Poplars Poems | Examples

Visions of the Vale

“Look deep into nature and you’ll understand everything better.”
Albert Einstein 

I stood on the sloped path near the waterfall.
Mesmerised by the sound of falling water.
     All around grew green-leafed ferns,
     While tall poplars and redwoods provided
Ample shade that covered the running stream.
Tall purple pickerel plants, scarlet cardinal plants,
Everything contributed to a sublime, picturesque sight.
     A symphony of sounds emanated completely around.
     Frogs croaked in great abundance, jumping in and out,
Of the clear stream where fish swam toward the sea.
And all around, busy bees fluttered over exotic flowers,
Where nectar provided them with such sweet nourishment.


Placed 1

Trees

The weeping willows
Their widow's veil of leaves
Trailing sadly in the stream

Pungent spicy peppercorn trees 
Their green feathery hair
Festooned with pink beads 

Crooked old oaks 
Their gnarled fingers 
Pointing in twisted directions 

Rigid tall poplars 
Giant thin arrows 
Forever trying to touch the sky 

The blossoming apple tree 
Petals slowly falling 
Pink snow drifting to the ground 

The purple flowered wisteria 
Ever reaching out for somewhere else 
Unable to be content in one spot 

The graceful ghost gum
The crisp clean lemon aroma 
Of a glowing spectre on a moonlit night 

Prim pine trees 
Dressed in green ballroom gowns 
Still waiting for the dance to start 

Liquid amber in autumn 
Sending down colourful stars 
A rainbow mat on the ground 

The dull silver grey wattle 
Glowing yellow with the brightness 
Of a thousand tiny suns

Every tree on this planet 
Has a beauty of its own 
We should learn to care more

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

An unpopulated place where 
poplars grow 
Unseen canopies expose 
tree trunks in a row 
Wildflowers swoon over 
undergrowth below 
As back to front figures
watch the panoramic show 

Lush vegetation evokes a 
spellbinding hue
With violet bark
to engrain their view
Don’t flee this forest
reality will go askew
Stay forever 
they may just pull through

Lost in the emerald
is a world of their own
Do they seek solace 
have seeds been sown?
In this vibrant thicket
where trees have grown
Have they just come together? 
or come back to atone 

Perfect is a dream 
without fear or dread
One that only ends, 
when we go to bed?
The artist knew well, 
his final words bled
“Sadness will last forever”
>yet brilliance he spread<

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

a statement in their freedom of expression
the verdant undergrowth – 
a green carpet, indispersed with yellow, white and rose flowers –
leaning away from the regimental lines of the centre lane of poplars
the tree trunks, a whimsical hue of lilac
a profound blend of renewal, early love, and spiritual wisdom
in the overall aesthetics 
a contrast in colour on Newton’s colour wheel
the female figure fuses with the shades of the undergrowth
whereas the male figure mimics the upright form of the poplars
the rushed brushstrokes
a hurried comment on
echoes of social construct
then and
now

Undergrowth with Two Figures -Van Gogh

Describe what you see my love, she queries 
A game they often play in the depths of the forest
He replies,  Turgid are the woodlands densely they’ve died back 
creeping  where  no  life  is seen,
between the flowery meadow's cracks
The poplars have shed their leaves leaving violet trunks bare
For it isn’t rare,  sun light  that shan’t filter thru the canopy
Entrapped is the pale old plant ivy green 
However, the white roses striving and yet flutily parade
whilst tolerating the languorous shade
As he describes his innermost inhibitions
without  interference or shame
In the distance, expanding their horizons together
Both aware 'tis a harbinger of the end game

Undergrowth with Two Figures - Van Gogh

I could never tell reality from dreams,
so palpable, oil on canvas seems, 
and while in both realms, I now dwell, 
must I say to one, farewell?
or go on living in Hell?

On a long spring day one hopeful May,
my imagination would display
violet poplars and undergrowth of green,
where emerged a woman, so serene -
magically, from nature, unforeseen.

She spoke to me and I could feel
that she must certainly be real,
but she told me she wasn't there.
I said I didn't care - 
she was the answer to my prayer. 

As dappled light on my skin, tingled, 
reality and dreams commingled,
and this lady fine and fair,
that I swore I saw standing there,
disappeared slowly in the air.

Afterfeel

An uncertain afterfeel
Rolls inside and bides
Like a tape recorder reel
On the floor unwinds
Meet your Lady Aftershock
Be her truest slave
Take her down to the docks
For the random wave
Slams the door, the draught bursts in
Papers scatter to the sides
Applications from the screen  
Texts with seals and signs
There’s no memory to feed 
Files are kept alive
Fictions growing fast like weeds
Shuttering your life
The damp wind keeps blowing on
Through the dusty streets
Shades of poplars hanging low
Over the empty seats 
Lady Aftershock walks in
Busy on the phone 
Wheel of fortune starts to spin
Blues of Mr.Gone
Lights go dim, the evening goes
Like most evenings do 
Morning comes, the daylight glows
But there’s nothing new.

Bury me, my love

Bury me, my love, in a lead coffin
To not hear the rustle of the poplars,
Not to hear the noise of the world,
Until I rot completely.

Bury me, my love, in a corner of the cemetery
To be far from other dead,
To be hidden by the thick earth,
Without seeing the beautiful sky.

Bind me, my love, with heavy chains
So that I can never leave the coffin
For I want to become earth
And then to turn to dust.

I will remain forever in the earth
For I cursed the eternal heaven
When it stole people dear to me
And now, it doesn't accept me.

In the temple abandoned by time, in the silent whisper

In the temple abandoned by time, in the silent whisper,
Our palms unite, masters of the subtle light,
You watch over with the warmth of spirit when angels dart,
You, the reliquary of divinity, the guiding star when the world stands still.
The elixir of dawn in your chalice, sweet venom, unknown assuagement,
Beneath your mantle of bliss lie embers that do not burn,
I walk in your rays, seeking a natural shore amongst the silver poplars.
The night clothes you, a queen in veils, in the white that transcends,
Your kiss, a fresco that breathes life into the sacred and undisturbed,
By your side, I cross the chasm between shadow and astral glow.
You, ruler over art, mysteries of what my eyes behold,
Born from the great abyss, a promise sculpted in the heart of the sun,
My treasure, the sky and the earth, the altars of my life.
Unfading glory, you are mother-in-law and artistry to stars,
The hourglass envies our shared moments on this dazzling realm,
You are whole and complete, in the sweet silence that embraces the corners of the world,
My treasure, a mystical altar, forever in the twilight of splendor.

When will the summer come?

When will the summer come, the fields be ripe again,
The sun down-shining power, the clouds reducing rain.

When will the poplars be releasing, millions of seeds,
And outside be snowing fuzz-balls, carried on the breeze.

When will the maple tree, release its helicopters, 
And send them down in twirling spirals, alighting on the flowers.

When will it stop this raining, this downpour from above,
The sky be blue, serene, and birds be singing love.

Why won’t it stop, why won’t it clear, why is it always so gray,
I wish that only the summer be here, to clear this dreadful day.

Morning Sights, Sounds, and In-Between

Front door

The turning key clicks
A vacuum sound as door pulled
All of nature's cold air explodes
A rooster crows

Flood of sounds

A woodpecker is feeding on a post
Silly bird, like dynamite booms
That sound is heard
Doesn't slow other birds

The doves coo
Crows caw their warning
Mockingbirds realize it's morning
Sparrows too busy eating to rue

Spring color

Spring green tender leaves
Weave a delicate quilt
Oak tree's chartreuse tassels
Offer a different gilt

Maples' tender leaves in guacamole'
Redbud leaves are in still in bud
Poplars beginning in forest green very slowly
Gingko has no show but it's no dud

In-between

The kitchen hub is busy
Breakfast prepared but simple
No time for a morning tizzy
Baked banana and date-nut bread nimble

Then I sit and rest a spell 
Upon pain and trouble do not dwell
I think about God, Who loves me still 
And wonder do I do His will?

A Looming Fog

I feel as if I'm on a boat,
floating on a narrow river,
driven between its banks
by an invisible strong current, 
leading me to God knows where.
On either side tall upright poplars
stand on guard as if I might try to escape.

An early greenish hue tints all
and ahead of me I see
a cloudy thick fog.
I wonder who is watching there,
hidden in the thick haze.
I wonder why I am where I am.
Where has my memory gone?
Is anyone hiding behind the trees?
Maybe I have lost my bearings.
Why all these questions in my mind?
Or perhaps I’m dreaming.

Suddenly I notice ahead of me
a fork in the river.
Now I am in a checkmate of indecision
Especially since the river current stopped.
Where must I go?
Left or right?
Am I going north or south?
The fog is no help.
The aquatic crossroad confuses.
I know not which way to take.
Shall I let the river decide?
I must take the right at least,
but which is the right?
Take my bearings with my right hand?

I hear an inner voice:
"Wake up, take up the oars.
Life is what you make it, 
stand on your two feet,
do what is right,
or enter into oblivion
into that looming fog."

Months of Sundays

interfaces
  of phenomena
         rapid&impetuous

outlandish
melodies
  of unchanging
              light
concentrated
repetitive
transformations
   everchanging

space
   between
      motifs
of
  lilies
    poplars
       rivers&ponds

monumental
   impressions
     in the eye

ephemeral
acts of perception
convey
    what is alive
             vibrant

 valued &visual

Poplars

standing
o so tall
reaching,
stretch the
branches
up and out.
their leaves
rustling
in the breeze
glitter
catching sunrays,
releasing them
playfully
till sundown.         



AP: Honorable Mention 2020

Posted on December 3, 2019

Last Opus

This is a difficult time
For us to paint our desires
On unstarched canvasses
For the benefit of those
Who expect masterpieces

Discoloured and faded
Are our once green forests
Where we sowed seeds of dream-poplars
Amongst wet stones and ferns
Our fingers smudged with hope

Who would believe
We have burnt our doubts in flames of maple leaves
Who would imagine
We did a waltz under falling cherry blossoms
Who on earth knows we were syllables of a haiku

But I need your small hands
To lift straws
From storm-beaten haystacks
For me 
To weave our effigies

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