I once was a tree near Hadrian's wall
That for a hundred years stood proud and tall
Then one day I was brutally cut down
Leaving broken hearts scattered all around.
My sycamore was a much treasured tree
For passers by ‘twas a precious must see
The felling was to all a dreadful shock
To the world it is a terrible loss.
As it's said, where there is life there is hope
Fortunately there is now new regrowth
One day my tree will stand there proud and tall
To honour the tree that came to a fall.
The corner yard was where they stood.
Gracious appreciation was shown in each sprouting bud.
Mixed colors that depicted a RUSTIC., hand painted design.
Brilliant beauty will EMANATE from each one.
Roses, roses how quaint.
TIMELESS is their history
Joy is what it gives.
Hope to the eyes of the beholder.
Soft sumner winds sends petals SWIRLING to the ground.
Strong storms gives the illusion of a red carpet welcome
on white concrete oavement.
Walking thru them leads to feelings of grandiose.
Seeing bare stems to a sense of loss.
Cutting them back calls for SILENCE .
Loving sunlight leads to regrowth.
Rain water refreshes and restores.
The early morning dew helps them BLOSSOM happily.
Eight words poetry contest sponsor Joseph May
When all begin their meditation
In the cold and chill of night
No one knows better than Nature
The regrowth of strength and might
Even the frigid Fall winds
Render their breath to sprite
POISONS
Boldly betrayed by my body
It came so fast
Poison coursing through my veins,
My Source, my Self,
Frightening and sure, traveling it’s way
Through me,
Out to get me from my Life,
Taking my blood and twisting ugly
Mutations into unfathomable letters,
Indecipherable Latin words,
No longer my lifeblood
But an enemy who has no use for
Life and cleanliness and health
Lauding power over my Will.
Next, an oxymoronic healing poison
Is injected directly into my Source,
Destroying all and everything in its wake
Unable to take into account the
Character of its red and white victims -
Good, bad or indifferent -
It kills without point or prejudice,
Intentional serial murders with
Fragile tentative plans for
Redemption and regrowth,
It tires me with its vehemence.
It is so exhausting is to wake up and have
Nothing but confusion and hope
As catalysts for breathing and taking in
The mysterious days ahead.
it feels deeply disingenuous,
making plans with a person you know you don’t truly want to share a future with
perhaps i’m more selfish than i let on
perhaps i’m not as truthful as i thought
how does someone go about ending things
there is so much of me in your life
my room is full of evidence
that you’ve been here,
in my life,
my bed,
inside of me
i will to paint over you in my walls
and wash you from my sheets
i will repeat my name to myself
until it is mine again
until my skin is mine again
once upon a time
there was us
laughing
loving
growing
then the seasons changed
and the years progressed
along with them, so did we
too
nowadays
this is us
ignoring
tolerating
forgetting
one day we kill the elephants
and we break the chains of
fear and say 'screw it, let's
communicate!'
after the steam,
and there was a
good amount of it,
rebirth
regrowth
Love Returns
we did the work
God Did The Rest
Resulting Continuity Triumphs.....
Winter February finalises,
his tenure o'er, so oft unkind,
let Winter withdraw with firm good-bye.
Hence I eager look to milder clime.
Comes March, thus inclined to breezy moil,
tulips and head held high daffodils
Springs blossom bud borne on once bare boughs
whence sleeping floras grateful hues rouse,
precedes, mostly mellow, April’s charm,
softened through sporadic showers calm,
thence to May: unfolds green fragrant warmth,
blossoms in full array, Springs dances done,
the unspoken vow that Summer comes.
Renewal, regrowth, light airs of love,
reflect on resurrection of the Lord.
Rebirth found in flowers, birds, the lamb,
as day extends as nights hold, duly falls,
Oh, Spring, how you ease me to Summer's call.
To Spring 23rd February 2021
©Michael C Crowder @scorsby
Spring rain came for the sixth day in a row, leprechauns were dancing.
Brownies crept out of their mentor’s worm holes to prance along.
The fey love April, for she is the greenest month, and green brings
grass, leaves, regrowth, rejuvenation, refreshing joy and enthusiasm.
Faeries would be along in a week or two, maybe even sooner
if the rain kept up. They always flitted up to the marigolds
The meadow was greening up marvelously and nicely.
Daffodils were the first to show their vibrant blossoms.
Smiles sprung out of winter faces. Flutes and guitars came out.
The little people had an impromptu hoe-down, dancing and singing.
The grass began greening up in its most vibrant way.
The atmosphere felt fresh and new. It was spring – finally!
The lilac buds sprouted out and smiled at the merry making.
Smooth red and yellow tulips came dancing into the fray.
The ruffled marigolds would be about in their own time.
In the meantime, we all danced in honor of the greening of April.
(An Addingham poem)
‘There! Where every curve
injects another memory.’
Analytic beauty that
nestled in verdant valley
allows the mind to review,
where archaic dry-stone walls
enhance the ancestral ghosts,
impeccable trees, nature’s
guardian to one’s heady days,
inscribed when lovers called.
Now historic brows lost
within the village face,
expressive meadows
from a bygone age did
grace now lay in waste,
every thistle upon
throstle nest cut down
and stone barns redundant.
For cement and brick
replace the gathering blooms,
fertile soil lay under macadam
and house numbers
supersede the hawthorn hedge,
and old ‘Bram’ on horse and cart
daily down moor lane
long gone and dead.
Oh. Them old manifestations
embedded, the labour
of many a village son,
where leaf and wood
do part but once a year,
after seasons of regrowth
give way to winter’s ascetic sun
that rolls across Rombald’s moor.
‘Oh. Yes, the sun, one thing
that man has not yet changed.’
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Flowering nature defines regrowth
within cycles of perpetuating life
Rotational seasons universally
acclaimed, fruitful, abundant, then
withering to autumnal variegated scents
and scenic hues of vibrant golds, copper
and plum feted reds decrying diminishing
twilight hour before extinguishing
concealed beneath the inclement
winter’s blanket of snow
Vibrational throb
instrumentally wakens
snowdrop’s snowy head
Haibun Poetry Contest Moments of Reflection
Date 4/21/21
It was yet another day
Tossing my bag in the car and driving away
Dodging through the busy streets
Amidst the tyre screeches.
We thought Corona was at bay,
But still the virus crept its way,
Leaving us short of breath
Torturing some to death.
We were all let down
When came the lockdown.
Panic, fear and desperation
Exacerbated by the sequestration.
Hearts filled with dread,
Not knowing what lay ahead.
Health worker went to heal
Mask on,with the same zeal.
Busy streets now deserted
All forms of traffics now busted.
At junctions, instead of horns blaring
Cheerful chirps of bird are airing
Humans are healing from their bruised ego
Shut in their houses with nowhere to go.
The atmosphere is eerily calm
As if Nature is applying its own balm.
Plant
Seed
Gender
Birth
Bloom
Fade
Wither
Die
Regrowth
How mighty did she stand
tall and regal, stately on the land
within her branches stretched
a view along the earth's great edge
in the curve unseen lay God the architect;
but life itself is dealt within shadowed joy and tears
and the girth and sinew of more than two hundred years
birthed young saplings from the profusion of acorn seeds;
that acorn grows to saturate an earth that bleeds
bound tight, secure and snug
beneath the coverlet of earthen rugs
renewed and replenishing the gifts of life
burdened with the memories of old man winter's wife
who embellished the forests of day and night
but polluted rivers, mountains, seas- the creations of humanity
dwindle regrowth and its expediency
until surprise and recognition at last falls
the last acorn of time's concrete walls.
When hurt descends from the tree of life and
The stepladder breaks straight onto your pain
A trampoline turned jo-jo strangles creeping ivy
Entangles in trapezes and dreams of surrender
Pick me up where I have buried my wounded soul
Uncover my darkness and cradle my weeping heart
Mind gaps’s emotions and feelings of rational thought
Transcend into vibrating light of balance and harmony
At the bottom of searching for circles’ impermanence
Rests a rusty wheel barrow that nestles a garden of love
Sheds a load from my shoulders and unburdens torment
Fallow fields harbour seeds of regrowth and compassion
15th January 2020
Suppressing joy of instruments for Lent
Bothers me more than I knew for I did not realize
Even the bells had to be silenced.
I love that sound
Church is nothing without it
Did not know it
Until Lent
Gave up chocolate
Not easy for me, but needed to be ready
And look what Christ sacrificed. Was chocolate that big
When you think of His sacrifice?
I certainly hope not.
Peeking under the veil early,
I think of that.
And ponder it.
Kept my reverence in the dark,
Quelling my enthusiasm for the cross, the cup,
The Christ.
Readying myself for Easter.
Rebirth. Regrowth. Rejuvenation. Resurrection.
Suppressing joy of instruments hurts me but a little.
Think of how Mary suffered, seeing her Son on the cross.
But not yet. Sunday is soon enough.
Unless you can abide it all week.
Like the rest of us.
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