Tree
Ancient tree
Aching twisted limbs, gnarled and torn,
Wind battered, weathering and worn.
What stories can it tell?
Through generations of sunshine,
Through decades of rain,
Storm battered, weathered by pain.
What stories can it tell?
© 2012
poem by Nick Strong
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Old Dead Tree
The old dead tree stood
gnarled weather torn;
its limbs were now brittle.
What stories could it tell
of the centuries it had lived,
the passing lives it had seen,
and the storms it had weathered
when it was young and strong.
When its foliage was green
and gave shelter from the rain.
Now it stands bare and broken,
a sorry sight to be seen.
It must have been beautiful
when it was young
with its canopy of green,
and a nesting place for little birds
among its evergreen.
Now they only used it
as a resting place whenever they pass by.
The old dead tree,
which had seen so much life.
17 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your life is on a throne
Your life is on a throne
Of dust weathered-stone
A whirlwind battered face
With a mountain to climb
Of the time
Of the time
Of the time
Your voices a busted microphone
Howling, babe I'm losing my mind
I live like a turtle and this is my home
By your side
Your life is on a throne
Of dust weathered-stone
A whirlwind battered face
With a mountain to climb
Of the time
Of the time
Of the time
Darling, and
Sincerity's like a summer's rain
Falling, dripping off the leaf
Off a soul— born old
Dying young
It's not my fault darling
I don't show I care
I'm waking from a snare
Boastful wisps of love
Come crashing down like webs
Clinging still to me
But your voices a busted microphone
Howling, babe I'm losing my mind
Your life is on a throne
Of dust weathered-stone
A whirlwind battered face
With a mountain to climb
Of the time
Of the time
Of the time
And I'm losing my mind…
poem by Mark Heathcote
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stories
Through every window, we look out
what we see on the other side
holds many stories waiting to unfold.
Stories of great achievements
within someone’s life.
Stories of gathering love
found with in open arms.
Stories of perusing heartaches
where someone has gone away.
Stories a million fold
that surround every living thing.
Stories we are not aware of,
but happen before our eyes.
Stories to share with all
from those who can see them unfold.
The next time you look out a window
try and see what is really there,
the stories that are everywhere.
26 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Tree's Will
Planted firmly, and sprouting seemingly too fast,
The result was strong and beautiful.
Roots growing through the soil and getting stronger each day
The tree grew taller than all.
Standing tall through the wind and the rain
The storms and the droughts, beholding strength with pain.
One day a storm came, and through the wind, through the rain
The tree fought and came through with scars.
Feeling beyond repair, the tree stood there, looking for the sun in a black abyss.
Remaining strong, hope lingered on, as the tree held to the earth.
Limbs snapped, leaves flew, and gashes were left in it's skin.
But still, the tree's will grew.
poem by Carli Gibson
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Stories About Home
I lived once in the North
And for a while, way in the South
I have some stories... that'll
Tear a man's heart out
These are the one's
I numbered ten... eleven...and twelve...
They moved so fast...
I ended living... in living Hell
But those that I numbered one thru nine...
They let the world see...why... my eyes..
My heart...
Will never again shine
I know It's hard sometimes to live
Where you can't see the sun...
Because of all that... endless rain...
I look to see.. how too... help others
Because I have lived...every kind of pain
So I write the stories...
Some are good
But often... some are very bad
They often leave hearts torn....
Spilling eyes... so sad...
And sometimes... I'll talk about the incredibly bad
But can you see the purpose...of writing
These stories... these poems...
Through the tears.... the weeping... and crying...
It's just my heart....
Trying to find a way...to move back home...
So to anyone whom read these stories. They're what I write.
They're the words of what I feel. They're the stories about wounds,
about that life, my family, about souls that never seem to heal.
They're the words of truth, they help with what I feel. For these stories
are the cause of tears...that just wont end...they're the stories that are
impossibe to bear.
They are the stoires of my family, abuse, of damage
and how love was not spared....
So many stories that'll never disappear
A soul covered with scars
Of sadness that fills a heart
That burns each time those hate words...
And abuse that breaks it apart
Clyde Grant Bryson
poem by Clyde Bryson
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Some Stories
some stories
about ourselves
are also the stories of
themselves
and then we write
these stories and
pretend that these are
but some short stories
from our mind
now in different names
and places
we read them and then
we wish that some of
these short stories
are not true at all
sometimes for those
we want to be
we want to believe
them to be true
wishes and hopes and
regrets, what if? what if i
chose that rather than this?
we poets write about pain
and joys and we tell sometimes
that we only fake them
deep inside we are silent
we prefer just to be left alone
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Miracle!
the way your
small hand fits
in my gnarled and
battered old hand...
and feels like home!
your fleeting smile
a cup of water,
a tree giving shade
against the sun.
what you say
never speaking a word!
what you give...
without looking back!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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I'll be in Los Angeles for two weeks and I'll have a laugh, get battered and have a buzz, but at the end of the day, I'll go home. It's just me earning a few more stories to tell everyone at home and all.
quote by Colin Farrell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Apologise
How can you apologise
when you’re not sure
what you’re apologising for.
My intentions have never been
to worry people that something
in my life is going wrong.
Too many times I write poems,
others see are so heartfelt,
that they immediately write
to me asking if everything is OK.
It is nice for them to be so concerned,
and I feel that I must apologise,
if some how I’ve led them to believe
my life is a bit battered and worn,
and that my marriage
is under some kind of storm.
My marriage is rock solid
as it has always been.
As for my life,
I think we all have had
our ups and downs.
I may stand under a rain cloud
a lot of the times,
but I have no intentions
of doing anything silly,
and self-destruction is just not me.
In my life, I have weathered many storms,
and I’ll weather more as they come along.
So please don’t worry about me.
If I have a problem,
I know that there are a lot of you
out there that I can talk to.
Now I want to apologise
if I have somehow put some of you,
through any needless stress,
for it has never been my intention
to cause anyone any harm.
I love you all too much,
to ever want to make you cry.
So, save your tears for someone else,
who is much more deserving than I.
3 August 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stories
Every year has its own stories in this life,
Every month has its own stories in this life,
Every week has its own stories in this life,
Every day has its own stories in this life,
Every hour has its own stories in this life,
Every minute has its own stories in this life,
And like the muse of the mind as we grow up;
So, we are all with stories to tell in this world.
As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As balck as charcoal,
As green as the grass,
As blue as the sky;
But everybody has stories to tell in this world!
And like the muse o love in the land of beauty,
For each year has its own story.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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In A Lifetime
Clannad
Hard to tell
Or recognize a sign
To see me through
A warning sign
First the thunder
Then the storm
Torn asunder
In the storm
(bono
Satisfied
If the past it will not lie
The future, you and i
Get blown away)
In a lifetime in a lifetime
And as the rain it falls
Heavy in my heart
Believe the light in you
Faded and worn
Torn asunder in the storm
(bono
Begin again
As the storm breaks through
So the light shines in you
Without color
Torn asunder in the storm
Unless the sound has faded from
Your soul
Unless it disappears)
First the thunder
Then the storm
Torn asunder
In the storm
(bono:
Selfish storm
Hold on the inside
One life
In the storm)
In a lifetime
In a lifetime
In a lifetime
In a lifetime
song performed by by U2
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Kite-Part 1
I once was the kite, a beautiful, flying kite
I soared the sky, I dipped and swooped with all of my might
You were the tree, my tree, growing tall inside my yard
Growing tall and healthy, your strength mighty and hard
One day, unknown to all as to why, I got stuck
Stuck on your highest branch, freedom was no luck
The longer I was there, the more entangled I became
Tighter and tighter, knotted in my prison-like game
With every sharp wind, from every sharp word from you
I wrapped around more and more, as your ugly words blew
A tangled mess so bad, I was left atop this tree
This relationship tree I once depended upon, now traps and keeps me
Through storms of bad fights, your emotional wind blows
I get whipped and battered, around in knots my life goes
During angry weather, my body gets ripped and beat
Thrashed against this tree, where branches were my treat
The shade the leaves offered me, when the days were bright
Now is dark with mystery, keeping in secret the life of my kite
I am still there, for all to everyday see, although my color is gone
Faded and weathered, ripped and torn, endlessly trapped, I hang on
Oh how I want to be that flying kite again
Guided and held by trusting hands of way back when
To fly high and be free, through the sky I would go
How and why my flights changed, I might never know
poem by Deborah Cromer
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Stories
when we were young stories were told
That I'd kiss you sweet like
People said there was a connection between us
Now that we're old stories are told
Of how I hold you tight
Whenever I see those people I tell them they were right
Stories will be told
From when our children are young
until they're old
About our endless love
We must have had a blessing from above
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Stories will be told until we're old
Stories will be told until the end of time
Until the sun won't rise
Oh
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories We Could Tell
By: john b. sebastian
1974
Talkin to myself again
Wonderin if this travellin is good
Is there somethin else a doin
Wed be doin if we could
Chorus:
But ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories we could tell
Stared at that guitar in that museum in tennessee
Nameplate on the glass brought back twenty melodies
Scars upon the face told of all the times he fell
Singin all the stories he could tell
Chorus:
Ah, the stories he could tell
And Ill bet you it still rings like a bell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
And listen to the stories it could tell
So if youre on the road trackin down your every night
Playin for a livin beneath brightly colored lights
And if you ever wonder why you ride the carousel
You do it for the stories you can tell
Ah, the stories we could tell
And if it all blows up and goes to hell
I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Just listen to the stories we could tell
Coda:
Yes, I wish that we could sit upon a bed in some motel
Listen to the stories it could tell
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Most politicians - those people who live, eat and breathe politics - like to sit around and talk about politics and tell political war stories. Reagan didn't do that. His war stories were movie war stories and Hollywood war stories. He loved that.
quote by Lyn Nofziger
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, religion has been passed down through the years by stories people tell around the campfire. Stories about God, stories about love. Stories about good spirits and evil spirits.
quote by Andrew Greeley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Gnarled Old Tree
that gnarled old tree,
you thought was dead,
withstood the winter storms.
bare bent limbs reaching,
against odds to bud,
holding the sky
in a lovers embrace.
home to the sparrow,
the worm, and the squirrel...
shade to the weary,
a constant guide to the lost.
without name, without need,
rooted deep in the earth...
that gnarled old tree...
is me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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West By Northwest USA
They wear suede coats
Of stained leather, torn and worn
Drive battered ol’ pickups
Ride horses in the morn’
They play cowpie bingo
And the winds always blow
Descendants keep a’comin’
The ol’ ones die and go
The plains in their stead
Remain impervious to change
As it was…as it’s always been
…and will e’er be so…
poem by David Whalen
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You see, I was told stories, we were all told stories as kids in Nigeria. We had to tell stories that would keep one another interested, and you weren't allowed to tell stories that everybody else knew. You had to dream up new ones.