~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath the cracked asphalt, silent roots weave stories in braille~
The maple tree taps Morse Code to the oak’s hollow chamber:
It’s midnight again. The starlings are nesting in my crown.
Look! The young boy carves his initials—the third time this summer.
The Loblolly Pines trade pollen like rumors on dry winds,
counting the passing decades in resin tears.
Douglas Fir shares the ladybug’s reticent gossip~
how the new highway will sever all of the mycelium’s threads.
One Cedar Elm tree remembers hearing axes. Her rings tighten.
Ancient Red Oak holds centuries of rain, drought, and fire.
At dawn, she hums to the young sapling her old, wise tune:
Bend. Grow. Drink the dew. Swallow the light.
Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.
And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.
But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.
Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.
The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.
Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—
Waning sunlight casts shadows across bare branched trees
whose leaves silently tumble, carpeting the ground
Autumn murmurs with gentle taps on my window
I breathe a sigh in consensual reply
acknowledging the beauty of her creation
Nimbus clouds gather in twilight skies
to brush sloping hills a shade of purple haze
I hear the lonesome call of an owl's sad lament
He sits in a loblolly pine, hoping to attract a mate
A pastoral scene being painted before my eyes
Drifting through maples
Autumn sings a hymnal song
in farewell to crimson leaves
Cloaked in gloaming mist
Fall grows weary for slumber
as Winter's approach draws nigh
October 11, 2021
Let's Mix It Up Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Poem 3 is a Choka. (5-7-7-5-7-7)
Christmas is the season to be jolly
The holiday brings merriment and joys
With ho ho ho's and halls decked with holly
There's mistletoe and pine of loblolly
Santa has many elves that he employs
Christmas is the season to be jolly
He got letters from Andrew and Polly
Reading them is a task Santa enjoys
With ho ho ho's and halls decked with holly
Polly asked Santa for a sweet dolly
One calling, "Mama," in baby noise
Christmas is the season to be jolly
One elf got silly, ending in folly
Santa forgave him for the broken toys
With ho ho ho's and halls decked with holly
A boy name Ollie, wanted a collie
The perfect present for good little boys
Christmas is the season to be jolly
With ho ho ho's and halls decked with holly
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
December 12, 2020
Deck The Halls Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
a vulgar morning
unveiling the naked fragrance of sun-burnt dog turds.
It came to me,
played tunes on the cords in my nostrils
until my left eye caught them hiding
by the roots of loblolly pines.
The poor trees, their trunks still wet where about two
bladders were emptied at daybreak.
The turds, seared like good scallops, made me think
of Bangor and Lewiston;
I saw a big woman beat two conches to make a salad.
I am no ordinary man;
twenty heads of cows made me think of a fleet of oilers & tankers.
I saw a Jew in a shtreimel,
I thought of Presque Isle where the sun stayed in my hair
except at night when the earth turned away.
It ain't the pork, it ain't the beans
It ain't the mustard on saltines
It ain't the redneck social scenes
I love about the south
It ain't the ice cold sweet southern tea
It ain't the way that we say please
It ain't the way we lemon squeeze
I love about the south
It ain't the perfect slice of pecan pie
It ain't the wink in the bullfrog's eyes
It ain't the fireflies that light the night
I love about the south
It ain't the way we say yes ma'am
When you visit Alabam
It ain't the attitude of yes we can
I love about the south
It ain't the way that we say ya'll
With the syrupy sweet southern draw
No it ain't none of that at all
I love about the south
It's the crisp clear starry nights
Through the shifting shadows of the loblolly pine
As I stand here with your hand in mine
I love about the south
Just the fact that you are here
And that I can hold you near
As I hear you call me dear
I love about the south
I actually love everything about the South.....
As I traverse the rocks in Loblolly Cove
Searching for solid footing
Amongst jagged teeth and seaweed slopes
As the shadows of Herrings call out warning
Circling high above in the slipstream
Thunderous and pounding are the waves
Sending the curious gulls to flight
Amidst the wind whipped brackish bite
Snapping at my heels with each step trodden
Watching the white caps on Normans Woe
They are spirits of sailors in the archaic hulls
Descending for a reckoning in darkened skies
A tattered and eerie line
To the horizon the cloud cover spreads
Listening to the symphony of the coastline
As I traverse the rocks in Loblolly Cove
Inspired by Vince Suzadail's "Pending Storm".
These are the rock I climbed every day as a boy.
Thanks Vince
There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun
the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry,
the politics of men, the art of zen;
it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms
that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing,
the price of gas, the passion of a soul
who's reaching out for dreams that never come
guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief
for sons and daughters lost before their time,
your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells
where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove,
in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin,
the colors ending summer's shading green,
in haunting longings that deny a face
its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace,
loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes
of singing frogs that brings your mind back home;
you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake,
your father's wake, a graduation's pomp
and circumstance, the solitary dance
of someone's loneliness and private tears,
the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind,
the moon and evening stars, and in the end,
it's essence is the breath of memory.
In life is where a poet finds his words.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.