En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Leaves

Winds whistle through the trees,
The breeze whispers and sends the leaves,
To glance off an unsuspecting tree trunk,
And then to execute a spirited bunk,
Zigzagging among the gnarled roots,
On the forest floor, which suits
Them very well, and there each one settles,
Surrounded by the stinging nettles,
To compost down and feed the ancient earth,
And then, in time, to constitute rebirth.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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No Tree Can Stand Tall Without Roots Spread!

Every seed sends roots first,
Finding for soil and ground
where it can stand firm and tall,
stand firm and tall if roots go
deep,
Spread wide to find The sap! single cell that carry life,
Give life to cells and tissues,
Shoot, barks, branches and
leaves,
feed the leaves exposing leaves
to light, Visible tree stands on exposed
roots, not roots visible, Man made boundaries, fence and
compound,
Can't prevent or limit roots or
branches,
Sometimes absorbing soil here,
Branch will extent to neighbouring house,
How one can limit the nature,
or confine growing tree to
narrow circle drawn by man?
So is every life on Earth!
Mankind is like forest of different trees,
Yet all roots of autotrophic trees
deep in the soil,
Only parasitic have those roots,
pierce other tree's heart! Dive deep into yourself,
O man! Can you survive without
Your roots?
know how you are here,
Is it the mortal parent brought
you here, Or your fate,
Only be grateful to their love and
care forever!

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Samuel Gardner

I who kept the greenhouse,
Lover of trees and flowers,
Oft in life saw this umbrageous elm,
Measuring its generous branches with my eye,
And listened to its rejoicing leaves
Lovingly patting each other
With sweet aeolian whispers.
And well they might:
For the roots had grown so wide and deep
That the soil of the hill could not withhold
Aught of its virtue, enriched by rain,
And warmed by the sun;
But yielded it all to the thrifty roots,
Through which it was drawn and whirled to the trunk,
And thence to the branches, and into the leaves,
Wherefrom the breeze took life and sang.
Now I, an under-tenant of the earth, can see
That the branches of a tree
Spread no wider than its roots.
And how shall the soul of a man
Be larger than the life he has lived?

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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My Castle In A Tree

As the sweet rain smears the watercolor world
And the beams of sunshine are stirred into it
As the trees ripple and splash around me
And my knees melt into the ground
The enormous trunk looms before me
My castle in a tree

Roots run in muscular veins down the mammoth redwood
They are the perfect staircase for me to ascend
As my swollen tears float off to space
The castle doors open to greet me
And my face is bathed in lamplight from within
My castle in a tree

The walls breathe a sigh of welcome
Flames leap onto every white wax candle
I take off my sandals so that my ancient feet
Warm the polished wooden floor
The world, it shivers before me in
My castle in a tree

The leaves, they let the sunlight in
But guard me from the things that lurk
Just beyond the edge of the earth
So that he not a one can see me
And there is not a thing at all to remember in
My castle in a tree

At once it evaporates into the golden sky
My hands and legs enflame before me
All the world is drowned in blackness and
Leaves not a single silver bubble
This is the death, the murder of
My castle in a tree

poem by Christopher R. Kennedy
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The Monk and the Tree

At dawn each day, as
the monk awoke upon the polished floor, and
rolled his bedding mat, the Way –
the way things are, the way they follow –
walked its way beside him.

Later, he would take his brush,
the ink-block, paper, and the water-pot
he filled each day with water from the river,
and find a place, among the woods,
or by the river bank; where the Way
would teach him old things, seen as if now new.

Most often, he would sit near an ancient tree
which had so much to teach him;
its trunk and branches gnarled and twisted
with the wisdom of the Way.

The tree was, as great trees are, the most
adventurous of artists: every Spring,
it would put forth new twigs,
as awkward as a newborn deer on
stick-like legs, trying to stand and walk;
the tree would let the Way make it
as awkward, unsymmetrical,
as inartistic as could be…

then slowly through the year, the tree, the Way
would make of this, a new and daring beauty;

and the monk would learn of it,
take up the brush, moisten the ink-block,
and – brush gently swishing black on white –
draw his daily lesson through the year…

and because he was so loved and famed,
connoisseurs of that most ancient art
would beg his paintings; find their breath
held, at his daring; their eyes would learn the Way.

When the monk, now old, joined the Immortals,
his many students gathered near that ancient tree.
They said, the tree did not seem sad at all;
threw out new leaves, seemed to rejoice;
as teachers do, whenever pupils shine.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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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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A Warm Summer Breeze

The trees whisper in the breeze
The forest peaceful, quiet, and serene.
The warm breeze like a soft caress,
Momentarily eliminating all stress.

Without delay it carries on
Leaving the place in silence when it's gone.
A summer day, a summer breeze,
Softly whispered through the trees.

The summer breeze, softly it comes,
Quickly it leaves,
Causing soft whispers in the trees.
It came and soon left, a warm summer breeze.

poem by Theo Townend
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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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Make-believe

Make-believe

The olive tree had three trunks Siamese triplets?
It was old and gnarled, some of its branches had
no leaves and it was lost in an abstract, cosmic
dream and not aware of its surround; I touched
the perennial and thus gave it soul.

A mild breeze blew, a fluttering of leaves and
the three could see the blue sky where a silvery
bird flew northward glinting in the sun. It could
also see how cute other trees looked, when aware
how ugly it was dawn dew dripped from leaves.

Wished it could be a cosmic dream again and
not know of time and place. But look, its tears
had fertilised the ground and around its trunk
flowers so rare they had still to get a Latin name,
sprung up from red/rusty soil.

They are my creation I have created beauty out
of my distress, the plant whispered as in awe.
My children, must shade them from the hot sun
and bitter winter rain. Vanity be gone, and see,
on its naked branches green leaves grew,

poem by Oskar Hansen
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Aunty Anna's Orchard

it was the largest house
next to it an orchard
full of apple and plum trees
and one lonesome old pear tree
in the corner of the backyard

this was
where she spent several summers
most of her time

leaning against
the gnarled trunk
she could dream
she could hide
she could feel free
for a few minutes
or all day

she could watch
the growth of the leaves
creating a green roof
it was a shelter
if some rain fell

the glorious pear blossoms
and it's private perfume
filled her room
for a while

the blossom leaves disappear
with the wind

more than a few
stayed behind
for coloring a carpet
on the floor

sometimes
nothing happened
nothing changed
all though she was not being patient
about the growth of the pears
out of reach
high in her old tree

still standing on her toes
she needed to be tall
she stretched every day
and grew too

at last
picking that first pear
enjoying that view above
showing she would reap
very soon
so much more
she just had to wait
for the pears to fall

poem by Ellie Daphne van Stralen
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Leaf

A single season of life
Borne of spring’s dew, released on fall’s winds
Great oak’s life running through its veins
To the forest, a gift of motion and color

Great tree, expanding out, gripping its earth
Dancing slowly in the currents of time
In an instant, illusions of stillness

Basking in brilliant sunshine
Flowing feathers in the music of the night
Silt carried by water
Returning to roots once more

Trunk, branches, ever thinner, expansive
Ever softer, edges of fragility
Branches holding mirrors for tree’s image

From the tree, our image of leaf
From the leaf, our image of tree
Leibniz' monad reflecting the whole

poem by George Kassabgi
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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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Wendell Gee

Thats when wendell gee takes a tug
Upon the string that held the line of trees
Behind the house he lived in
He was reared to give respect
But somewhere down the line he chose
To whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
He had a dream one night
That the tree had lost its middle
So he built a trunk of chicken wire
To try to hold it up
But the wire, the wire turned to lizard skin
And when he climbed inside
There wasnt even time to say
Goodbye to wendell gee
So whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows, with me
If the wind were colors
And if the air could speak
Then whistle as the wind blows
Whistle as the wind blows

song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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We Are The Roots

for we are the roots
penetrating the wombs
of mother earth

and up there we
see God as the Flower
of all of our longings

the sky between us
is the stalk
the clouds are the leaves
and the winds
are our whispers
to one another

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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Sonnet: Roots Matter

Look, how the cut branches and leaves get dried!
Sometimes, this happens when the Sun's too hot;
With roots intact, the trunk sprouts from its side;
The tree uprooted sure to death is fraught.

Look, how the trunk has sprouted green again!
The tree has started growing with revenge;
Almost a miracle is done by rain;
But this is how Nature tries to avenge.

Our Body, mind draw nourishment from soul;
Our soul if pure is habitat for God;
If not, the evil spirits take this role;
A sinful soul in Heaven would look odd?

Good roots matter if habits good flourish;
God's grace matters for Man's soul to nourish.

poem by John Celes
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The computer tree- algorithm (Sextuple Crystalline Poetry)

A free tree is never rooted
Infinite complete binary tree

A finger tree has internal nodes
Each one in this tree has child nodes

And their connection is a walk
Parents and children walking the tree

Nodes without children are called leaves
While roots are leaves for the finger trees

Very intelligent words tree
Trees-no one-to-one correspondence

Adaptive merging operation
Implementing finger searching trees.

poem by Marieta Maglas
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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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How The Leaves Are Blown By The Wind

did i not tell you that these leaves come from the trees?
no dispute about it
about them, they grow out from there, those twigs
of the trees of life,
they get their glow, their sheen, though they have given more honor
to the sun
rather than the roots and the phloem

the season for them to mature and fall has come
and they all wait for the wind, the great strong wind to blow them all away
to their respective destinies
some find their way to the river
some to the thick heap of other leaves destined to rot
and only if you hear them
they say they come from nowhere
not from the tree of life
not from me

the leaves, my poems, the wind my way of throwing,
the tree, myself, my roots my mind, my phloem my blood

i made them all, but now, they are on their own

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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A Pine Tree in My House

A tree that grows in my garden
A robust pine tree
Stands big and Proud
Sinks its roots deeply into the Earth

A pine tree in my house
Spreads its seeds every where
Sheds needles all over
Drops big cones onto my lawn
Survives within the sun
Ambles forth in all direction s with each gust of wind
Bends over the roaring storm
Tosses its branches in magnificent enthusiasm
Attracts the colors of a million sunsets into its needles leaves
Sways gracefully with the wind
Whispers with the blowing breeze
Cuddles joyfully with the changing seasons
Tries to reach the sky!
Looks beautiful in a peaceful state,
Is wise in its silence
Grows lush in all seasons
Allows the birds to perch and soar
Never holds them back
Never pines for their return when they fly away
If our hearts were like pine trees
We would have no apprehension in our minds
No one would wish to bring us down
No one would wake us up at night

A pine tree in my house
I Call it the tree of paradise
What I’ve got, I know it matters
For paradise, I wish to pave the way!

poem by Dr Shamim ali
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