The Weeping Willow is no longer there.
In my heart I'm saying, 'It's just not fair'.
Missing is the cool shade that she shared.
Around her, loving kindness filled the air.
As kids, we earned money from Pecan Trees.
Those strong Autumn winds were our friends.
Pecans were kids' money-maker back then;
And money from pecans was never wasted.
Chinaberry trees were very plentiful and popular.
We used the hard berries as bullets in slingshot.
Memory of Pecan Tree goodies, so tasty;
Weeping Willows, so cooling and shady;
Chinaberry Trees, so filled with fun;
Kid-loving fun, second to none.
Berry, berry
Quite contrary
How do you grow?
Berry, berry
Quite contrary
Many would like to know
Down in Georgia, way down
Two trees stood on the ground
One weighed down with sticks, bottles, and all sorts of stuff
The other stood alone, beautiful and virtually untouched
Two worlds and just one ground
One full and the other barren, with a few lying around
Mulberry and Chinaberry
One sweet and the other quite contrary
Winter Coolers
The air of Delhi,
Giving the pure air bely,
One-time visit to our Suraj valley,
Where even stone mosses give pure air.
Where the discussion on the Chinaberry,
Giving Great Green Back Order,
To Cloud Computing cloudiness ( pollutants ) Maker,
Giving Originally order to Organized Oregon,
When Cloud bawls and fallen teardrop,
Telling The Kohinoor salvation,
Where on winter flour Dive from Sky,
The rind of the Seville Soar Orange tells the Winter Cooler Current.
Even the most familiar surroundings were unrecognized
A most fathomless affair; the search for yesterday
The Old Library and playground were also gone
The Chinaberry tree, a landmark, was gone
A most strange emotion hovered over me,
And every trace of the homesite was gone
100722PSCtest, Bite Size. Line Gauthier. 2P
My best guess is that I must
have been 6 or 7. Back then,
long before boys like me turned
into men, I had a friend named Jack.
Anyway, I was just a little boy
when I first met him. He was
truly at-one with the entire
family, but I recall him being
given to me by my father. clearly,
no greater gift had I received
before the gift of Jack.
I loved him so very much, and his love
for me and my family was no less. He
was my pride and joy; always there for
me, to serve and protect. Our time together
was a most precious thing, but was shortened
by his untimely death.
My entire family loved him deeply; and we all were
there as we buried Jack under the Chinaberry tree in
our front yard. I think that part of my heart must have
been buried with Jack, because I have never again been
able to love a dog or any pet like I loved Jack.
090922PSCtest, BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE. Strand
`
In the absence of complication,
trials and tribulations become distant memories.
Above sapphire skies delight sanguine eyes -
inspiring forthcoming musings of the mind.
While a tiny thread weaves daydreams
among tulips and chinaberry,
creating comfort along a beckoning horizon
as footsteps are soft and freedom a gift.
Birthing a simpler life singing, whistling and
smiling as a weight has been lifted
like an acorn to a nest where hunger
is merely a fading illusion.
Borderless curves of a winding way
meander without consequence
when nature forms a calming view and
confusion is a season somewhere in the past.
Where wide eyes see the future as a ray of light,
a beacon illuminating every hope,
signaling that this is your time and place
and you rejoice in the feeling.
And as peace becomes common
along avenues of cobblestone stories,
welcoming gestures bloom throughout all…
in the absence of complication.
11/20/19
For the: In the absence of complication Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
I recall a dirty sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home
.
The poem was visualized on the front, screen porch,
in silence, in wonder...
It swarmed the Autumn-purpled flowers by the door,
leafed through reds, golds of the Chinaberry Tree...
sleucing words down Sunday-wet-tin,
onto the wooden steps.
The poem never stalked like Lady McBeth, through
darkness to her ending hall, last line spoken...
Never flew too close to the Sun, as Icarus,
gathered no Phoenix rebirth...
The poem did not herald a magical Sunday.
For the poem stayed on the front porch,
and was never written.
.
A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak
Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers
One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes
Making mud tamales
Sucking cherry tomatoes
Gorging on figs til
my stomach ached
Splattering a watermelon
to the ground
Ripping its guts out
Competitively running
from the start of Isabella Street
to the Rail Road Tracks
of our dead end street
I was faster than Larry and Mike!
Blowing bubbles
that floated to Neverland
Chalking a mansion
With rooms for 50 kids
flowers and space
everywhere
Chinaberry fights
launched from the
bricked front porch
Nefretitti poised like a
snake slithering styling
down the driveway
runway
Week long Scrabble
competitions
and hours of
conversations
about the universe
and universes beyond
Parades with high
stepping majorettes
avoiding the horse manure
Jacks, jumprope and
drinking Kool-Aid from
the pitcher
(Shhh, don't tell)
Simple pleasures
Simply learned
From children
Deer linger in the bitterbrush
Below the gambel oak—
The brittle fern shows no concern
For killdeer or cowpoke.
The miner’s candle lights our way
Now lost in limber pine—
The water birch does not besmirch
Beargrass at timberline.
Sky pilots bend on mountain side
Dark as the black hawthorn—
A horned lark rests on the ninebark—
Between the two we’re torn.
We journey south through water oak,
Coral bean, supple jack—
We ride beneath magnolia leaf
And miss not what we lack.
A canebrake rattler comes too close,
Like death in the sweet bay—
Chinaberry makes us tarry
This oleander day.
The touch of gossamer wings
on eyelids busy with the darkest,deepest
thoughts of sleep
under the chinaberry tree
bending,sighing
one with the sea of grass
windy waves
chasing each other across the yard
gone to seed
with dandelionsandforgetmenots
blueblack cats
hiding from lizards
until it is too late
coming back to bring you
a surprise
a gift of love
a wriggly trophy
to wake you laughing
from your dreams
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