Long Willow tree Poems
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Rumple Stein sat beneath the
crooked willow tree, his yellow
eyes gleaming at the huddled
children.
"Tonight," he whispered, a twisted
grin exposing his pointed teeth, "I
will tell you of Frankenstein's monster."
The children shivered, pulling their
blankets tight as the campfire hissed
and popped in the dark.
"A mad doctor stitched this beast
together using cold, gray body parts
from freshly dug graves," he cackled.
"He used heavy iron bolts,
thick jagged thread, and coursing
electricity to shock the corpse awake!"
"But the lightning left the beast
with a burning fury against children
who tell wicked lies and fibs."
"Because some kids tell lies,
the angry creature sworn to hunt
down every single dishonest child."
"It wanted to fry them alive
using the same high- voltage
electric currents that sparked
its dead heart!"
Rumble Stein leaned forward,
his long shadow stretching over
the grass like a reaching, clawed
hand.
"The giant broke free from its
heavy chains, stomping through
the foggy woods with heavy, thudding
steps."
"It searched the dark nights
for escaping children who refused
to go to sleep, and stop telling lies
and fibs.
He suddenly jumped to his
feet, throwing his hands high
as the wind howled through the
branches.
"And when it catches a liar,"
Rumple 6roared, "it shocks them
to a crisp and drags them away!"
I watch him race into the yard,
On pudgy legs he swaggers onward,
To wander through the garden paths,
Adventure seeking is his sport.
He hides beneath the willow tree,
A branch for sword he battles forth.
Then takes a wound and falls to earth,
Hand clutching heart he dies so brave.
Up he jumps and runs to hide,
Amongst my Roma’s and Mountain Prides
A sheepish grin of bounty red,
Drips down his chin and stains his hands.
Mouth to sleeve and hands to pants
Then off he runs to chase a squirrel.
He spots the sprinkler in the back
Like moth to flame, to water lured.
A jump, a slash and slide through mud,
A squeal, a laugh, another jump.
Mud puddles made for sticky pies,
Or castles built with sticks and leaves.
Wet from head to toe he stands
With hands on hips he stalks his prey
Then suddenly through twinkling eyes
He detects me in my suit of white!
.
In a barren apocalyptic landscape,
under a withered, bare, and grossly malformed weeping willow tree.
Lies a lone stone which reads: There is no escape From the house of the dead.
The stone, in pristine state, stands as a testament to all who enter there.
The interloping tendrils of a wisteria vine, have encircled and strangled all in its path. Except for the stone, which emits an eerie glow, as a lighthouse beacon in a fog laden ether.
THERE you will experience true solitude.
Approaching closer, you feel the frigid breath of the cemetery breeze, enveloping you and drawing you nearer, t’ward a single oblique whisp of a specter as she floats ominously over the stone.
Her once great love left her for dead, and
from the depths of sorrow, she acquiesced.
Since that day, she has clung to the life she once had.
Her happiest days were spent in the garden behind a house where no one else played.
Laughing, singing and running with her once great and true love they spent endless days together.
Now, in her current form, she lists as she sways, her tattered ghostly shroud swipes against your leg.
The window curtains’ lace whips wildly through the night air, flicking against your feet and wakes you sharply from your sleep.
Opening your door, as you head down the hall, in the corner of your eye, you spy a translucent figure. Turning to look the shape disappeares.
Was this a dream, forebodance, a warning of some future catastrophe? Mark me, and heed these words well......There IS NO ESCAPE FROM THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD.
February 21, 2021
Poem written for Constance La France
Ghost Poetry contest
Psalm 137
1. By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, also we wept at our
remembrance of Zion.
2. On the willows, in the midst thereof, we hung up our lyres."
_______________________________
+
I hang my words on a weeping willow tree,
and fall to my knees in a lament and song;
for I am afraid of the temptations of earth,
so, I go at gathering places of true believers.
I sing and pray for my heavenly God to hear me,
and seek his Zion, the place where he dwells;
his holy eternal city, his heavenly kingdom,
though enemies and life drag me down.
I will find my end of life nirvana in time.
______________________________
November 25, 2019
Poetry/Bio/Seeking Where God Dwells
Copyright Protected, ID 1202-152-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for FGI Blog Series 14- Ditty
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
The decor of laces,
And fragrance of lavenders,
In the land of Georgia,
With attire of antiques,
The melody of wind chimes,
Echoing in harmony with grand piano,
Like heaven is playing harp,
And pearls bursting everywhere,
O, the modesty of it all,
Dressed up in high class,
Candles in rustic brass holder,
Lighting up off white wall,
Exploring ivory artfully crafted everywhere,
Rustic kitchen with wooden floor,
Washing bowl on cherry wooden table,
And outhouse under weeping willow tree,
Shining pond with lilies floating,
With creamy violets encompassing around,
A porch with rocking wooden chairs,
With peach ribbon decor everywhere,
Everything that resembles morality,
Were inked dry with a feather pen.
Nature is free and she is walking around with me, nature is free and the birds are whispering in the trees. They are mating on top of the hill and they just cannot keep still. Look at them flying in that willow tree, looking for somewhere to make their nest, they are flying around like wild beast, pooping and filtering energy in the street. They say it is a symbol for protection and an omen for good luck but when the droppings fall on you, you have to have a strong stomach.
Watch the trees as they stand still and reminisce with the wind; they are standing at attention as they pass through that painful recollection .Dead bodies floating in the stream, tires burning in the deep, and bullets rigged buildings swaying in the breeze. Something has transpired there many years ago and the trees are witness to those memories. I sat quietly at the side of the stream recapturing my imaginary dreams and watching it playing out in reality. It is that powerful connection that you have with the soul; it is something that is larger than life and it is connected to the divine. You cannot see it, you cannot phantom it but you know that it is there. It is bigger than my soul and when my spirit is sad, I become one with nature and dine in that imaginary rapture. The trees cannot understand it, the mountains cannot contain it but the deserts embrace it. Nature breath at the sound of the wind, nature shouts and the volcano erupt, the earth trembles when I bend my knees and the floodgates open when I raised my hands.
Come and sit with me for a while and put your hands upon my heart and tell me what you feel. It is the sound of nature rushing through my vein and the spirit of life that I must maintain, and the warmth of the earth moving beneath my feet. I can see you looking out your window peering at something from a distance but it was hard to connect with that mysterious rhythm that was moving in a different direction but nature quickly turned it around and forward it to where destiny is bound and I could instantly feel that connection and a slight wind came in from space. Nature smiles and rolls its eyes as it recalls that painful sacrifice, meeting with people all over the globe, whose hearts are touched by the untold and so the freedom of nature rolled through the gate and upon it the tree embrace.
‘Twas on a morn’ in early spring
When I met Rose Marie
In a garden
Where she sat - upon a bench
Beneath a willow tree
Where - with a glance
My heart was stabbed
With pangs of jealousy
For it was - very plain to see
She was - by far - more beautiful than me
She spoke - with colored words - like rainbows
Spun with threads of gold
As she described the man she loved
With all her heart and soul
She told me - of his beauty
Raven hair and eyes of green
And as she talked - he appeared - before me
As in a - living dream
She told me - how she met him
On the Shore of Evermore
There in the fields - above the cliffs
Amid the mist - an ocean roar
She told me how - with their first kiss
He carried her away
As he poured his love - into her soul
There - so high above - that wind-swept bay
With Heaven - but a breath away
Her words - like magic - in that moment
Cast a spell on me
For I too now - had fallen - so deeply - in love
With Cannon Lee
I longed to feel his breath
His lips upon my velvet skin
I longed to quench - the lustful thoughts
That now burned - so deep within
So - when Rose Marie - stood up to leave
And turned her back on me
I dug my thorns into her wrist
And sealed - my evil deed
My jealousy - now turned to poison
Ran quickly through her veins
And as she tried - to pry me loose
I clawed her - once again
"Tainted blood" - is what they say
Stole his love away
And that is how - I came to be here
On these cliffs today.
So tenderly - he holds me now
And finally kisses me
As his tears - fall on my open petals
And trickle - down my leaves
Then - from his lips - there comes a cry
Of such despair - it cracks the sky
“ My darling - my love - my life
Why did you have to die?”
And here so high - above these cliffs
These cliffs of ‘Evermore’
I hear her name - resounding - above the ocean roar
‘Rose Marie’ - ‘Rose Marie’
As he cast me - with a final kiss
Into the raging sea.
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
The Joining was one of subdued elegance. Seileach insisted on the ceremony being held in the Keep. Jessica was beautiful, beyond beautiful, she was exquisite. Her long red hair infused with sky blue Blåveis and white bell shaped Liljekonvall mingling in a beautiful waterfall along the right side of her head. Rødsildre weaved through the intricate braids that Chroí sculpted through her tresses, the pinkish flowers softened against the brilliance of the natural highlights in her hair with a crown of fragrant red Vivendel circling the top of her head. When Joulupukki saw her slowly walking down the winding staircase in the vestibule, her long azureus gown flowing like a stream down the stone of each tread, he was struck dumb. As she passed from step to step, the living hand rail bloomed deep violaceous coveys of wisteria flowers, a gift from Seileach's Forest Elves working in coordination with the Garden Elf. The whole ceremony felt like a dream. He listened as her bare feet tapped gently against the stone of the foyer tiles and crunched as she moved into the sand path of the courtyard where she joined, arm in arm, with her father who guided her from sun to shade and without any reticence placed her hand in Joulupukki's and stepped away. They stood beneath the willow tree and pledged their love and loyalty to one another, and, at length, were greeted by the numerous elves that lined the path winding through the Keep from the vestibule to the courtyard and back into the Great Eating Hall, where a feast was laid out for all of the village elves to join in the festivities.
Many years peacefully passed as the Elfin Clans' Council refined their guidance of the elves of all six clans, each clan developing their own council that took deference to the lead of the Council of Six. On occasion Joulupukki was asked to offer his opinion and vote on a difficult issue on which the council was split. There were elves that were elected to the council who were hungry for power but none could muster the votes to gain control before their term came to an end. Eventually Seileach was relieved of his position as Elder Councilman and Ceridfen took over. Lumi, at the request of his friend Joulupukki became a member of the Village Council and eventually the Council of Six.
I'm named a willow tree and live in grace,
the whole of me distinctive in its shape.
My elegance well suits this lush landscape
of hillocks flung across the field I face. . .
and gentle rills meander through this place.
In spring I don a long virescent cape
comprised of many supple arms that drape
to earth and, with Eve’s shadows, interlace.
Oh, countless times Sun’s flecked my every leaf
and Sky distilled her stars as night would creep.
Young lovers, though, have fled, their time so brief.
They used to spread a cloth to eat; then sleep
beneath me in my shade. They knew no grief. . .
Not privy to their destiny, I weep.
Standing at a quadrivial on a wooded road,
knowing that each led to a mystical, ethereal place,
the lushness of the forest inspirational and incredible,
I opt for a footpath leading to a shady grove.
Far from the clamorous, chaotic world ever beating,
and beneath a weeping willow tree I find my solitude,
O, how unbelievable the bird songs each a ligure, a gem,
the forest a harmonious moan echoing my aloneness.
I behold the scented flowers unfolding and unfurling,
the murmur of a meandering stream not that far away,
while filigree clouds drift above a dark green canopy,
and in my mind is held a reservoir of words.
Closing eyes, I listen, I listen, then take up my pen,
and I write, I write, I write the lazy, beautiful day away,
that I may offer you a fleeting, momentary pericope,
of my words this summer day . . .
__________________
July 9, 2013
Poetry/Narrative/O, The Solitude
Copyright Protected, ID 107-491-409-09
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France