've disabled these mental alarms
You're the one who brought it back to life,
So start digging before they find out
it was your hand on the knife
Let's be real,
Your plane was going down
And I'm no pilot,
But I couldn't watch it crash into this city
And besides, our love never made it
And this town only needs one tragedy
You're not "the one that got away",
You're the one that came back but forgot that you were ever gone
Yet still, I couldn't sit and watch
While your plane was clearly going down
Besides, this town never even saw us try
And they don't need another thing to grieve about
Even if your plane missed our city,
It would've run straight into the ground
And I would've been there, beside myself
With another piece of you to grieve about
Grief is just a form of love with nowhere to go
Grief is just a form of love with no place to go
Longing for the day
I get to reinstate myself as something bigger,
something brighter
Knowing nothing is guaranteed
I’d like to think
I could conform to the latest niche taking me over
But she’s not real,
You made it up
She couldn’t hurt you if she tried
But I feel so broken standing here
Pretending to be calm and collected
When she reappears
She will take notice
As you’re standing there calm and collected
And when I redefine myself
As something better than I’ve ever been before
I can’t wait
‘Till I can face myself without closing my eyes
Or turning away
But she’s not real,
You made it up!
She couldn’t hurt you if she tried
But I don’t know the world anymore
And I feel so broken standing here
Longing for the day
I get to reinstate myself
As something bigger,
Something brighter
Than I’ve ever been before
I am an eleven-year-old giant, lying on the floor of my treehouse.
The cottonwood trees have a smell you cannot get anywhere else.
They cherish our time together; I know because I am loved here.
My books are stacked up next to me. I have a pillow. It’s getting dusty.
Lack of excitement about this missive leads my eyes to stray.
I watch an ant crawling across the floor in front of me
I could smash him but I do not. His bold big blackness fascinates me.
He is larger than other ants, and he is carrying a cracker crumb.
I eat crackers and butter up here, not realizing who else benefits.
An angry voice pierces the day; Mrs. Rutherford is yelling at her mate.
He pokes his head out, but does not reply. He is terrified of her.
So many of us are. I duck down, wondering if she has seen me.
Doubtful, she is a focused woman, and Mr. R. is getting her mind.
A tittering giggle floats up. Patty from across the street has a beau.
That weirdo is over there. I shut this book and open another one.
The library lets me take out seven each day.
Caren sat inside her treehouse
Sequestered sixteen feet in the air
Camouflaged by two sparkly leaved cottonwoods
The Della Bettas were arguing loudly
In Italian
They live up the block on the corner
In a green house
There was no denying their tones
She reached into her book pile
Librarians limited her to seven books a day
What to read first? They were all hand-picked this morning
She chooses seven every morning in the summer
She looked up from her pirate adventure
Hearing two happy women
Meeting at the clothesline, pinning up laundry
Her mother and a neighbor, their happiest time of the day
We’ve stayed in a wide variety of places on this long cross country jaunt.
One night we’re in Le Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City
the next two nights we’re in a tree house in Vermont.
We’ve gone from a luxury hotel…on the 10th floor of its enormous central tower
to a treehouse with no running water…and…an outdoor shower.
From a bedroom overlooking the St. Lawrence River with a king sized bed so soft….
to a treehouse where we climb a ladder to sleep up in the loft.
From maids who turned down our sheets each day
and left us popcorn and candy…that we ate!
to no maid service and a bathroom with a toilet…the incinerates
From having a valet who took care of our car
then brought it to us when it was time for us to depart
to driving up a road so steep and rocky…
the only way to make it up was with a running start.
Truth be told on our first attempt…half way up…
our car stopped…although the wheels kept on spinning
(Somewhere up in heaven…the travel gods were grinning)
Determined, however, that this portion of our trip would not be a flop…
we backed down…closed our eyes…hit the gas..and made it to the top!
This is exactly what we wanted when we planned our trip.
When we decided from Washington to Maine we would traverse…
We wanted every stop to be an adventure…and those adventures to be diverse.
Besides…if we weren’t staying in the treehouse…the 21st different stop along our map
we wouldn’t have had ice cream at Ben & Jerry’s…or ate lunch at the Von Trapps.
We would have never taken a shower outside with the birds serenading us from their trees
We would have never heard the Sound of Music wafting on the breeze.
Which means even though some of those amenities and luxuries it lacks
we are just as happy in this treehouse in Vermont
as we were in Le Chateau Frontenac
In the great Old Grove forests
Perry, Sayva, Diamond, and Jack
Went out and built this tree house
A fine little tree house
It had a ladder, it had a few windows
It had a little garden they built
The garden full of fresh mulch
Smelling like spiced wood and peppered dirt
In it grew mushrooms
Great beautiful mushrooms
Even The Crow Club paid good money for these mushrooms
The mushrooms were blue, round, as big as a human head
Some others were pink like a birthday balloon
Or blue like pine fire smoke
They grew and sold many other plants
They grew tobacco of all types
They grew purple leafs
They grew sea foam sunflower
They grew great green ones
And a few other funguses and mosses
Southern sand moss
Eastern tree rot
And northern Gaviran puddle flower
All was great to sell or taste
On one day, as a rainstorm thundered on
The group stayed in their treehouse
They smoked from pipes or rolled paper
They ate from jars of peaches and pears
They bit into juicy green apples
All while they reclined on pillows
Their fingers weighed down on fuzzy blankets of fur
And like that old stump pilgrim story about “The night before Yuletide”
Visions of everything good, danced inside their skulls
Imaginings of birds
Big birds, not like the birds they sold to in their kingdom
There were brown vultures that smelled like brown sugar
And you could ride them
You could speak with old extinct seals
Their bones the color of freshly pulled teeth
Fingers and knee caps became numb as the time passed
As paintings never seen before were everywhere in the treehouse
Paintings in the eyes, brush strokes on the skin
An invisible painter, the smell of clay and paint chemicals
Prayers to The Frog and The Loon heard in each ear
Electric light outside
Perfect smoke under the nose
Dry mouth from breathing too much
Still sweet from eating too much
Relaxed until it will all go back
Back to what it was
But it can be done again
All you need is a garden
Some leafs
And a treehouse