Tree Idyll (Idyl) Poems | Examples
These Tree Idyll (Idyl) poems are examples of Idyll (Idyl) poems about Tree. These are the best examples of Idyll (Idyl) Tree poems written by international poets.
Harvest is over
crops are in and
Fall’s first killing frost
stirs feelings of melancholy
sustained by winter's cold
With its bare trees
migration, hibernation
wisdom of fallow fields and
mice attempting entry
during long, cold nights
Yet farmers are never idle
caring for their animals
cleaning, repairing equipment
checking their fences
cleaning fields and
clearing tree lines
***
November 20, 2019
F G I series 9 idyll
Brian Strand, sponsor
"An idyll is a type of poem that focuses on the normal routines of normal people in a rural setting." -PoetrySoup, Types of Poems - Idyll definition
I was having a heavenly day far from city noise,
when a north wind swept me up, swirling and twirling;
and tumbling, I found myself under a tree branch,
beneath cool emerald leaves in a country wildflower field.
Nearby, a raging stream flowed on it's twining journey,
and a blue butterfly lay frozen in place, broken on a rock;
waiting to die, I listened to the birds twittering brightly,
and whispered to blue butterfly, I will not leave you.
For hours I stay in this serene rural place of beauty and death,
but my weary eyes closed and I had a dream of gliding;
then, the sun caressed me and butterfly wings of blue,
with delicate hues, only the Lord above could create.
The sun rose higher in the azure sky and she waited,
then, she lifted up in a gentle swirling breeze;
and blue butterfly hovered, hesitated, then was gone,
from this heavenly country idyll place far from city dwellings.
_________________________
November 20, 2019
Poetry/Idyll/A Rural Blue Butterfly
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1199-844-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to FGI Blog Series 9 - Idyll
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
The train immortal blazes a path
Through the seasons of Norway, stopping at my doorstep
To unload a passenger, who looks at me,
Then lounges back,
Taking an apple off of my tree,
Talking to the spirits of the wind in a foreign language.
The next train will come soon, I know.
That's the way of life here:
The people come with their black moment-freezers
Touch buttons a few times, sheets lighting up,
Then jump onto the next train back to Oslo.
Thoughtfully chewing on the fruit of many years of labor,
The person yells the only Norwegian he knows into the forests...
That simple "Luftputefartøyet mitt er fullt av åler!"
Tells me, snickering from behind the barn
That maybe this man is here to stay.
I have walked for a mile
in her footsteps.
She
offers a cooling balm
for the heat of my frustrations.
Leaning against that solidness gives pause,
to stop and drink in
the shade of her wisdom.
And I
marvel at the juxtaposition
of her willowy to my thick;
her smooth to my rough;
my prickly attitude to her leafy logic.
How she
lends a new perspective on
an idea ripening, dropping and withering;
a heart left in a mulch pile or
a dangerous flicker of doubt to be snuffed out.
Mirth crinkles in the corners of her eyes
as she too
carries faded battle gashes
where love has loped off
a once extended branch.
Her grove collectively offers comfort
for fruit born of loins,
falling and nestling
within rolling distance.
No more soothing a sound can be heard,
than rootsy laughter of womenfolk
of trees of magashi.
Copyright © Sandra Sealy, 1999
*First published as Guest Poet @ Poet Whispers
http://poetwhispers.wordpress.com
Not under a Banyan tree
I drink coffee under an elm tree, one of many in the avenue; filtered sunlight
makes shifting pattern on the pavements, and the sun loses its cruel power.
A willowy woman walks into the only café where one can smoke, she likes to
drink coffee with her cigarette, her dog sits by the door looking in waiting.
A woman in her sixties who wears a long flowering dress, plenty of bracelets
and rings, too exotic to be Portuguese, is coming up the road. Married three
times, first to an army officer, from an aristocratic family, then to a Swiss
engineer, who built ski-lifts in the Alps. Her third husband is a poet and that
makes her sigh (downhill all the way dear) She frets about her daughter, who
is forty and not yet married. She had hoped her child would wed into
lofty society, but now she wishes her only offspring will find a man with
a steady job; not a cook or a waiter though, one must draw a line somewhere.
She has a glass of beer shows me her latest bracelet, bought this morning;
she smiles happy as a child as the sun goes on shining and leaves on elm trees
are deep, cooling green.
Towering, organic orifice;
Spiring, glistening steeple
Wholesome, organic form;
Brokered, burnished symbol
Environmentally-conditioned
organism; Artificially-renovated
copse
Bland, earthy edifice; Bright,
glowing orb
Dull, lifeless timber; Vibrant,
veiled oracle
Shielded, sheltered ember;
Shiny, showcased beacon
Soaring, sylvan sentinel;
Stunted, cropped cinder
Cherished, nourished fodder;
Chosen, sanctified shroud
Pristine, woody carbine;
Refinished, domesticated
chalice
King that saves out of the lion’s paw
caught up out of the bear’s jaw
Peaceful under the tree of life
Lamb overcame reining above strife
Lost sheep upon shoulders carry
Jesus Spirit seer shall not tarry
coming in glory parting sky
upon white unicorns they fly
The heat hung on the spiders webs
tinsel from tree limbs
taunt between gargantuan boles
the golden hour lay garland on silken floss
with its intrepid arachnid host.
Dream weaver, fate Mother, Earth balancer
She dances.
A minuet brown bit suspending itself
between heaven and earth.
Across immense spans of grassy knolls
where the Cahokia sleep in the mounds of Kings.
She dances.
Dream weaver, fate Mother, Earth balancer
Centering the spinning Earth, the Cosmos…
harmonizing harp home of the Mother
caller of the four corners
She dances.
Pink and grey walls rise like castle parapets
Reflecting the sunrise in golden hues
I ride along the canyon to the sound of leather
Creaking softly in the tranquil mountain air
Sweat and horse, with layers of dust
Well worn jeans against a speckled hide
Gently swaying in a unified rhythm
Languidly haze swirling about our feet
Around the bend we startle snow geese
Flocks floating, rising, settling serenely
Angling, landings against the lapping waters
Black tipped wings against wintry white
Sandhill cranes foraging for cutthroat trout
Reflecting blue beside the meandering creek
Majestically standing, patiently waiting
Blue dragon flies dancing within their reach
Off the beaten path we wander
Past yucca swaying in the breeze
O’er grama blue as sky beneath us
Cushioned carpet of pine and peat
Rock squirrels scurry across a Douglas fir
Scolding woodpeckers on a burnt oak tree
The chorus is merged by the hoot of an owl
And the clip clop against rocks as we proceed
Canopies of piñon line the trail
Mixtures of conifer shade the landscape
Grey blue greens with clusters of sienna
Cathedral spiritual within an ageless solitude
I dream of a day
when there is total blending.
Like sombiant in host.
the self extension that is self.
Total penetration in each other.
The discussion of eyes,
the echo of embrace.
My time wants in your love,
like brook surrounds stone
like breeze shivers tree.