Long Cottonwood Poems
Long Cottonwood Poems. Below are the most popular long Cottonwood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cottonwood poems by poem length and keyword.
I've passed it by, so many times before
While traveling this twisted asphalt highway
That weathered sign, nailed, so crudely fashioned
To peeling bark, upon the yoke
Of one ancient, gnarled and battered cottonwood tree
It marks a fork of the old backwood road
Where gravel branches, bends and sways
And meanders through the glade
Where the dry creek bed, goes high into the hills...
Where poison oak thrives, and secrets hide...
There it is!.... That feeling, that inclination to explore...
I've had before....
Stabbing that place of my wanderlust
My curiosity....
An old dented mailbox....sitting alone...whose, do you suppose?
Where does the mail go? Does anyone know?
So many times,.....we have passed on by...
I've caught a glimpse, and thoughts would rise...
What lies beyond this fork in the road?
What lies beyond the bend, the turn?...What would we learn?
What course, would we follow
If just this once, we turned, and broke away from the ordinary...
Changed our direction...followed the unknown
Where the creek runs dry
And the banks are rife...
With chokecherry....and willow scrub
Where leaves are layered with chalk white dust?...
Will we ever know?
What lies beyond the fork in the road?....
As I turn my head, and watch my chance disappear once again....
Will I ever know?.....
_________________________________________________________________
chlorophyll greenery, Spring’s
creamery daffodils chock-full of light.
bees alight; honey wings.
violette clematis rife —
the ribbon wraps ‘round my neighbor’s mailbox.
her preserve rocks wildlife.
the southern cottonwood tree
sheds seeds of tumbleweed-like fluff, blowing
in warm wind; swing drifts free.
sights and sounds all around us.
He darkens our world, likewise lights it up
God fills our cups no muss.
the music of the starshine,
the invitation of the moon halo —
romance slow; paintbrush pines.
5/24/2020
the englyn byr cwca is a Welsh form that uses both end and internal rhymes
poem comprised of tercets (from one tercet to infinity) or 3-line stanzas
first line has 7 syllables, second has 10, and third has 6
lines 1 and 3 end rhyme with each other
line 2 rhymes with a syllable somewhere in the middle of the 3
Our riverbank launch at dawn
where dense forest chills the breeze,
where cottonwood leaves flutter like wings,
and weeping willow penumbras tease.
Glistening, rippling turquoise water churns.
Crystal swirling pools symphonic and aglow,
elliptic aluminum crafts coast over craggy stones,
riverbed scattered rocks gleam clearly below.
Current River splits between sandbar silt.
Our paddles sink through rivulet tug.
Meandering, twisting, converging again,
water sculpting limestone, granite, or sludge.
We drift into shallow magic ponds of quiet.
The sweet fragrant water lilies subsume us.
Along the bank, turtles cling to driftwood.
The rowing in this reverie is not arduous.
Another sunlit pool, a home for trout,
their waving shapes dart under shimmering stream.
Pausing our paddles, we heed distant water rush,
how ready are we for river rapid extremes?
Our canoes enter fast-breaking flows.
Frantic, we navigate dead trees and rocks.
The roller coaster of white waves propels
past vague landscapes and distant crow squawks.
One canoe capsized where river sharply bends.
Lifejackets on, other canoeists to the rescue,
all the cooler food, a gift to the river.
Sleeping bags turned sponges; no one argued.
The canoe water finally emptied; we resume.
Each winding channel, a chapter in our allegory,
musky, muddy scents and echoed whippoorwills entrancing.
The bold beam of afternoon dims into dusk’s glory.
We camp on a sandbar under night bouquets of stars,
our trip has just begun: our quest must take us far.
Accepted for Publication, 11/2023: PoetrySoup Anthology Vol. III
Reflections on the Important Things
Naked are all the cottonwood trees
Arms are limbs waving leaves hands
Shaken clapping falling to the ground
~
Over November's plight bleached nights
Images surroundings bright-white
Icy spears hangs off houses roof tops
~
Temperatures spiral continue to drop
Snow shovel the snow it covers the streets
Plow the debris that nature leaves
~
Environment is quiet the sky's and grounds are
So white everything in sight is powdered in snow
Even the deteriorating leaves that cease to be,
~ naked are the cottonwood trees~
2/15/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2022
She calls herself Bunny Boucher, but she was born Veronica Chermak. She’s tall and leggy with a body that looks tidy, yet lived in. She’s high and tight, but flexible like a strong rubber band in a tricked out pinball table. She reminds me of that actress Tracie Lumbar playing the actress Fern Hall in that old movie Iguana Sunset. Her topography leaves no room for global climate change. Her tropics are seductively torrid, while her poles remain perpetually cool; makes you want to straddle her equator with your meridian. She’s been to Mussel Shoals, Shucked Oyster, Bearded Clam, Moose Knuckle, Camel Toe, Beaver Falls, Cottonwood, and Rabbit Patch, just to name a few of her more well-known hangouts. Some would say she looks Greco-Roman, but I’d describe her as looking more like a Hellenized Phoenician who emigrated from Trans-Alpine Gaul, or maybe she looks more Etruscan, with a hint of Minoan when you see her by moonlight. They say she’s as pure as bloodstains on a purloined letter. She traded in her Biblical name soon after she left her home in Mississippi and never spoke of it again. It may be just routine housekeeping, but who could blame a girl for sweeping off her back porch. She recently had a front end alignment. They say her rearview mirror never lets her down. After arriving in New Orleans she passed her bar exam at Vaughan’s on Dauphine and kept the circuit judge disrobed till way past last call. She’s a sexy banshee when she’s in the catbird seat with her cherry basket swinging from a bungee cord. Last I heard she was sharing a dump with a couple Guatemalan dancers. Her room ain’t worth a dollar, but it cost a pretty penny. She pays the rent with a pickup truck full of contraband. She says she needs the space, but not the distance. Like most women, nobody’s ever been able to figure her out. But there is one thing I know for certain, her smoke may sometimes offer you a tempting indication of certain possibilities, but her fire has never been known to lie.
Charley my wheel horse says that Jim is a yack, always jawing now.
They are both scrunchers, they nearly swallow their teeth on chow.
Jim is unsalted, but not lazy or slow, although he has trail dust grime.
He always responds well to “all hands and the cook” and in good time.
When the Mexican vaquero joins us, there is back slapping sure.
That’s when the biscuit roller trades in biscuits for tortillas, pure.
A ballyhoo? I do not think so, Bar dog. Can I get a John barley corn?
I would like to drink the cattle drive off my spurs, until it be morn.
How much does it cost to stay in the dice house tonight?
Don’t want to be honey-fuggled, so no Kansas sheep dip, all right?
a fresh mail order cowboy just entered the saloon, of course.
Don’t want to be a nosy parker, but did he just dismount the iron horse?
Did you see where I put my gelding smacker? I sleep with it naturally.
I am no lapper, but I could go for another John Barley Corn from thee.
Texas cakewalk tomorrow? Hmmm I wish I could stay but I am dragg’n.
Say hello to my cousin Sam, he drives the county’s meat wagon.
I kind of like a good hang’n when there’s a well-deserved California collar.
Was they horse thieves or murderers or what? Hey give my horse a holler.
I thought I saw a Cottonwood blossom when I rode into this place.
But there was no hellaballoo, so I wondered if it was the case.
He loved the stories his Grandpa would tell when he’d visit him on the reservation…his favorite story…the one he’d always ask for…was about the stars…and their creation.
“The stars form secretly in the Earth”, Grandpa would begin, as he set him on his knee… “they drift under the surface until they find the roots of the cottonwood tree.”
“If there is a reason they choose the cottonwood…only the stars and the trees know why….the stars enter the roots…then work their way up…and wait till they are needed by the sky.
When the night sky asks the wind for more stars so the starlight can be increased,…the wind shakes the cottonwood branches, and when some break…new stars are released.
These new stars, just set free…who are only beginning to understand their light….ride upon the wind to take their places in the night.
The night sky ask these new stars to twinkle as their new life begins…it’s her way of showing the stars are safe…and saying thank you to the wind.
But Grandpa’s story doesn’t end there…if fact for his grandson, this is where it starts…as what happens next….is…and always will be…his grandson’s favorite part.
Together they gather fallen cottonwood twigs…and wait till the time is right…when the weather is calm, the sky is clear…and stars fill up the night.
They know this part by heart for they always follow the same plan…they close their eyes hold their twigs up high…then snap them as fast as they can
When they open their eyes they check the twig to see if a star pattern they can find…because the pattern is the shadow the new star has left behind…
Then they look up to the sky again…they they look high and they look far…If they see a twinkle in the sky…it’s a thank you from their star.
He love visiting his Grandpa…and if you ask him the reason why…
He’ll gladly tell you it’s because of all the stars they have sent up to the sky.
When my identical twin sister and I were about nine, there was a little brooklet
in our backyard. It started out kind of like a tiny stream of water in a marshy bit of grass way back down by the alley and the two double cottonwood trees.
My sister and I discovered the brooklet while wearing red shiny rain boots,
yellow plastic rain jackets, and matching yellow plastic hats that tied up under our chins. The rain outfits popular in the 60’s in small town Iowa. We delighted in stomping around in our little brook for several days. It was so much fun listening to the smack smack of the water as we tromped around in the muddy muck.
When the little brooklet began to disappear in May, we had a terrific idea. We got out some shovels, and widened her. We used the water hose to replenish her. We wanted to keep her always; we named her Singing River. She was the best present we had ever made for ourselves.
We spent another week or two stomping around in her muddy muck chanting “singing river” songs to her. But alas, in May, gardens are put into play in Iowa, so she was soon tilled up, and planted with peas, squash, radishes, beans, carrots, and two rows of flowers which our mother always insisted upon
planting. So a new game was on, and we re-named her “The Flower Garden of our Heart.” If anything, we were flexible and adjustable, and equally delighted in our new friend’s transformation. I often think of that back forty, and how much fun we had there.
Especially after Daddy built a tree house in the crook of one of those double cottonwood trees. I used to lug seven library books up there with a sandwich and a glass of Kool-aide, and I would not come down until my mother screamed my whole name ending with “Get in here IMMEDIATELY!” Seven books is the limit of books I could check out of the library every day. I was about ten at the time.
We loaded up for a Sunday drive
The Ozark Mountains were alive
Wild dogwoods of pink and white
Every shade of green in sight
Blooming jonquils and daffodils
Woodpeckers, blue jays, and whippoorwills
Even though the painting was unfinished
Nature's bounty was being replenished
On switchback mountain roads
Past gray bluffs where eagles abode
A long slow roller coaster ride
With buzzards feeding alongside
Headed to our favorite place
A canyon God's finger had traced
Where echos and memories yearn
Friendly fires cleanse and burn
The raccoons, the skunks and the deer
Cared less that we were here
A nervous lizard escorted us to the creek
Clear running ice water froze our feet
A white misty blanket of fog
Spread out for the picnicking frogs
The rocks played a gurgling tune
In the middle of Mother Nature's bedroom
Sitting under a cottonwood tree
It all comes back to me
Generations of family laughter
Roaring in the treetop rafters
I saw an old man with his two sons
In shadowed waters catching crawdads for fun
My children's voices heard in the wind
As they both were learning to swim
I started coming here at age five
We've camped here hundreds of times
Back then this water was deeper
Each year the stream grows weaker
But time's wind blows no weather vane
All around memories remain
I come here a lot to look
And color in my life's coloring book
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Oh, Balmville Tree, you were cut down.
So many years, you spread your gown
of limbs and branches that reached high
so large and stately neath our sky...
but doomed unsafe before our town.
Three hundred, sixteen years with crown...
a cottonwood of great renown;
George Washington near you rode by.
Oh, Balmville Tree.
Today, our sadness we can drown
in this new park, your stump, worn brown,
beset with benches, flowers nigh
in homage to your life's goodbye.
Yet on your stump, new leafy 'down'!
Oh, Balmville Tree.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Give Me A Rondeau
Sponsor: Janice Canerdy
Judged: 11/20/2017
~5th Place~
Premiere Contest: Best Rondeau Poem
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 07/14/2016
Note: "It is a Methuselah among trees, a gnarled and furrowed
Cottonwood that has lived four times as long as its kind was
meant to live. George Washington rode past it on the way
to his Newburgh, New York headquarters..." NY Times, 09/20/2015