Long Maples Poems
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I wasn't yet born
and those rolling hills
with renewed green awaited me
to explore cloves of orange and lemon
waving in the noon's peacefulness
never felt by any other boy
burning with eagerness;
doesn't he frequently
miss the picturesque scene so brilliantly
adorned by the soft colors of dawn
and extravagant fantasy?
Continuing the unfinished journey
is a must to quite down his desire
seeing the squealing swallows
take over a sky once dominated by eagles,
keep him company and he'll show
you the winding paths and the emerald valleys...
where beech trees, maples, and black pines grow;
if curiosity excites you, follow him closely
and meet those cloudless celestine skies
that are wondrous to behold and admire:
how much thrill one can see in a bewildered eye!
On warm spring afternoons the gentle doves
and the rough pigeons cooed outside open windows,
no dogs chased them away, they were safe from harm;
all the kids were in school distracted by their coos,
soon they would storm the large square shaded by girths...
youth thrived in them and their smiles had a special charm!
Nights had their fascination when the above sky
was a myriad of constellations in continuous illumination
from a Universe seen by sparkling dreamers' eyes,
and lovers would hold hands making their wishes;
wasn't this place the most magical imagined by
a teen who never wrote a verse until he left it
on a September tearful night that began the continuation
of his unfinished journey in another continent?
The still water of the northern swamp
shone like anthracite coal
lending a rainbow hue to the
mirrored reflections of maiden hair fern
and skunk cabbage.
Strangely grotesque maples
rooted wearily beneath in the hidden depths
of blue-blackness.
The summer sky above hang topsey turvey
Its sunlight sparkling
like fireflies upon the still water.
The leaden air caskets the first layer
of rampant growth,
misting moss, masking mushrooms,
where slick green frogs hide
beneath pink pond lilies.
The heat bakes the red clay bank
cracks gape like the toothless open mouth of a baby.
Layers of hot air create mirages of fright
as the swamp seethes in delight.
Pumpkins, cornstalks, apples galore
Crisp leaves falling at the back door
Gentle twilight, breathless with song
Fall’s the season where I belong
Crimson maples and golden oaks
Quiet rhythms from God’s soft brushstrokes
Seasonal bliss comes on so strong
Fall’s the season where I belong
Honey sun climbs through cobalt skies
Faint wind speaks to the old and wise
Dew trickles weep for all that’s wrong
Fall’s the season where I belong
Mums in rust, auburn and ginger
Dusk’s moans couldn’t shock or injure
Blessings I’d like to prolong
Fall’s the season where I belong
Glistening stars in murky bliss
Shadows fade o’er October’s kiss
Splendor I’ll sing all my lifelong
Fall’s the season where I belong
* * *
Outside, delicate flakes are drifting and dancing,
Last night there had been such a blustery blizzard;
But this winter morning my world was beautiful,
As I sipped hot chocolate and hummed White Christmas.
From my huge Evergreens icicles hung twinkling,
Ice-kissed decorations created by nature;
The Red Maples had put on their white winter gowns,
And in the deep pure snow tiny footprints crisscrossed.
Upon my doors drifts of deep, deep snow had gathered,
So I called my love- lets go make a snowman;
Maybe we will make some snow angels too,
In our winter getups we entered a frozen world.
From the garage we took two spades and two shovels,
And soon we found the snow was covered in ice;
Which explained why it was shimmering crystalline,
At the doors the snow was frozen and crackling crisp.
From outside our decorations glowed silver and gold,
Working together we soon cleared the ice and snow;
And then we noticed the sun had melted the ice,
So singing, Jingle Bells, we made an ice snowman.
That evening our house was just sparkling with love,
As we joined with family for a walk in the snow;
We strolled the streets looking at wintery scenes,
Oh winter can be lovely and it can be cruel.
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December 3, 2016
Poetry/Verse/ A Winter Poem
Copyright Protected, ID 16-852-884-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest,
A Winter Poem
Fourth Place
Light of heart, and with dancing eyes,
I gripped my Johnny’s strong right arm
And faced a swelling sunlit sea
As we sailed out from Stornoway.
Farewell to maples, loons, and John.
My yellowed wedding gown lies curled
Beside my beau beneath the sod
Sixty-five years from Stornoway.
Across the gray Atlantic sea,
A locket held my heart’s two loves:
His gold ring and a heather sprig,
As I sailed home to Stornoway.
With watery eyes and baggy cheeks
Gently caressed by cooling wind,
I walked the gangway, cane in hand,
And left my ship in Stornoway.
On rocky bluffs, hard by the sea
Where rest my Dad, wee Joe, and Mum,
An ancient stranger I am now
Returned at last to Stornoway.
Just one more prayer, sweet Lord, to Thee:
Bless me, please, with some swelling seas
And heather scents on fine spring days
At rest, at last, in Stornoway.
My wife and I have spent a good deal of our lives living between the city limit signs of one metropolis or another. As urban dwellers, we were constantly bombarded with the rumble of noises drifting in and out as life moves along. The older we got, the more we found ourselves longing for the quiet country life we remembered from our childhood days. So, when we decided to retire, we wanted to move to a more peaceful setting. We searched the world over and chose this small house in the southern Missouri Ozarks and settled in for a quiet country way of life.
The sounds of nature
Solitude and peace at last
Breathe in the freshness
We were greeted on our first morning of blissful country life by the neighbor’s rooster telling us that 4 hours of sleep is enough. He was quickly joined by a chorus of dogs (at least one for every house within a five-mile radius) declaring their desire to have the rooster over for breakfast. Then it was time for every muffler less vehicle in the county to rev up their engines in preparation for the parade down our country lane. The whistle from a train crossing Hwy 248 mixed with a mooing of a hundred head of cattle, a couple dozen crows, and a few hundred other species of birds rounded out the orchestra. But as I sit here in my rocking chair on the porch. I sip my coffee and watch the sun rise above the oaks and maples. I raise my cup and give a smile. Because I know I’m home.
no horns or sirens
nature creating rhythms
calming symphony
Calm is your nature so fair
O maiden of meticulous metaphor
like the white lilies in the garden, balms soft air,
amongst autumn’s signature rustling leaves
upon dried maples once green
In warm tones of terracotta her spirit roams free,
on earth she manipulates the mariposa monarca
butterfly migration in Michoacán’s fir forests,
clusters color trees with golden orange tones
trimmed in black lace philigree
skies are filled with beating wings
like a flurry of a rain's pitter-patter
O butterfly if you flutter by, I’ve left you aster
for your returns refuel in my yearning yard
Tonantzin our venerable Mother, goddess virginius
of virtue of vim, and vigorous Miss
Q3 keeper of chaos and order,
I’m forever thankful for your service ~
I love trees but I am not an expert…I just know they touch my heart…
Except for some maples, poplars and a few oaks…I can’t tell trees apart.
Because I’m not an expert…but still love the way they make me smile…
I would never be considered an arborist…but I am a dendrophile.
An arborist would have studied and understand the science of every tree that comes her way….but as a dendrophile…walking among the trees I’m surprised a little every day.
An arborist knows there are over 64,000 species of trees…a fact they have been taught…
As a dendrophile I look at all the trees in awe…and say,..”WOW! I sure do see a lot.”
An arborist…probably has some awe in him…but understands a tree’s creation
As a dendrophile, happily, I only have my imagination.
An arborist cannot make up stories about trees she knows may not be true….
but a dendrophile…we’re different…for that’s exactly what we do.
Since there is so much about the trees and the forest we do not understand…
a walk though the forest with a dendorphile…is like a trip through a wonderland.
A dendrophile walking in the woods…bathed in moonlight or in the light the day…
hears the trees whispering to one another…and wonders what they’re trying to say.
So we make up fables and fairy tales…some as fanciful can be..
about all that inhabit the forest…and about our friends the trees.
For instance arborist sees two trees close together and explains how they communicate, how they share nutrients…how it’s part of what the Creator and nature have planned…
A dendrophile sees the same two trees and says…
Aw look…they’re holding hands.
Certainly there is a place for arborists….
their profession is both beneficial and worthwhile…
But as for me…
I’m happy walking through the woods for the rest of my life…
one joyful dendrophile.
Fall always comes
As September rises
Leaves crimson, some gold
Say it's September 11
All over again and again
Every year the date reminds
Like a cruel Xmas on repeat
Keeping our presents
Every score, a bit forgotten
Until no one recalls planes
Till it turns to politics
Trying to find sweets in chaos
Flies are buzzin’
Some had hit our Twin Towers
Some were drawn to our pentagon
Some bravely missed the mark
The sky was falling on 9/11
Says Chicken Little
Too chicken to mourn
The day the sky really fell
We in America really felt it
All those purple bodies
Like confetti discarded
Like shrapnel remembered
Raining down to the abyss
On America's children
For twenty-five years
For what design?
For a virtual harem?
The flies are still buzzing
Everyone loves the Fall
But the few and me
We like growth over decay
Spring over the Fall
Petals died on 9/11
They fell like sakura
The Fall births cherry blossoms
For us to consecrate
Life is holy like petals and maples
But is the US holier?
As if we are just foliage
Whatever color discarded
We all bleed as one
Mingled with all the dust
That day will be forgotten
Be the few to ignite the forest
Smoldering, but not forgotten
Irrefutable as dust
Indefatigable as MLK
The youngest would be 25
Now a memory viridian
A charred acorn waiting
Unforgettable like a date
In a pit waiting to burst
In any hemisphere
A new memorial
In an undiscover'd country
From whose bourn
No traveller returns
Waiting to sprout
On nine eleven
Forget us to live
They say
No we say
If we forget
Who'll remember us?
Unless
The singularity
Is US
Cherry blossoms in September
Blood red leaves falling in May
Where towers never fall
They rise
If love is real
I heard the squelch of death again
A night as black as ink
Outside it was torrential rain
Inside the boat began to sink
A row of faces one by one
Beside the bed, red apples
By my side your neck, like Swan's
Purple leaves of maples
A different milieu around me
A pool brimming black
Shark's eyes with hungry glee
Swan steady to hold it back
No illness can finish me so early
I whispered to the young apples
They held me tight, those hairs curly
With Nix and Hypnos as I grappled
Doctors nurses prayers medicines
Went back the ink along with pain
By loving hands those curing vaccines
The fair weather stopped the rain
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September 14, 2019
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