En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Hope

as you step
on a forest of
dry leaves
and twigs

you take
a peep
at the bottom
of things

and see an
acorn pushing
through
to make you
a tree
in due time

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trimming The Trees, Pruning The Twigs....

on the tree of life
there will be more leaves
and twigs and flowers
on spring
and more luscious fruits
for eating

there is somehow a
need for trimming
what excesses are there
twigs that go awry
leaves that lush for too much
shade
and so we do just that
cut some twigs
take a look and cut some
more
remove some leaves
for sacrifices
for us to some more
and some time
see heaven for once.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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September Morn

I watch the World around me
As again I hear nature call
For it is the end of summertime
And the awakening of a beautiful fall.
The leaves have changed their colors
The skies became icy white
My heart becomes exceedingly joyful
At Septembers, beautiful sight.
The rustling wind has turned to cold
The leaves have changed to brown
This moment, I pray to hold
As the leaves fall onto the ground.
The squirrels scurry from their trees
The birds have all flown away
It is another September morning
I feel it with each step that I take.
With a cold wind against my back
I journey to a great tree
To pick up the jewels that she left there
An acorn, and a lonely leaf.
I shiver as I walk
With a leaf and acorn in hand
I watch fall as it arrives around me,
So happy is this man.
I then walk up unto my wife
I present her with the leaf and acorn
So happy I am with this fall,
That I give Her my September morn.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Maple

is a system of posture for wood.
A way of not falling down
for twigs that happens
to benefit birds. I don't know.
I'm staring at a tree,
at yellow leaves
threshed by wind and want you
reading this to be staring
at the same tree. I could
cut it down and laminate it
or ask you to live with me
on the stairs with the window
keeping an eye on the maple
but I think your real life
would miss you. The story
here is that all morning
I've thought of the statement
that art is about loneliness
while watching golden leaves
become unhinged.
By ones or in bunches
they tumble and hang
for a moment like a dress
in the dryer.
At the laundromat
you've seen the arms
thrown out to catch the shirt
flying the other way.
Just as you've stood
at the bottom of a gray sky
in a pile of leaves
trying to lick them
back into place.

poem by Bob Hicok
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Food For Thought

The squirrel that finds an acorn,
Does he really know
the power that the acorn has
if let alone to grow?

It grows into a mighty oak
for the squirrel to scamper on,
until the fall arrives once more
when all the leaves are gone.

It's then the powerful acorn
is dug up once again
to repeat the yearly ritual
by our bushy-tailed little friend.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Picture

beside a tree
he talks and confesses
he touched the bark
absorbing energy
from the sap of the living
leaves and the
twigs

it used to be that he was
the dog that barked
the wrong tree
at the time when Cleopatra
was finally set aside
by Caesar

his first life.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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I Am He

I am he,
Spoke the acorn to the tree
Said the flower to the seed
Replied the wind to the breeze
And standing up in awe
Stood an oak tree standing tall
And below his roots did lie
The acorn who did cry
That I am he.
Like the wind who fathers the breeze
Or the flower, who nourishes the seed
To grow up and be like he
I am he.
I am he said the father to the sky
And the stars in the night
To his son that he held
To become like himself
And I am he.

I am he
Said the raven to its young
And the bear to its cub
And the wind to the breeze
That I am he.
And looking up in belief
Lied an acorn from a tree
From which that it had fallen
Knowing he had been calling’
To be like he.
So, I am he
Like the father is the child
And the flower is the seed
The raindropp to the sea
I am he!
And he is me
Replied the oak tree to the seed.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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For I Too Must Leave Just Like Those Birds

the tree in the garden
has died

what we see now are
nothing but twigs without leaves

below are the heaps
of dead leaves
rotting

we have become like them
hopeless for sometime

dry and cracking
light as the wind
drifting like
the cloud

empty, hollowed by the
mourning of our arid
days

dragging nights
lifeless on a very cold wood
for a bed

one morning some yellow sparrows
with thin long black beaks
hover upon those twigs

and the dead tree even for
the moment has assumed
life

upon a borrowed hope only
for that brief moment

until then when all the sparrows
fly away again
taking with them all the songs
that you hear

you learn the tune from those
thin black and long beaks
and you must compose a song
for yourself

borrowing hope from hope
putting those leaves back
on your
imaginary trees

you must tell me
about the will to live

for i too must leave
and be a part of somewhere else

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Robbin Tree

The Robin begins to build her nest
in the gnarled tree;

the twigs are twisted;

the branches lack leaves;

and the nest is exposed
offering no shelter.

She puts another twig
into the tree fork;
but it falls to the ground.

She looks away west
and leaves.

Her wings
flapping
out a message:

Nature is abandoning us.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Upon A Dead Tree

this morning
i check upon
a dead tree

there are
no leaves
what i see
are birds
looking like
leaves

the tree is still
dead
and then the twigs
are all empty
when all the
birds

fly away

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Keep It Proper

Keep it proper!
You never know on you who might peep.
When you do a thing discreet.
You never know on you who might peep.
It's best that you keep it proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
Especially when you're seen in the streets.
You never know on you who might peep.

Keep,
It
Proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
Distorting what you do to deceive.
You never know on you who might peep.
It's best that you keep it proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
When a seeker seeks a weakness to heat.
You never know on you who might peep.

Controversy lovers love it,
More obscene.
People feed sensations that wound and bleed.
With a caring less of who's affected by misdeeds

Keep,
It
Proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
Distorting what you do to deceive.
You never know on you who might peep.
Yes it's best that you keep it proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
When a seeker seeks a weakness to heat.
You never know on you who might peep.

It's best
That you keep it proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
Yes it is best
That you keep it proper.
You never know on you who might peep.
Yes it is best that you keep it proper,
That business to express on the streets.
You never know,
On you
Who might peep.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The fantasy tree

Dangling by its sides,
The twigs and leaves,
Keep dancing to and fro
Making the tree swing in air.

Its beautiful bends and curve,
Smiling all the while dangling,
With its branches,
Always busy accommodating the birds.

The most beautiful tree,
With its trunk coming out,
To make a chair for every,
Naughty child to sit in respite.

The very fantasy tree,
Which is every child’s,
Most fantasy desire and dream,
To sit on its chair for a while.

31/01/09

poem by Winnie Angel
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The Storm And The Bush

There are only two things in the world—
The storm in the air and the stretch of green leaves;
The flesh of the forest that quivers and heaves
As the blast on its bosom is hurled.
Above is the whip of the wind
That scourges the cowering forest beneath:
The Storm spits the hiss of the hail from his teeth,
And leaves the world writhing behind!
Like a beast that is bound in a cage
When the keeper's lash lights and the keeper's goad stings,
Each tree his great limbs to his torturer flings
In a groaning and impotent rage.
As the leaves to a fiercer gust lean
The wind throws their undersides upward to sight,
And the foam of the forest-sea flashes to white
Out over full fathoms of green.

poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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March Mornings

It sings to me
- the tree, the window tree.
Its leaves open as melodies
to the sheen of Spring.

It speaks to me
its words of green,
says now is the time
for everything.

It fills my dreams
with hopes and things,
making me believe
in what is yet to be.

The tree, the window tree,
brings the birds to me.
Songs come fluttering,
sliding on sun beams.

It dances the breeze,
smiles for me
on mornings like these
- absolutely free.

It sings to me
- the tree, the sweetgum tree.
Its leaves open as memories,
like love to me.

poem by W.I. Stoneberger
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I'm Just An Ordinary Tree

My existence
start from a little piece of seed...

First, I was bury on the ground...
Then, I showed my two cute leaves up in to world...

But it didn't end just like that...
I grow... more and more...

With love, hope and care,
I became a tree...

Tree with many leaves,
if you need some shady circumstance...

Tree with a strong wood,
if you need me to make a good wardrobe...

Tree with a tight root,
if you want to make a solid foundation...

Tree with a sincerely pray,
if you need a support...

Tree with an everlasting presence,
if you need a friend beside you forever...

Tree with a dry branch,
if you want to share your tears...

Tree with a pure dew,
if you feel thirsty...

Tree with a warm wind,
if you get cold and alone...

Tree with a full color's flowers,
if you feel your life so black and white...

Tree with many hopes,
if you lost your dreams away...

But... after all,
I'm just an ordinary Tree...

By: Tree
22 May 2007,7: 02 PM

poem by tree Ryd
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Sonnet: Growth Of A Language

A language ought to grow up like a tree;
And lose its twigs and branches, leaves, may be;
Enlarge its trunk and spread its crown widely,
Yet, live and grow with time, immortally.

Most modern words, usages could be dead;
The needs of time will change its very form;
The style of hair can make a diff'rent head;
Yet, to a certain standard still conform.

All things must change or Life could be a bore;
Variety is the spice of life- all say;
New arguments could change its very core;
We cannot drink the same soup everyday.
A language must be dynamic always;
Yet, shines with splendor akin to Sun's rays.

poem by John Celes
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The Acorn

An acorn swung
On an oak-tree bough;
So long it had hung,
It would fain fall now
To the kindly earth,
That its germ within
Might burst into birth,
And its life begin.

And the autumn came
With its burning hand,
And each leaf grew a flame,
And each bough a brand.
And a worm came up
And began to eat
Though the hard, dry cup
To the acorn sweet.

And the acorn thought,
“I shall soon see now
The life I have sought,
When I fall from the bough;
For the worm gnaws through
Each tendon slight,
That about me grew,
And bound me tight.”

And with dying day
Came the zephyr’s sound;
And the acorn lay
Next morn on the ground;
But its germ was gone
By the worm’s sharp teeth;
And the ground it had won
Was its grave in death.

poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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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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At Night...

the cicadas make music
on the twigs of trees
where dry leaves fall heavily
though there is no wind

they make the dirge
for those who die for the season
the funerals
of silence are at it again
the leaves so light
like souls....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The heart of a tree

With branches reaching out as if for a embrace
The tree may bow to nature with grace.
He stands alone when the wind blows strong.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
In winter's cold chill, You can see the tree stand still.
Leaves are gone but the tree stands strong.
Until winter turns into spring and the birds begin to sing.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eyes can't see.
Like the heart of a tree.
Through storms and the wind. Bowing with a graceful bend,
Until the sun shines again, still standing at the end,
The tree is like a true friend.
The leaves may fall, but the tree stands tall.
There are some things that the eye can't see,
Like the heart of a tree.
The old Tree's secrets
How many lovers sat together under the old tree?
If only the tree could speak.
The stories would be of weary travelers
finding a place of peace, and dreams in their sleep.
Stolen moments of lovers, perhaps a sweet caress.
A young man with a ring, a young girl said yes.
Tree I only imagine, I enjoy the guess.
Gentle breezes that lifted the leaves
to let them gently fall to earth.
Misting rain to meet the tree's thirst,
Perhaps two trees inter-twined are
Two lovers that were curst.

poem by Judy Arline Puckett
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