Long Ash tree Poems
Long Ash tree Poems. Below are the most popular long Ash tree by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ash tree poems by poem length and keyword.
Five trees grow high above
Which time does not blow
The cold wind is empty
The sun’s heat is zilch
Their green gems never fall
One is an ash tree
One is an oak tree
One is a maple tree
Two are great birch trees
These are the five trees
Five foods grow high above
Those who taste the foods
Will not feel time’s wind
They will fly high above
To a sky blue city
One will be a dove
One will be a robin
One will be an eagle
Two will be good hawks
Five birds for five trees
Trees are fed by lakes
Of red water of life
The five lakes shine above
Not by the gold sun
But the son high above
Beneath stars twinkling
Sophia and Christ flew down
In the form of birds
In the form of large vultures
Vultures filled with grace
Vultures from the Great Mountains
The Mountains of Snow
They both perched on an ash tree
Whose roots go deep down
To Hades, the home of worms
Whose trunk goes high up
To the Kingdom of Heaven
They watched the white lambs
Twinkling with heavenly spears
Glittering with shields
Shining in holy armour
Gleaming with their swords
Ready to defend their home
Their faithful castle
Against the wolves of Saklas
However old fate
That serpent trapped in hunger
Wanted to slaughter
Every lamb looking upwards
Every faithful lamb
To snuff out their shining light
The light of the world
The two vultures from heaven
Knew this coming fate
And so, they sang in secret
“The home is the spear
The castle is the army
The home is the shield
The castle is the armour
The home is the sword
This small star of holy faith
Will soon disappear
When the red fire rises
From the dying earth
But after a day of toil
You will reunite
As a palace of starlight
And the lambs shall watch
As shining angels at peace
As twinkling stars of the night”
I'm well aware the streets aren't paved with gold
yet I still tread upon all forlorn roads,
not wise enough to see what I am told,
expecting much anew at each crossroads.
I long knew that grass is no more greener
yet I still walk across from parched to see,
wisdom will not still my inner dreamer,
for yonder may I find my own ash tree.
The monsters of my past gone from my head
yet each and every night before I sleep,
not wise enough to check beneath my bed,
so, back, in vivid dreams, they always creep.
Not wise enough to know, though child has gone,
there is no Zeus, and I am not Memnon.
When I look up at the pristine Colorado sky,
And see flocks of Canadian geese on the fly,
And watch squirrels hide their winter's fare in a secret cache,
Then I know that once again a glorious autumn is on the way!
When the harvest moon graces the sky with its lustrous glow,
And at dawn I see Pikes Peak gleamin' with a dustin' of snow,
And view the golden leaves of aspen trees upon the distant brae,
Then I know that once again a glorious autumn is on the way!
When the old ash tree on my lawn assumes its robe of amber,
Anon, strewin' the lawn with fallin' leaves t'wards late September,
And see golden punkins with a tad of frost at dawnin' of the day,
Then I know that once again a glorious autumn is on the way!
When the nights are cool and I need an extra blanket on the bed,
And note that the robins and all their friends to the south have fled,
And when I see anxious farmers harvestin' taters, corn and hay,
Then I know that once again a glorious autumn is on the way!
When apples are ripe for pickin' (after the worms have had their share),
And I've stored the lawn mower and at last can enjoy my rockin' chair,
And I sense that Old Sol is risin' later and settin' earlier every day,
Then I know that once again a glorious autumn is on the way!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
Goldie, my peculiar but beloved cat,
has certain affectations --
she prefers, most times, her own society
and shuns her housemates.
But, sometimes, she cuddles
or will join the others
to laze around -- in the living room,
the dining room, a hallway, or
in the kitchen.
An inside cat who, early on,
suffered the indignity of
"the operation,"
she asserts her independence
by darting into the front yard
when a door is opened --
and she pointedly ignores
any calls or pleas to come inside.
But when the door shuts
and no one is around, she is fearful,
immediately climbing up into the ash tree.
And there she stays
until I come to coax her down.
She may climb high up
and, finally, shakily manage
a descent to allow me to pick her up
and carry her back inside.
She never leaves the yard
but does enjoy ignoring me
when I am in a hurry.
She will dart about and run
from one side of the yard to the other.
For her, it's only an infrequent game.
And, as my treasured pet,
she certainly deserves to play
while testing the limit
of my affectionate, chagrined
commitment.
In the middle of Asgard, where the Gods and Goddesses live, is Yggdrasil by name, the tree of life is its fame. The eternal green Ash tree, the branches stretching out over all the nine worlds. Yggdrasil is carried by three enormous roots. Next to the first root is a well named Urd's well, where the Gods have their daily meetings. Next to the second root is Mimir's well, and the third root close to the well Hvergelmir. It is here the dragon Nidhug is chewing on one of Yggdrasil's roots. Nidhug is also known to suck the blood out of the dead bodies, that arrive at Hel. At the very top of Yggdrasil lives a giant unnamed eagle, the eagle and the dragon are bitter enemies, they truly despise each other. There is a squirrel named Ratatosk, who spends his time running up and down the Ash tree, doing what he can to keep the hatred alive between the two. "Urd" means "destiny". The generally accepted meaning of Old Norse Yggdrasill is "Odin's horse", drasill means "horse" and Ygg is one of Odin's many names. There are four stags that feast of the foliage of the Ash tree also.
In the Poetic Edda, the tree is mentioned in three poems. In the Voluspa, stanza 19, the Volva says: (Volva, a shamanic seeress)
An ash I know there stands,
Yggdrasill is its name,
a tall tree, showered
with shining loam.
From there comes the dews
that drop in the valleys.
It stands forever green over
Urd's well.
When Odin hanged, speared, for nine days on the World Tree, he uttered the words that he had 'sacrificed himself onto himself'.
In Norse mythology, the Norns are three female divine beings who have more influence over the course of destiny than any other beings in the cosmos. They dwell within the Well of Urd.
The Ash has died, bare-branched
Throughout this summer.
Odin's gallows, Dreamin' Tree,
Died back like every other.
Though autumn leaves begin their fall
Bare Ash stands like a Christmas tree
Embraced, entwined, adorned
With greening from another.
Wisteria's bine has jumped the gap
Between the gardens at the back
To cover Ash tree to its top
To all the world alive, but not.
Half way up this dreamin' tree
A pigeon mounts his mate
A fourth or fifth time in this day
Though autumn's love is late
And well before the Spring.
Corvid's watching blue-winged Jay
Sits low upon his gallow branch,
Planning how to rob their nest
To scalp its precious fledgling squabs
Before they're raised as offspring.
These clatter doves with life long
Mates make glimpse of love's display
But all of God's creation groans
Awaiting when that final day
Finds freedom from frustration
With birth pangs of a better way
And longed for last redemption.
-------- From FiFo to LiLo-----
-----------------------------------
Rowan is a berry that it's extractions are used to
make sorbit acid a preservative used in baking.
Sorbus Aucuparia, also called mountain ash
is not related to the ash tree.it is one of the many
plants in the familiar Rosaceae family that also
contains roses, apples, and raspberries, and that
I have written about here so often.
Rowan trees are one of the most eye-catching tree
it's berries look like cherry tomatoes.While not deadly
poisonous, raw rowan berries contain parasorbic acid
and cyanogenic glycosides, which can cause significant
stomach upset, vomiting, diarrhea, and potential
kidney issues if eaten in large amounts, but cooking
(or freezing) converts these compounds to safe sorbic
acid, making them edible for jams, jellies
, and syrup.
Written by:
The Bread pro's
Yeast College
best sourdough, brioche
and tradational yeast recipes of Earth.
An Ash tree tumbled down last winter,
it is only a wooden effigy now,
branched still,
limbs askew,
leftover as a lingering image
of one hour of violence.
It was a head-storm, it got into
the marrow of things,
wolf-winds tore at its canopy,
eclectic daggers struck its roots.
Fire felled - it smoked for hours,
bark scored and etched with ashes.
We did not see this,
the tempest shuttered our minds,
yet we heard
the rebounding crash,
and the longer shudder.
In the morning,
mother took her hatchet,
put on thick rubber boots,
and went to work
harvesting the easier reached kindling,
while I mourned the loss
of a climbing tree.
This year its bones are still there,
a corpse blocking a river towpath,
still reminding
those who pass that way,
of the suddenness of life.