A tree trunk the size of a man grows from a blade as thin as a hair. A tower nine stories high is built from a small heap of earth.
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Sonnet – Don’t Be
Don't be the fallen leaves, so young and green;
Don't be the buds that never can flower;
Don't be the twigs that always remain lean;
Don't be the flow'rs that dropp with each shower.
Don't be the branches growing very long;
Don't be the tree that never blooms at all;
Don’t be the nests that disallow Bird-song;
Don't be the fruits that hit the Earth by Fall.
Don't be the trunk hollowed by Birds, white-Ants;
Don't be the crown that can't get Sun or Rain;
Don't be the tree that grows not straight but slants;
Don't be the roots that prop the tree in vain.
Don't be the tree that grows on marshy-land;
Just be a tree secure in Maker's Hand.
poem by John Celes
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Marula tree trunk
Strong winds blow against the Marula tree trunk,
They come with miscellaneous objects,
Light and heavy,
And use them to break the Marula tree trunk,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
Light and heavy rains come,
The Marula tree smiles,
For the plentiful rain water will make
It stronger and taller,
Animals come and sleep under and on top
Of the Marula tree,
Lean and rub their itching bodies
Against the Marula tree trunk,
Relieve themselves against it,
But nothing happens to the Marula tree trunk,
The human race use the Marula tree for shade
Against the merciless summer heat of the Limpopo sun,
And eat or make beer with Marula,
But, alas! One vicious human being returned,
And chopped it,
Off goes the faithless Marula tree trunk,
To be scorched by the everlasting home burning fires.
poem by Niki Nicholas Nkuna
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The Summit Redwood
Only stand high a long enough time your lightning
will come; that is what blunts the peaks of
redwoods;
But this old tower of life on the hilltop has taken
it more than twice a century, this knows in
every
Cell the salty and the burning taste, the shudder
and the voice.
The fire from heaven; it has
felt the earth's too
Roaring up hill in autumn, thorned oak-leaves tossing
their bright ruin to the bitter laurel-leaves,
and all
Its under-forest has died and died, and lives to be
burnt; the redwood has lived. Though the fire
entered,
It cored the trunk while the sapwood increased. The
trunk is a tower, the bole of the trunk is a
black cavern,
The mast of the trunk with its green boughs the
mountain stars are strained through
Is like the helmet-spike on the highest head of an
army; black on lit blue or hidden in cloud
It is like the hill's finger in heaven. And when the
cloud hides it, though in barren summer, the
boughs
Make their own rain.
Old Escobar had a cunning trick
when he stole beef. He and his grandsons
Would drive the cow up here to a starlight death and
hoist the carcass into the tree's hollow,
Then let them search his cabin he could smile for
pleasure, to think of his meat hanging secure
Exalted over the earth and the ocean, a theft like a
star, secret against the supreme sky.
Submitted by Holt
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Sonnet: The Drumstick-Tree’s Growth
Look how the drumstick grows in length each day!
It goes so fast as if our eyes can know;
The fruit though small, grows long in Nature’s way,
And in a few days time, ’tis stick-like, oh!
Incredible it looks when fully grown,
From such a small flower, its present size;
God’s marvel makes man appear like a clown,
And yet, man will not agree God is wise.
The bees and butterflies too play their role;
Seeking nectar, they transfer pollen grains;
What umptine fruits cover the tree-like pole!
The lengthy fruits hang down like giant canes!
The drumstick tree shows God’s work at its best;
How much more wonderful, He’s done the rest!
poem by John Celes
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Self Portrait
The willow tree stands alone.
It grows alone, relying only on the Sun and the Rain.
This willow tree offers shade.
It only shades during the day, casting a monster
of a shadow in the mornings and evenings,
its size shrinking in between. Its shadow
is solid in some places, but has empty
places of sunlight dotting the ground beneath
it, allowing room for purity among the darkness.
This willow tree is immune to the Wind.
It bends whichever way it needs to survive,
sacrificing its tiny leaves to be carried away.
This willow tree is a home.
Small birds build nests on its branches,
laying eggs that will bring new Life to the World.
The nest is supported. Some things of little
weight can be supported, but anything that drags
the branches too close to the ground
will be dropped so the tree can be saved.
This willow tree is weak.
As it grows, its branches come closer and closer
to the ground, for it cannot support the weight
of itself anymore. It cannot help its own soul.
With one swing of an ax, the tree will be felled.
It will be finished, left there to be eaten
and burrowed in and rotted away by the Earth.
poem by Zoe Guillory
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The 'secret' of their being up in the tree had continued for almost two years now. Where the thick trunk branched out near the top, the two could sit comfortably. Michiko, straddling one branch, leaned back against another. There were days when little birds came and days when the wind sang through the pine needles. Although they weren't that high off the ground, these two little lovers felt as if they were in a completely different world, far away from the earth.
Yasunari Kawabata in Up in the Tree
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thin
Thin, thin was the soup
ladled into the bowl.
It was watered down to make it last
as if it would keep them whole.
Thin, thin were the bodies
that sat 'round the table to eat.
They shared the watery sparseness of soup
with nary a piece of meat.
A time of discontent was here
and stomachs were never full.
This was the time they'd heard about,
stories that seemed so dull.
These stories were told with passion
by those who came before.
They jumped out of windows and stood in lines
saying, 'Please may I have some more? '
Thin, thin are the excuses
given by those in power.
No substance to substantiate the lies
given us hour by hour.
And so where does this leave us,
facing a 3rd world war?
For times become prosporous.
Isn't that what wars are for?
Thin, thin are the hopes now
that sanity will pervade the mind
of those who reap the profits
while our youth again will find
that they have been used as fodder
to bring our economy back.
Thin, thin are the excuses
for us being on the wrong track.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sonnet: On Separation
Which tree forever stays with leaves same, old?
Its branches, roots and trunk-size, changing keep;
It has its days of silver and of gold;
The crown and roots keep spreading, wide and deep.
The fruits it bears do vary in their size;
And number, taste that age and seasons make;
It has a period when it stands so nice;
The gnawing environs, its life does take.
Yet, people praise the tree in fruition stage!
And curse it when adverse conditions strike;
Nevertheless, none can prevent it age;
Men too are treated by this world alike.
All through his life, man too can't be the same;
Why praise the rising Sun, yet Sun-set blame?
poem by John Celes
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A fruit tree that grows in a dung heap will certainly blossom.
A Tree To Me
A Tree to Me
Once there was tree
It looks so strange to me
Wondering how it become a tree
A small sprout from a seed in my hand
Now, it's bigger than me.
Unfortunately, tree stood alone
Grows without heart and soul
No friend, no companion
But still stand strong
For you to help on
A tree is a friend to me
That set you free from calamity
From floods and erosion you are free
As you rest under the tree,
Think how lucky you are with a tree.
poem by Cristina Delos Santos
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Which Tree Am I?
Which tree, Which tree, Which tree Am I?
Do gaunt limbs swing high upon my trunk-
Etching signals in the sky?
Maybe my roots are solid and firm,
Grounded in being, strong and thick,
Passing soil and grub worm?
Specifically-
Am I, perhaps, an evergreen?
Warm and welcoming- Sheltering,
Birds within my canopy?
Or-
Do I sag, like a willow,
Showcasing agony with each wind,
Whispering melancholic mellows?
Which tree, Which tree, Which tree, Am I?
Oak, Redwood, Willow…. Bonsai?
poem by Lazarus Knix
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That Knows
the face in the mirror,
grows darker with time...
deep and grainy,
weathered and beaten.
the trunk of an old tree,
where birds hide their nests,
and squirrels meet to plot
the downfall of man.
hollowed and sketched,
with dignity unspoken,
the scars of love and wars,
where insects breed and whisper.
and time itself,
bows in awe and respect,
for the tree that knows
itself to be a tree!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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What Could It Be?
At birth it is a rather small
and barely visible at all
identifier for the folks
and butt at times for silly jokes.
It grows, of course, in later years
and on occasion it appears
that it will stand up to attention
though few will point to it or mention
this feat of physiology
some girls do ask 'how can this be? '
The decades take their deadly toll
and if you were to have a poll
you'd keep the size of middle years
because, that's when those little gears
still function freely, cog on cog
and rarely get into a bog.
It's funny, says the narrative
that what starts small can grow so stiff
only to shrink to tiny size.
It must be said that God was wise.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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Sonnet: My Moringa Tree
My life too looks like the Moringa tree,
That continues to live amidst its foes;
The sun Tho’ good, scorches mercilessly;
The wind and Milliepedes are its main woes.
And every time it puts forth leaves so green;
And boughs that grow rapidly all over;
The wind trims down its size to make it lean;
Big branches break; so does the crown-cover.
The Millipedes attack relentlessly;
Within a few days time, it turns leaf-free
The sun joining the fray, blazes the tree;
Except the rain, behave all ruthlessly.
The tree however, refuses to die!
And grows again most luxuriantly and high.
7-8-2000
poem by John Celes
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A Family Is Like A Tree
A tree is like a family it starts
out very small but it soon begins
to grow and the family too also
grows.
The tree starts out with small branches.
A family ita a child.
as the years go by they have all
grown together.
Soon the tree has been generated with
new branches and too the family expands
not with branches, but generations.
.Their both so much a like in so many
ways., if nurtured and taken care of
they both will grow straight. and tall.
And generate many new branch
and many more generations too
come as the tree grows old
some branches will die and fall off.
When the generations of a family
get old they too will die off.
But both will leave something of
themselves behind.
.
To live on for many generations of
life and many generations of branches..
GAYLE GOFF
2008
poem by Gayle Anne Goff
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Lullaby
Lullaby! Lullaby!
There’s a tower strong and high
Built of oak and brick and stone,
Stands before a wood alone.
The doors are of the oak so brown
As any ale in Oxford town,
The walls are builded warm and thick
Of the old red Roman brick,
The good grey stone is over all
In arch and floor of the tower tall.
And maidens three are living there
All in the upper chamber fair,
Hung with silver, hung with pall,
And stories painted on the wall.
And softly goes the whirring loom
In my ladies’ upper room,
For they shall spin both night and day
Until the stars do pass away.
But every night at evening.
The window open wide they fling,
And one of them says a word they know
And out as three white swans they go,
And the murmuring of the woods is drowned
In the soft wings’ whirring sound,
As they go flying round, around,
Singing in swans’ voices high
A lonely, lovely lullaby.
poem by Clive Staples Lewis
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On A Thin String
A tree with leaves helps all us breathe.
And they wont be obsolete,
In our lifetime.
Not in yours or mine.
But there are those who choose conflict,
To destroy what does exist.
In our lifetime.
Yours and mine.
Mighty is a kite that flies high in the sky.
On a thin string to delight imaginations...
And,
Some believe they have the right to turn off lights.
No matter where they are...
They think they made the Earth and stars.
A tree with leaves helps all us breathe.
And they wont be obsolete,
In our lifetime.
Not in yours or mine.
But there are those who choose conflict,
To destroy what does exist.
In our lifetime.
Yours and mine.
Mighty is a kite that flies high in the sky.
On a thin string to delight imaginations...
And,
Some believe they have the right to turn off lights.
No matter where they are...
They think they made the Earth and stars.
Oh and,
Mighty is a kite that flies high in the sky.
On a thin string to delight imaginations...
And,
Some believe they have the right to turn off lights.
No matter where they are...
They think they made the Earth and stars.
And on a thin string,
Imagine if all life broke apart!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Giving Tree
Once there was a tree....
and she loved a little boy.
And everyday the boy would come
and he would gather her leaves
and make them into crowns
and play king of the forest.
He would climb up her trunk
and swing from her branches
and eat apples.
And they would play hide-and-go-seek.
And when he was tired,
he would sleep in her shade.
And the boy loved the tree....
very much.
And the tree was happy.
But time went by.
And the boy grew older.
And the tree was often alone.
Then one day the boy came to the tree
and the tree said, 'Come, Boy, come and
climb up my trunk and swing from my
branches and eat apples and play in my
shade and be happy.'
'I am too big to climb and play' said
the boy.
'I want to buy things and have fun.
I want some money?'
'I'm sorry,' said the tree, 'but I
have no money.
I have only leaves and apples.
Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in
the city. Then you will have money and
you will be happy.'
And so the boy climbed up the
tree and gathered her apples
and carried them away.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time....
and the tree was sad.
And then one day the boy came back
and the tree shook with joy
and she said, 'Come, Boy, climb up my trunk
and swing from my branches and be happy.'
'I am too busy to climb trees,' said the boy.
'I want a house to keep me warm,' he said.
'I want a wife and I want children,
and so I need a house.
Can you give me a house ?'
' I have no house,' said the tree.
'The forest is my house,
but you may cut off
my branches and build a
house. Then you will be happy.'
And so the boy cut off her branches
and carried them away
to build his house.
And the tree was happy.
But the boy stayed away for a long time.
And when he came back,
the tree was so happy
she could hardly speak.
'Come, Boy,' she whispered,
'come and play.'
'I am too old and sad to play,'
said the boy.
'I want a boat that will
take me far away from here.
Can you give me a boat?'
'Cut down my trunk
and make a boat,' said the tree.
'Then you can sail away...
and be happy.'
And so the boy cut down her trunk
and made a boat and sailed away.
And the tree was happy
... but not really.
And after a long time
the boy came back again.
'I am sorry, Boy,'
said the tree,' but I have nothing
left to give you -
My apples are gone.'
'My teeth are too weak
for apples,' said the boy.
'My branches are gone,'
said the tree. ' You
cannot swing on them - '
'I am too old to swing
on branches,' said the boy.
'My trunk is gone, ' said the tree.
'You cannot climb - '
'I am too tired to climb' said the boy.
'I am sorry,' sighed the tree.
'I wish that I could give you something....
but I have nothing left.
I am just an old stump.
I am sorry....'
'I don't need very much now,' said the boy.
'just a quiet place to sit and rest.
I am very tired.'
'Well,' said the tree, straightening
herself up as much as she could,
'well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting
Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.'
And the boy did.
And the tree was happy.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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Banyan Tree
Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.
Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.
Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.
A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?
God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved
poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Labour — Capital — Land
IN that rich Archipelago of sea
With fiery hills, thick woods wherein the mias
Browses along the trees, and god-like men
Leave monuments of speech too large for us,
There are strange forest-trees. Far up, their roots
Spread from the central trunk, and settle down
Deep in the life-fed earth, seventy feet below.
In the past days here grew another tree,
On whose high fork the parasitic seed
Fell and sprang up, and finding life and strength
In the disease, decrepitude and death
Of that it fed on, utterly consumed it,
And stands the monument of Nature's crime!
So Labour with his parasites, the two
Great swollen Robbers, Land and Capital,
Stands to the gaze of men but as a heap
Of rotted dust whose only use must be
To rich the roots of the proud stem that killed it!
poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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