"My Life as Poetry"
When the Lotus Eaters at Loon Junction barked
I ignored their confused chicanery
closed the gates behind me
I dropped one tear
in your sedentary ocean
it contained a lifetime
the salt was wasted
on your dead sea
and I used it to flavour
my life as poetry
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
gvlm
klb, mlb
(the others don't matter)
"When I Grow Up" / Fever Ray
https://youtu.be/4F-CpE73o2M
"When I grow up
I want to be a forester
Run through the moss on high heels
That's what I'll do
Throwing out a boomerang
Waiting for it to come back to me...
I put my soul into what I do"
LYRICS - "When I Grow Up"/ Fever Ray
https://genius.com/Fever-ray-when-i-grow-up-lyrics
Come to my side and hold my hand
As we stroll through this maze called life.
I the teacher and you the student can travel side by side.
I see the whole forest
And you one tree at a time.
Come to my side and hold my hand
As we stroll through this maze called life.
I the forester and you the swimmer,
Can travel in harmony.
I see the landscape
And you the bodies of water.
Come to my side and hold my hand
As we stroll through this maze called life,
I the poet and you the mathematician.
I see the words and rhymes
And you numbers and logic.
Come to my side and hold my hand
As we stroll through this maze called life.
I the mother figure and you the child.
I can learn from you how to have fun,
And you can gain wisdom and understanding from me.
Because all work and no play reek!
In this journey of life our differences from day to day
Could infuse into a glorious harmony.
My weakness and your strength blend,
And each part is needed to make the whole.
In 1917 the British and Commonwealth forces attacked
In the Ypres Salient in the corner of Belgium they hacked
Through the Third Battle of Ypres that had been raging away
With the battlefield turning to endless mud that would stay
As the rain fell at Poelkapelle at the Sherwood Foresters line
Was just holding on and waiting to be relieved at their time
In the mess that was the trench line a giant jumped in
And the Forester was startled in all of the battle din
He said, 'Who the hell are you? ' As the conversation begun
The giant replied, 'We're the Aussies to relieve you chum! '
The Forester said, 'I can't give you food, ammunition or keep the rain off'
The Aussie said, 'Never mind that, we don't need it, just bugger off.'
So the Foresters left the trench and started the journey back
Through the flooded battlefield and water filled shell holes in a hack
And they lost as many men drowned the slush and mud fields
As the Passchendaele battle continued the murder and bodies yield.
© Paul Warren Poetry
"The female trees tend to make a little more mess in terms of seed production and fruit production, so they would move to male trees, because they aren’t making a mess" said Bill Roesel, a municipal forester in Windsor, Ont.
awakened by a racket from the back yard
they watched as Steve staggered through the damp grass,
hatchet in hand
ker-RACK as her right
limb shattered from the violent
assault
the kids quickly returned to their beds,
in the dark
the tree wept as her leaves
fell like summer rain
by august she was dead
This dry winter evening,
has nothing yet something,
the clouds all dead,
the birds all fled,
the leaves all fell,
the fruits sent for sell,
this dry winter evening,
has nothing yet something!
Upon the cushion of dead leaves-come sit,
let your thoughts flow-drown your wit,
look at those trunks strong but bare,
those dry streams none to stare,
those half broken nests waiting for the hosts,
those beautiful hills threatening as ghosts!
Where is the Forester collecting the wood,
The nest is empty-where is the food,
The trunks so bare-where are the leaves,
Where is the web that the spider weaves,
Where is the magic of the evening skies,
“lost in the woods” where are those eyes?
where? They are all dead and gone,
like that old Poet who wrote on and on,
and as he passed-the legacy was thrown,
somewhere those verses are still alone,
like the various corridors of these hilly ways,
waiting for someone to read-to praise!
Saket Suman
eap-TREES
The forester protects trees:
in the onslaughts of disease
and the threatening dangers that he sees
by the sweet of his knees
in the freeze or in the breeze
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 12, 2010
Inspired by Poetry Soup member contest: RHYME TIME
Sponsored by: Brian Strand