En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Kingdom Of The Owl

curled into the trunk
of an old woman tree,
listening to the owl,
and sleeping in the shade.
arms outstretched,
as if touching the sky,
roots deep in the earth,
swaying with the wind.
bark to bark,
he and she intertwine...
till only one remains.
seasons put down and lost
in the steady and sure,
waiting on moonlight and darkness
in the kingdom of the owl!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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My dogs

bark at the neighbors,
bark at the UPS man,
bark at cars
and kids on bicycles.

they bark at the television,
the radio
and the stereo.

they bark at
the vacuum cleaner,
the dust mop
and the broom.

they bark at
anyone
who enters the house
uninvited.

and
when they’re not barking,
they’re sitting there
waiting
for something
to bark at.

good dogs.

poem by John Yamrus
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Quiver Tree

I found loneliness
in winter's aloe sun
reaching and listening
to the beat of the bark
with arms like brittle
arrows and purple
beams of light
like never before
behind a quiver tree

like voices
blowing free
through this lonely
tree's bursting bark
and blowing over some
of the many roads
of my brown mind
it will not show
its wounds to me

while crated minds
lie in wait to see
if purple arms
with broken palms
could be touching
heaven's heart
like seldom in a tree
or a man was found
lonely to the front

poem by Elna Nel
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The Stringy-Bark Tree

There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.

And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.

Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.

Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.

poem by Henry Lawson
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A Tree Telling of Orpheus

White dawn. Stillness.When the rippling began
      &nbs p;   I took it for sea-wind, coming to our valley with rumors
      &nb sp;   of salt, of treeless horizons. But the white fog
didn't stir; the leaves of my brothers remained outstretched,
unmoving.
   & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;Yet the rippling drew nearer – and then
my own outermost branches began to tingle, almost as if
fire had been lit below them, too close, and their twig-tips
were drying and curling.
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       Yet I was not afraid, only
        ;                 & nbsp;      deeply alert.
I was the first to see him, for I grew
        ;              out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest.
He was a man, it seemed: the two
moving stems, the short trunk, the two
arm-branches, flexible, each with five leafless
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ; twigs at their ends,
and the head that's crowned by brown or golden grass,
bearing a face not like the beaked face of a bird,
      &nbs p;         ;     more like a flower's.
               & nbsp;       &n bsp;       He carried a burden made of
some cut branch bent while it was green,
strands of a vine tight-stretched across it. From this,
when he touched it, and from his voice
which unlike the wind's voice had no need of our
leaves and branches to complete its sound,
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;                 & nbsp;came the ripple.
But it was now no longer a ripple (he had come near and
stopped in my first shadow) it was a wave that bathed me
       & nbsp;       &n bsp;    as if rain
        ;                 & nbsp;      rose from below and around me
       & nbsp;       &n bsp;    instead of falling.
And what I felt was no longer a dry tingling:
               & nbsp;     I seemed to be singing as he sang, I seemed to know
        ;              what the lark knows; all my sap
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      was mounting towards the sun that by now
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      had risen, the mist was rising, the grass
was drying, yet my roots felt music moisten them
deep under earth.

       ;               He came still closer, leaned on my trunk:
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     the bark thrilled like a leaf still-folded.
Music! There was no twig of me not
                & nbsp;       &n bsp;      trembling with joy and fear.

Then as he sang
it was no longer sounds only that made the music:
he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language
      & nbsp;       &n bsp;     came into my roots
      &nbs p;         ;                out of the earth,
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     into my bark
        ;                 & nbsp;      out of the air,
into the pores of my greenest shoots
      &nb sp;   gently as dew
and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.
He told me of journeys,
           of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark,
      &nbs p;   of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day
deeper than roots ...
He told of the dreams of man, wars, passions, griefs,
      &n bsp;   and I, a tree, understood words – ah, it seemed
my thick bark would split like a sapling's that
        ;                 & nbsp;      grew too fast in the spring
when a late frost wounds it.

      &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;          Fire he sang,
that trees fear, and I, a tree, rejoiced in its flames.
New buds broke forth from me though it was full summer.
      &n bsp;   As though his lyre (now I knew its name)
      &nbs p;   were both frost and fire, its chords flamed
up to the crown of me.
           I was seed again.
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;     I was fern in the swamp.
      &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;                 & nbsp;I was coal.

poem by Denise Levertov
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Self, No Self

self, no self...
does the leaf know the bark?
the bark know the limb?
the limb know the tree?
are they seperate, or one?

do the roots need a name?
the sun and rain ask for thanks?
where does one begin,
and the other end?

is the womb not a grave?
does the soul leave the body?
does the fire ever go out?
or do the embers wait,
warm and steady?

winter to spring, spring to summer,
summer to autumn, autumn to winter.
the tides go out,
and then return...
who stands on the shore,

lamp in hand?

poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Tree And The Butterfly

what i love to see in you
is when you become a huge tree
rooted upon a
muted grass hill

above you is a black cloud
making rain

your leaves are all wet
and your roots are drinking so much water

your bark is thick and your
trunk so hard and strong

and she is there the frail butterfly
clinging softly

beneath the big leaf
fragile and steady

what i love next is when the rain stops
and then the butterfly leaves you

helpless and sad and so poetic.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Nearly Ripe

Nearly ripe, these green apples
hang heavy
from our bursting tree,
the warm evening sun
glinting through swaying branches.

They will be ready
in about a week.

Then I’ll slice them into sweet crescents
And their taste will dance upon your tongue
with all the secrets our tree has been keeping,
its living leaves,
its smooth, grey bark,
its very roots
grasping deep
into our dark soil,

and these glowing, green apples
I will make bare and white and moist,
a love offering like perfect wine for you,
and your taste will delight
in the sweet, green love
of the earth.

poem by Steven Federle
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Lost To Your Love

When we first met, I was lost
Lost in the deep moonlight ocean
That I found in his eyes

When we first met, I was lost
Lost in the pale pink rose
That I found resting upon his cheek

When we first met, I was lost
Lost in the light brown bark of a tree
That I found on his skin

When we first met, I was lost
Lost in the pearls
That I found just underneath those perfect lips
When he left, I was lost
Lost in a whole new way

No more deep blue eyes
No more pink roses
No more perfect pearls

And when he left, I was lost
Lost in the sorrow
That I found in my heart

poem by Chidiebere Franklin
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The Baobab Tree

under whose branches lions lie down
dreaming in the sun,
where baboons sometimes play,
where elephants rip off some bark
and when you walk around it,
its branches look like rows of spears,
and birds do fly up, and bees buzz around it,
and when you come in its shade, smell its fruit,
its leaves and bark does not look similar
to any other tree.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Voice Of A Quill, Now Silent

`

i am but the mottled bark
of a tree once firmly rooted,
peeled from its stately trunk

and within its hollow carapace
echoes an inert drumbeat
that keeps the cadence for
a march of ornate trappings

soon and sooner still, one day
this crepuscular orphelin song
resonant in its languid longing
shall surge with the rising tide

the sound of its condescencion
as it strikes the earth's bosom
ascends to a now-listening sky.

`

poem by Frederick Kesner
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The Sleep Tree

The tall sleep tree
dreamt that she could be
an Olympian in the shed.
With firm roots planted deep
like thick giant feet,
but the sky fell down
on her head.
And an unknown blight
screwed its sin way in
at the base of her
rich earthen bed;
while the healthy bark that
was alive grew thin,
and the bible was
all that she read.
But the blight was bad
and to her chagrin
other sleep trees to
which she was wed;
couldn't help for they
were like co-joined twins
with their veins
being poisoned by lead.
Then tree doctors came
to sew up her skin,
and pour vials of
chemical meds;
yet the cancer grew
till it blended in,
and she knew that
whatever they said
all her hope was lost
and blown on the wind,
and her dreams flew away
fully shred.

poem by Sara Fielder
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Diversity Of This Strength

The tree.
Grown up from a bush.
The branch with twigs.
The leaves.
The bark,
Protecting.

The trunk...
And roots!
Supportive...
And there.
Doing all that it is to get done.
And not a hint,
Of pretentiousness is shown!
Cohesive with a purpose.

Unknown.
And taken for granted,
Is the diversity of this strength.
A collective oneness...
With such a quiet power.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Leaves Turning Grey

Like a carcass lays, an ancient tree,
he tried to pray, through celestial seas,
but his spirit flew just like a bee.
Everyday he gazed at crying clouds,
the wind through his branches was so loud.
He looked for listening ears
as he stood in a sea of tears.

O tree, do you still wade?
Why have you lost your will to change?
O tree, leaves turning grey,
your roots have lost their range.

But how can one ask for help,
when you're not helping yourself?
And so this tree founded on sand,
with the wind tumbled to land.
He's an arboreal fool,
in a world that pulls
his heart and blood apart.

O tree, you've lost your blood,
your dead branches lay in the mud.
O tree, leaves turning grey,
your roots in such ground won't stay.

poem by Soren Valentine
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I Can Be The Other Possibilities....

since i have cut my roots
and gathered all my leaves
what remains of me is nothing
but twigs and some branches

they give me a name. i am a floating tree.

birds are asking if somehow we are
genetically related.

i am mimicking the winds.
and we shall soon play our games.

now i can bark like a dog.

you see, i realized that i can be
all the other possibilities.

only if i will it, then what i think becomes real.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Stronger

See my scars,
See my wounds,
All over the place
Far from perfect;

...Just like everyone.

Cracks and wrinkles
Run all over
Like the trunk of a tree;
Like any tree in any forest,
Battered by rain and wind.

Baby days long lost
Cheated away by the world;
The frost who kills and steals
From every tree and every forest,
But my roots run deep,
Deep in my father's womb
And my leaves are not blind
Fed by the Sun above...

I shall live.
Day, or night,
Stronger with every storm-
Like how it has always been.

Wilson Khor W.H. @ Seymour Nightweaver

poem by Wilson Khor Woo Han
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Treecreepers

Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.

Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.

They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.

From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet

In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Leaves Compared with Flowers

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bar, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bar, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.

poem by Robert Frost
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Fire Dance

Visions of artemis
Goddess of the moonlight
The spell remains unbroken
The wrong begin the rite of the fire dance
Standing strong and steady
Waiting for the right sign
The helix has just risen
Now we have no choice but to drink the wine
Now is the time of the fire dance fire dance
Black hearted woman
Creature of the deep night
In the darkness of your soul
Im hungry and searching to find the light
You are in control
I am in your power
Bell eeeee the bell has tolled
Now I know that the hour is near
As I burn with fear of the fire dance
The dharuba voice the wind is calling your name
You leave me no choice
Here I am falling again and again
Again into the flames of the fire dance

song performed by by Rainbow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An uncreative medicine

no hope
no friend
no family
no home
no nativity
no nationality
no fame
no name
no future
no points
no market
no identity
no possessions still a tree without roots
no relationship still a tree without roots
no anarchism still a tree without roots
no hiearchy still a tree without roots
no country still a tree without roots
no colours still a tree without roots
no degrees still a tree without roots
no certificates
no imaginations
no dream
no poetry
no fiction
no story
no news
no media
no happiness still a tree without roots
no genre still a tree without roots
no labels still a tree without roots
no names still a tree without roots
THE FOURTH EYE
of
A post-conceptual poet.

poem by Nyein Way
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Reflections Of Fire

and so the leaf
already beginning to turn
deep inside its own cosmos

leaves me waiting, time frozen,
to watch the fall, to fall with,
and into arms outstretched,

grey hair blown by the wind
to kiss the earth, and crumble
back into sweet nothingness

and dirt waiting for the coming,
of the snow!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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