Long Pine tree Poems
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Remember the story
of Billy Goats Gruff?
The troll under the bridge,
and all of that stuff?
If you liked that old story
it's all good and well,
but it isn't at all
the troll tale I will tell.
Now, Trolius Troll
was a timorous soul;
A more timid troll
you never shall see.
He lived in a hole
in the base of the bole,
(that is, the trunk)
of a turpentine tree.
Young Trolius Troll,
I ask you to note,
is a strict vegetarian;
he does not eat goat.
You might not believe me,
but, begging your pardon,
he eats only produce
from his vegetable garden.
One day, after harvesting
some of his crop,
with a basket of turnips,
with some carrots on top,
he strode up the path,
just as proud as could be,
toward his home in the trunk
of the turpentine tree.
Then, outside the door
of his pine tree abode,
was a sight that made
Trolius Troll drop his load.
There, with a chainsaw
and a double-bit ax,
stood a brawny, black bearded,
blue eyed lumberjack.
With his feet wide apart
on the green, grassy ground,
the lumberjack looked
the troll's tree up and down--
Then, laying the ax
on a moist, mossy bank,
he gave the saw's start rope
a sudden, sharp yank.
With a white puff of smoke
and an ear splitting sound,
the saw shattered the silence
for acres around.
The lumberjack stepped
to the tree's sturdy base
with a smile of delight
on his black-bearded face.
Then, the usually timorous
troll gave a shout,
and, pounding his chest,
he went leaping about.
With a wild snarl of rage
and a blood chilling wail,
the once timid Trolius
charged up the trail.
The brave lumberjack
was stricken with awe.
He turned from the tree,
and dropped the chain saw.
Through the ferns and the bushes
the tree feller ran.
and he never returned
to the forest again.
And so ends a story,
that some might find droll,
of a timid and timorous
tree dwelling troll.
But its message is clear,
it’s as clear as can be:
You may monkey about with Trolius, friend,
but you’d better not mess with his tree.
Form:
It is not like these restaurants in America
with their sterile atmospheres: slick new furniture,
stylized art, ambient lights, and every angle
rationalized to the judgment of specialized interests.
It is a restaurant filled with details,
inviting customers to take in an experience while eating and drinking,
to converse casually and caress senses
with a collage of décor less convenient.
One side is open to the city,
looking out on multi-story hotels with lush landscaping,
palm frond trees and a pine tree
with spreading branches and a green cloud of needles above any tourists.
Short squat curved posts hold up a wide concrete rail
with two bouquets of flowers on it: one has small yellow blooms
while the other has white daises mixed with tiny red blooms.
A Mediterranean influence can be seen in columns
supporting a large opening onto the street.
It is also present in a mural painted on the wall.
In the mural a tall woman baring her breasts
looks down on an angel reaching out to her,
below them is a rural town and above them two puffy white clouds.
Painted around the kitchen doorway’s edge is a grapevine.
Near the doorway a statue of a nude child blows a horn.
At his feet are a bouquet of daises and some yellow candles.
In the center of the room is a wide wood column,
on which appears a green copper statue of a woman in a long dress,
holding a large round bouquet of live yellow daisies above her head.
There are four groups of people in the restaurant.
Two are near the wall.
Two are in the center of the room.
All sit at round tables draped with white linen trimmed with intricate patterns.
The chairs are curved with no angles.
Two small rams’ heads are carved on the top back pieces of each chair.
Each table has a bouquet of red flowers and a large yellow candle.
Customers drink beer from green bottles and tall clear glasses.
A waiter rushes out with the empties.
A man with a dark complexion, thick hair, and mustache
beams with friendly eyes and expressive hands
talking about things that interest common people.
For him common, in his place of impractical details.
For travelers far away from their bare, stripped, planned environment
his speech has a life that is new, different,
paced with living rather than practiced in haste.
Fascinated by a word ‘lofty solitude’
I, as a tall and dignified pine tree,
once stood high on a mountaintop
that stands there from a time remote in antiquity
the unfathomable height.
However, I have burned the pride of the pine tree
to ashes in the sunset glow
because no one ever noticed the trail after trials of hardship
the pine tree underwent to sustain the self as pine tree
on the summit of mountain, and, therefore, I felt offended.
Bewitched by a word ‘tragedy’
I was, as a fluffed giant rock,
stood on the cliff no one ever stepped on
in one of those stormy night,
the roaring thunders, dazzling lightening
and the darkness reigns with flapping huge wings.
However, unable to hold own weight any longer,
wishing to mount on the back of a cloud,
I tried to hold a drifting cloud struggling with tiptoed stretches.
Becoming a captive of a word ‘anguish’
I wandered the wilderness
with thirst under burning sun
and hunger in chilling air at night.
However, the word anguish was the fierce torture
the whip inflicted on no one but self,
and, therefore, the deep wound never be healed
gives sharp pains unable to bear.
I thought the word 'loneliness' becomes to me,
I sat by the window counting a lot of stars in nightly sky
heaving with sighs as many as the stars I have counted.
I spent the sleepless night longing for an unknown love
in the ripples of moonlight,
the breaking surfs by the window.
However, throughout a night’s loneliness
I was overcame by sorrow, and became the drops of tears
and heaped up to overflowing in my heart’s river,
the solitary stream had nowhere to flow.
For a word ‘moksha--spiritual awakening' is so awesome
I roamed here and there wishing to find it the meaning of life,
and when I found it, I have collected it with joy
and packed it in old beaten knapsack I was carrying and returned.
However, when knapsack was unpacked and found was,
neither the will nor the way as I was expected all along,
but full of useless stones the darkness that is darker
then the raven’s feathers.
After all,
I think I do understand the meaning of the word ‘life’
though vague and fragmentary, now, I am standing
as a stem of reed in the marsh by a river
while swaying about in the wind
to tattoo the word ‘life’ on my sick and weary body.
It was St. Patrick’s Day 2011, and all wasn’t
full of happy-go-lucky four-leaf clovers.
No, it wasn’t going to be a very cheerful day
after all.
She had been missing since New Year’s Eve.
That night of terror still rips apart my chest
when I remember the way my phone laid in
my hand not ringing.
I anticipated her phone call, yet deep inside
I knew I would never hear from her again.
I knew that day felt different.
Maybe it was the way the snow was finally
melting along the shore of the reverie that
rested outside my sill.
Maybe it was the changing of seasons that
March always brought that time of year.
I was invited out to go celebrate a day
full of green everything, but I just wasn’t
in the mood for fun anymore.
I had changed since she left and no one
understood why…except me.
So I did what I did best and laid on the bed
we used to laugh on.
I read old letters she wrote me and wrote
in a journal I had been keeping for the last
three months.
It was full of melancholic and sappy goodbyes,
remorseful regrets and yesterday’s sorrows.
Little did I know that night would be the night
that would change my life forever.
I heard the doorbell downstairs ring and my
heart raced.
It was like I already knew who it was and
what he wanted.
Too scared to move I just sat there listening
to the ring….ring…ring…
I looked at the clock on the old dresser and
saw it was 11:02 pm
For that would be the time I’d always
remember.
Each step downstairs I took slower than the
last knowing what I was about to hear.
I saw his silhouette on the front porch and
could see his apprehension.
As I opened the door all it took was one
look upon his face.
It was the detective.
The man who was in charge of searching
day after day and night after night for my
sister.
She was finally found lifeless under an old
Colorado Spruce Pine tree in front of a
fountain.
Time stopped, so did my beating heart.
For my life would never be the same again.
Sometimes when I look at the time and it
happens to be nine seventeen pm, I cry.
Chills run up my arms and through my veins
like that fountain she was lying under when
she took her final breath.
nineseventeenPM Contest
John Lawless
July 7, 2018
I see a box in the tree with something waiting for thee; I wonder what is in there? Do you have something to share? Christmas is drawing near and boxes of every size are waiting in line, with something for the divine.
Giant boxes with big labels, big box with ribbon tie in a bow getting ready for the Christmas show; the middle size box is there too and the little box is standing next to it with a note pasted on to it. The tiny box caught my attention; it sits on top of the big box with a magic pen. It can only hold a diamond and, circle and a heart if it is able.
Several long boxes strapped onto a trolley positioned at the gate waiting on the customers. Pine wood furniture loaded in the long box sends a rancid smell to the pit of hell. They chop down the entire pine tree and stained all the woods with a special gum.
The children are getting excited about the Christmas tree and there isn’t enough for you and me.The farmer have cut down thousand of them and they went like hot French bread.The need is great so get your Christmas tree before it is too late.
I love the feelings that float around at this time; it has a special energy that makes you want to do things in a hurry. Many people have traveled from abroad to set up a Christmas tree in their yard and exchange gifts with friends and family at home and abroad.
It is this special time of the year when sorrows mixed with pleasure exchange hands and join the happy band. What’s in that box?
I like the smell of the Christmas pudding coming from the kitchen and the aroma of the cakes and pies swirling in the sky, I am not sure whose kitchen it’s coming from, but all I know is that it smells good.
What’s in that box? The little girl is anxiously waiting on her new frock and the little boys are waiting on their new socks too. Boxes galore are sitting on the floor waiting.
And the box that BIBI had on the stage? Tell us the secret before it’s too late, it was tied up with black string and someone must have done the mayor in, his curiosity begin to float and he still have not receive the special note.
Boxes upon boxes, ontop of boxes flowing down the conveyers’ belt thousands of them in the sorting rooms with a special gift for a special friend.
After we laid you to rest I sat at the beautiful site
where you took your final last breath.
Under a pine tree with a fount in sight,
thinking about your awful tragic death.
I brought your favorite flowers, orange lilies-
wept like a baby then fell to my knees.
I shouted, “God why have you forsaken me!”
Eyes swollen with tears running down my face.
“I know I should feel joy that she’s finally free,
but you didn’t save my sister Karen with grace.”
I heard nothing in response and fell asleep,
the pain traveled through my veins, cut too deep.
I awoke and saw ducks swimming in the pond,
I went to get bread next door at the grocery store.
All of a sudden I saw a man that I stumbled upon,
looking familiar but I knew I never saw him before.
He could tell I was crying with my eyes bloodshot red,
and all of a sudden up to him I was led.
I went up to him and apologized, “do I know you?”
He said, “no you don’t look familiar to me.
But are you okay you seem so sad and blue?”
The despair in my eyes I knew he could see.
I told him about you and why I was there,
he looked at me with a tiny tear; I knew he did care.
What a coincidence to learn who he really was,
a few nights ago he was walking his dog by that pine.
I couldn’t believe it when I found out he ‘twas
the man who found you Karen! It was a divine sign.
He said, “because of that night I’ll never be the same”,
he cared like a friend and I told him your name.
AFTER YOUR FUNERAL I MET THE MAN YOU SAW YOU LAST,
and with him I felt this remarkable heavenly connection.
I wondered what would have happened if he never passed
that same pine St. Patty’s Day night with renown affection.
I felt the sorrow pass through me, yet somewhat relieved - - -
for God had spoken to me...and it's still so hard to believe.
*Sorry it's so long, I wanted the whole story to be told*
Rhyme Scheme: A-B-A-B-C-C
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Sponsor, Broken Wings
July 27, 2018
The desolate perfection of solitude. The shiver of recognition that there is only one being on the mountain, and that’s you. The pine trees watch, the boulders brood, but there is no one there. The splendour of being alone, crushed to fragments by the chirping of crickets, pierced by the song of a mountain thrush. The sea of solitude, a sea of sounds. With no noise at night, sounds rush you like a wave, a pounding surf inside your head. But, then, in the ozone tonic morning, the sky fills you with blue happiness, emotions so high you are born again on the mountain, and loneliness seems the greatest joy a man could wish for. Praise be to God I’m alone. Though the mountain air throws its voice from time to time. “There’s a whole world out there waiting for you — what are you waiting for? The world doesn’t care whether you're here or not.” I know, I think. I am free, so free I could dissolve into thin air right now and fly through that hill, through the planet for that matter. Find myself on Mars and know what loneliness is all about. Earthly loneliness is for cowards. On earth there’s an outside chance a human will turn up. On Mars, loneliness meets a new friend — desperation. The desperate need to remain whole, to not break up and boil in the Martian atmosphere. To not depressurise and explode. Lots of long walks required on Mars I’d say. Circumnavigation would do it. Is there loneliness greater than that? I think there is, but I’m afraid to tell you. But there is a tremendous rhythm to be found in silence. It might take days to get it. You might suffer with sound death in an echo chamber for a while. Tinnitus might strafe your skull case for what seem like endless nights. But one day you’ll find yourself listening to a distant, low base rhythm that starts from the balls of your feet, the back of your skull — you don’t know which — but it’s so strong, so virile and strident you see the whole forest take up arms and shake its fists. And you shake your fists too, and dance like a bear in a dry riverbed — wolfsbane shooting off your claws like bullet tracers, spraying colours all over the pine tree valley. The music in silence. It’s dripping from the trees, drifting in mountain mist.
Recollections of childhood
when life was simplistic,
brings to memory, days
filled of toilsome work
and long hours.
Yet in its own way, bestows
feelings of warmth, safety
and at given times, even
conceived to be glitzy,
shimmery.
Children, courteous
and respectful
executing daily chores
and in attendance
at church on
every given Sunday.
TV, computers,
I pods or CD's were
unheard of. Merely
an old Motorola radio
in a corner of the sitting
room. Kept perfectly
dustless and neat
for visitors.
Absolutely no children
were permitted,
with an exception
of Saturday eve, as all
gathered closely together,
listening to The Lone Ranger
and Silver....Hy Ho...Away!
Thursday nights
in summertime,
brought truckloads
of youngsters
piled in the bed of an
old green pickup truck, going
to enjoy a movie
on a large white
screen in the center
of a cornfield.
Christmas was, oh, so
special. Picking a
pine tree from a
million others to cut,
hauling “it”back
to a tattered
old gray shingled
farmhouse.
Decorations of popcorn
and cranberry strings, chains of
colored ribbon, paper cutouts
resembling bright, white
snowflakes, and of course,
a magical angel atop
this magnificent tree.
In retrospect,
it was felt we had so
little, but we had so
very, very much.
Children helped
with the chickens, cows,
gardening, whatever
instructed to do.
Riding ponies, the
county fair, marvelous fun.
School days were spent
learning the three R;s...readin,
ritin, rithmatic,” as well as
a history of George Washington
and the Great Depression of
1929,,,,,,,
Grandpa recounting stories
at the supper table of the
stock fall, unemployment,
farmers losing their worth,
wars of senseless deaths.
We were so blessed.
to have been born
after these arduous times.
Looking forward to a
new year, 2012--
Computers, I pods,
Cell Phones, Absolutely
Astonishing inventions,
technology.
Today stock-markets
are fluctuating, businesses
closing and many
people are going homeless
and hungry.
Jobs being at an all-time
low.....such advanced
progress,yet such similarity
of previous history.
“Old timers”
will survive from
what was
taught throughout
their childhood.
What happens now -
will we all survive?
Inland Empire Prairie Corn Garden of the West Land of Lincoln Mile After Magnificent Mile; Right Here. Right Now at the bottom upside down State sovereignty, national union Hoosier sunshine Hospitality Indian land The Crossroads of America Restart Your Engines Land of the Rolling Prairie in the Tall Corn Hawkeye did not see the clause to cede Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain Life Changing; Fields of Opportunity * * * wheat America's Bread Basket Home of Beautiful Women Simply Wonderful bought from under the people of the wind as big as you think To the stars through difficulties The Dark and Bloody Ground bluegrass hemp tobacco corn-cracker Unbridled Spirit United we stand, divided we fall Let us be grateful to God Sugar Child of the Mississippi Creole Holland of America bayou pelican Land of Louis the first slaves 3 cents an acre was a worthless desert native burial mounds Fall in love with all over again Come as you are. Leave Different Union, justice and confidence Pine tree lumber Vacationland they are our relatives/allies strong land People of the First Light It Must Be ; The Way Life Should Be I lead Monumental oyster land of big river and geese traded for monies Old Line Manly deeds, womanly words Seize the Day Off More Than You Can Imagine America in Miniature
I just got back from my morning walk
I had forgotten how exhilarating it is
To watch the sun rise
Up over the hills of Beirut.
The campus where I teach is simply breathtaking
Nestled cozily in the pine tree forests on top of a hill,
It offers a panoramic view of Beirut
Many years back this was not a good thing
As the army brought a tank up to the upper campus
To shell enemy positions in Beirut
And our campus got riddled with bombs
We spent our days in shelters
While our campus burst into flame
But this morning, I didn’t remember any of that
I walked on the lower campus and gazed out at Beirut
I walked like a fool....my eyes looking up
Saying a shy good morning to the clouds
And a warm good morning to the One beyond
While I did my sit-ups on one of the benches
I looked up into the jacaranda tree
Its branches were naked, but I knew, I knew that in spring
It would be regal in purple finery
That would enchant all those who walked
Under the train of its beauty
Later it would rain purple petals down on all
But purple kisses for me, for I’m in love with this hue
As a reward, as always… I drove up to the upper campus
While listening to music, my second passion
As my car made the turns
I tried to keep my eyes on the road
And not fixed on the hills where the sun was getting ready
To make his glory known
Nor down on Beirut that was just waking up from slumber
I passed places that my heart cherished
Where my husband first asked me to be his
Where we parked the car and looked at
The dazzling lights of Beirut at night
Our hearts ablaze with the burning passion of youth
The place where he wanted to claim possession of me
But held back…honoring custom and tradition
I drove down slowly
I drove down reluctantly
I wanted to relive everything
To find the joy of being alive, once more
I had forgotten how beautiful the mornings are
I had forgotten who I am in the great scheme of things
But HE reminded me…
As the sun pushed through the clouds and shone in brilliance
The verse came to my mind…
“And the Son of Righteousness will rise with healing in His wings.”
Arise in my heart, for I need your healing!
Eileen Manassian Ghali