The Mute Pain of Trees
Cezanne’s rough, jutting trees
slashing the blotted sky,
at the dark bridge at Mainte,
stone arches stoically standing
as scarred trees hang low,
over the still, black Seine;
while in the Grove of Heroes
an ancient redwood
twisted trunk,
tense muscles,
aching, rising,
spiraling past scars,
past clean cuts of
amputated branches,
beyond the tops
of lesser trees,
all pain forgotten,
spreads its green crown
and shoves the blue July sky
a little higher.
poem by Steven Federle
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Related quotes
Plant More Trees
Plant more trees
As it looks green
And save the homes of the animals please.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the humans safe
From pollution and disease.
Plant more trees
As it looks green
To keep the cities beautiful and clean.
And throw the garbage into a dustbin.
Stop cutting trees
And plant more trees
For a long live of you and me!
poem by Srijita Das
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Chicago Sestina
I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.
I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes.
“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.
If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.
And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.
Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?
Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.
poem by Brian Maloney
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Among the Trees
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for the one my heart calls for
I wonder lost among the trees
I see your light amongst the dark
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is brighter then the rest
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is out of my reach
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light comes closer
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light is bright like an angel from the sky
I wonder lost among the trees
Your light fades away and leaves me alone
I wonder lost among the trees
Without a hand to guide the way
I wonder lost among the trees
Looking for my guiding light
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost, alone
I wonder afraid of the world
Around me I look for the one
I wonder lost among the trees
I wonder lost and alone forever...................................
poem by kelly Martini
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Trees
Green with spendour when Summer's here,
Brown contender in Autumn's sphere,
Bare the branches in Winter's embrace,
New growth created, when Spring shows her face.
Stalwart trunks, with many years standing,
Leaves when over, steadily landing,
Branches swaying in the breeze,
How I love all kinds of trees.
Forests of green, where they all meet,
Swaying together as they all greet,
Each morning, when the light appears,
Each growing slowly over the years.
Sentinels of the land they survey,
Strong and upstanding in every way,
Graceful, mighty, powerful and fine,
Tall and sleek just like the Pine.
The Oak, Ash, Sycamore and Lime,
The Rowan, White Beam and Silver Birch sublime,
Each one giving of their glorious best,
To the World - The World's been blest.
What would we do without our trees,
Don't cut them down, will you please,
Remember how they give us shade,
From the sun, within the glade.
Stand and study these majestic creations,
Upright descendants of past relations,
Their dignity, against all weathers,
If it were us, we'd lose our tethers.
But these gallant trees require our care,
They give oxygen, in the air
That we breathe, so, if we want to survive,
Let us keep our trees alive.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Procession of All Souls
Gnarled and blessed
be the hour of autumn
when spotted pears sink
into wet sod, and blessed be
the songs of virgins rising
into the hunchbacked trees.
November dawn.
Down damp stone stairs
we followed the priest,
past leaf-choked wells
and jagged trees,
past the red rage of dogwood
ringing a black lake.
Dies Irae, he intoned,
Dies Illae, day of wrath.
We followed his swinging
censer, trail of smoke:
schoolgirls in gray, novices
in white veils, nuns in ragged black
tapping tortoise canes.
What joy to bear the fear,
to smell orbs of incense
perfuming the rot of leaves,
to cross the stubbled field
as crows rushed and whirled,
pecking at windfall seeds.
We arrived, rainsoaked, awed
to watch young nun-brides
kneel, and spread their thin bodies
across green doors of graves.
poem by Geraldine Connolly
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What Weather
The leaves are blowing away
Up, up, and away they go.
Swish, swoosh, they go.
Like a dancing ballerina
Up, up and away they go
Way up , in the sky.
The trees standing there,
Their branches all bare.
The wind whistling throughout empty branches,
The trees look scary, swish, swoosh,
The wind is getting louder,
Throughout the trees it howls
The trees are blowing
From side to side
Like someone dancing swiftly,
The clouds in the sky are moving quietly
Is the weather ever going to change,
What weather it is today
poem by Angela Fletcher
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My Walk II: Spring
Ducklings floating serene
Over water shimmering glean
Throw in some bread
Ducks now fed
Walk on up to the Grand house
Nothing quiet, save the field mouse
Trickling stream
Down hill on a lean
Flowing water
Calming as we wander
Cool breeze
Through leafless trees
Fallen trees laying about
Birds singing, never a shout
Clouds float by
Masking blue sky
Great Grand Son sits in path well trodden
Clothes dirty, but not sodden
Collecting cones
Not walking alone!
Over wooden bridge
On upto to the ridge
His footsteps so light
Eyes shinning bright
Back down the hill
We're running! Almost a spill
Trees flash past
He won, I'm last
Puffing and panting
Just climbed a mountain
Back past the lake
Homeward trek we make.
poem by Robert Green
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Dark Trees
Coming home in pure dark,
The trees bounding over,
Their prickly ends and pointed arms,
It seems as if they’re going to become alive,
Roam the streets,
Searching for friends, family,
In the warmth that is still carried,
And maybe eventually the sheer cold,
The trees lean over,
Staring at every step taken,
You would start to wonder,
Will they pounce to attack?
Their long prickly arms, reaching,
For attack...
Maybe, they'll have traps prepared,
Never moving, only planning,
In the darkness that surrounds them,
Talking, forever,
Gleaming, breathing,
Moving the leaves they may have left,
Or the branches, swaying,
Maybe this is what they do in the dark,
Plan, retreat if in problems,
The dark trees will carry on though,
Through the dark times in history,
They strive, maybe one day to attack,
With the prickly arms and branches,
With the Darkness from the Trees,
Really coming out,
Causing oblivion and trouble,
Those Dark Trees... mischief...
poem by Viraj Bhanshaly
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Sonnet: Grow Trees
The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!
And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!
Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.
Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!
7-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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I Hear
When the trees sing what matters is knowing.
That the trees are singing at all.
their gentle music ever out flowing
for those attuned to hear its call.
Although all children hear and sing along,
most adults have forgotten how
to listen to the trees and hear their song
They’re far too busy to allow
themselves to be distracted by the trees
Their minds are fixed on other things
and do not miss the melodies
The gentle breeze amongst the branches sings
It makes no difference at all
The trees still sing as they have always done
in summer, spring winter and fall.
I listen for the music of the trees
those sad but sometimes joyous harmonies.
10-Dec-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Lofty Sky
To-day I want the sky,
The tops of the high hills,
Above the last man's house,
His hedges, and his cows,
Where, if I will, I look
Down even on sheep and rook,
And of all things that move
See buzzards only above:-
Past all trees, past furze
And thorn, where nought deters
The desire of the eye
For sky, nothing but sky.
I sicken of the woods
And all the multitudes
Of hedge-trees. They are no more
Than weeds upon this floor
Of the river of air
Leagues deep, leagues wide, where
I am like a fish that lives
In weeds and mud and gives
What's above him no thought.
I might be a tench for aught
That I can do to-day
Down on the wealden clay.
Even the tench has days
When he floats up and plays
Among the lily leaves
And sees the sky, or grieves
Not if he nothing sees:
While I, I know that trees
Under that lofty sky
Are weeds, fields mud, and I
Would arise and go far
To where the lilies are.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Tall Trees In A Blue Sky
(jack hues)
Tall trees in a blue sky
Stand together dont ask why
Stretch up to the blue sky
Pierce that ceiling if you try
You say these feelings do not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
Bright leaves in the sunshine
Pick me up when I feel down
Deep freeze if we don try
Seems like we go round and round
You say a dream will not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
Chorus:
You and me could last forever
If only we could stand together like
Tall trees in a blue sky
Like tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze if we dont try
Big man in a blue tie
Tells you things must be this way
Tall tree when the man dies
Havent heard a word he say
You say these feelings do not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
You and me could last forever
If only we could stand together like
Tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze if we dont try
Like tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze when the bombs fly
song performed by by Wang Chung
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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a Childrens game?
I see a boy making roads
in the red-brown sand,
where his blue plastic Ranchero pickup
drives up and down
past a mud pond.
There’s a green plastic
roofless Mercedes,
that’s parked in the shade
next to a homestead
of tomato planks.
Small branches stand like popular trees
pressed in a row
in a rectangle,
where a red plastic Massi Furgeson tractor
draws furrows in a line of dust.
When I pass that place years later
a farmer drives around his fields
with his white Toyota pickup,
where popular trees
are rowed in next to the road
and green John Deere tractors
are ploughing
and I see a beautiful blonde woman
with a silver Mercedes SLK
cutting past their big dam
and the road turns away
and I wonder how the house looks
where they live
of which the roof
just edges pass the hillock.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Zen Creatures
humans think
they are of
a higher realm
when the trees
in their quiet
throw a challenge
as to who
have achieved
higher consciousness
the trees
meditate
all ovr the mountains
a glorious sight
a sacredness
you cannot miss
zen creatures
cared for
staying so still
now they -
self conceited humans
are laughing about how
the trees could be of
a higher realm
when they can be
chopped down at will
yet at their last moment
the trees stand
in all their glory
teaching men zen
taking death
as it comes
as they have taken - life
thinking nothingness
zen creatures
a higher realm
they belong
see how they reach up to god
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The House Of Pain
welcome
to the house
of pain...
rehab pain
driving insane
intense agony
dark legacy
of an instant
of an accident
all muscles
instant torn
in right leg
limp weep on
limp on pain
to recovery?
patchwork leg
green blue black
blue hand prints
bruised muscles
littering agony leg
from right buttock
down to bruised
ankle screaming
swollen sorry foot
pain body
cannot carry
pain soul
cannot endure
pain raw by day
screaming seconds
pain blasting
pulsating
twisted muscles
knotted knarred
internal fire aflame
locked in pain
wearing down
resolve unrelenting
weeks enduring
rehab pain
driving insane
intense agony
welcome
to the house
of pain...
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Whispering Wind
Standing amid the forest trees
I feel so insignificant.
Small and unimportant can be
Very humbling among the plants
And underbrush that are dwarfed by
The regal, deciduous trees.
Quiet is defined by the sigh
Of the wind breathing through the leaves
And serenity thrives beneath
This lushest leaf-green canopy.
I walk along an ancient path
Once tread by aborigines.
Then, out of the blue, the soft wind
Whispered, ” you're home again my friend.”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Trees under the sun,
trees, hosting man and woman
Trees, our own clean lungs!
haiku by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Eye OF Venus
Green is the eye of Venus, though now tightly shut.
Ancient music drums,
Trees viridian-hued.
The night has settled, dark as fear.
I rode a stallion-
Jet-black he was,
Against an array of foliage,
Emerald green,
Into the dead of night,
He rode.
Sleeping, I am?
Or am I living within some land of the surreal?
Lost within a valley,
I lie amongst tall reeds.
Water showers down upon me.
Skies turn mauve, purplish-
No calm before this storm.
Struck by lightening,
Branches are fallen by the wind.
Upon awakening,
As day breaks,
The ancient music’s melody is arrested.
A sibilant voice whispers to me:
“Sleep amongst the dead,
And depart from the living.”
As I nonchalantly gaze at the rising sun,
I wave “goodbye” to Venus,
And as she falls behind the horizon,
She waves back at me, and winks at me,
While ancient music begins drumming again…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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When The Green Gits Back In The Trees
In spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and stays,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer barefoot days;
When you ort to work and you want to not,
And you and yer wife agrees
It's time to spade up the garden lot,
When the green gits back in the trees--
Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin,
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood,
And the crick 's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees,--
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the sweat it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees--
I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees--
Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please--
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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