Tree and Cloud
Upward strains brittle
limbs, arid tree lifts grey age
drifts down love's pure grace.
poem by Steven Federle
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My Oak Tree
My taste for love is what I long,
The secret so full and free
My heart of love beats every day
Because of this Oak Tree
The beauty of its leaves, we seldom admire
Oh Creator Lord to thee
How foolish our paths would have been
If it wasn’t for this Oak Tree
How quickly this seed germinated
Our eyes could hardly see
I treasured every moment
Beneath this Oak Tree
As little children we play and hide
How sweet are those memories to me?
The games we played, the jokes we shared
Beneath this Oak Tree
I would never forget this Oak Tree dear
For she is very dear to me
It matters not how grey I get
For my Mother is that Oak Tree
I watched this tree as the leaves got dry
The limbs begin to break
I fell to my knees, and begged the Lord
“Please don’t you this Oak Tree take”
Lord, if this tree should bend its head
I dread that day to see
May time give way to that glorious day
When we meet in eternity.
poem by Troy Brown
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September Dark
1
The air falls chill;
The whippoorwill
Pipes lonesomely behind the Hill:
The dusk grows dense,
The silence tense;
And lo, the katydids commence.
2
Through shadowy rifts
Of woodland lifts
The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,
While left and right
The fireflies' light
Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.
3
O Cloudland gray
And level lay
Thy mists across the face of Day!
At foot and head,
Above the dead
O Dews, weep on uncomforted!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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An incurable kiss
Your steps
Are frightening the red leaves
Of an imaginary tree…..
Your sight
Is caressing the limbs of our tree,
That unreal dream tree
Coming out of our real mind
Which is seemingly seared by lightning……
The shivering limbs are waiting the winter ….
Your lips
Are kissing the crust of our real tree,
Named Ligustrum vulgare,
In that special zone,
Where it loses the life continuously...
You become the mirror
Of that incurable and irreversible
Kiss.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Grey, Grey Sky
Someday I will ride the great bird
Into the sky, into the grey
And will take a bright secret of mine
Into the grey, grey sky.
And the light will come, piercing my eyes
Out of the sky, out of the grey
Come blinding and searing these eyes
Out of the grey, grey sky.
And I will find comfort in this
In the wide sky, in the wide grey
In the painful dark brightness of light
Light of the grey, grey sky.
My secret will fly away home
Into the sky, into the grey
And the great bird will follow it there
Into the grey, grey sky.
And I will be riding that bird
Bird of the sky, bird of the grey
And I will come home once again
Home to the grey, grey sky.
But for now I am weighted, earthbound
One of the mud, one of the ground
And I write this sad song to sad sound
Girl of the pavement sighs.
poem by Grace Hutton
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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
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Raking Leaves
Look to the tallest tree
and see how the noon-day sun
glints through slender grey limbs
to where leafless Life contracts
to its tender core
(this year’s ring
complete)
and waits for winter’s storms.
Leaves lie,
golden harvest, luxuriant carpet
to kick and scatter like
brittle snow...
... years ago
playing through long autumn days,
we built castles and smashed them,
diving deep into fragrant mounds
as the incense of burn piles
filled the chilled air of November.
Today I just rake,
scraping turf
making smaller heaps to haul
into my big green recycle bin
and see how golden autumn light
softly glows in gleaming grass,
free at last
from the detritus
of summer.
poem by Steven Federle
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A Journey Ever
To walk each moment in the Spirit,
That mountaintop of perfect peace
Where love abides - pure and simple
Illuminating the path of His righteousness
Your love, O Lord, is perfect -
Endless, always, boundless and free;
For me, a journey ever upward -
Stumbling, falling, reaching again
And pressing on I seek Your face
That grace may claim the victory,
Cultivating sweet Spirit's fruit
To overcome the selfish soul.
A Commonplace Day (after Thomas Hardy's poem of that name)
All day from dawn to dusk, the drizzling rain;
everything today is painted grey;
and as for me - I shut my heart, alas;
and took that paint and washed my mind with grey…
Outside the window, just a pane away:
the eager soil, the leaves of plant and tree
bathe and sing and grow and shine with praise;
yet why do I not hear that song, in me?
more feeble I than plant or soil or tree;
I cannot even sing their humble praise;
why build a house against the water’s grace,
and leave my wizened heart dry, graceless, mean?
Better today would it have useful been
to be a raincloud; humble; generous;
free of grey thought that idly renders me
less than the least of servants of my God;
so make me grey as generous raincloud; clod
of saturated, grateful earth; write, rain;
shout, whisper, words of flowing gratitude;
on greying days, paint grey as purest joy;
and be again, that drenched and laughing boy..
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Grey Goshawk
There is a flutter in the trees,
And now a sudden, dread unease
Stills all the bushland melodies
Amid the gums;
Stills now the song of wren and thrush,
Robin and honeyeater hush.
Now, with a swoop, a whistling rush,
Grey goshawk comes.
I am the threat: the dread king.
Grim Azrael, is on the wing,
And every little living thing
Dares scarce a breath.
And now a parrot, shrill with fear,
Flies dodging there and doubling here
Thro' inlaced limbs, in mad career
From lusting death.
Grey ghost, grey death, I work my will
O'er forest dense, o'er wood hill,
And on some tree-top rend my kill
With reddened beak.
There is no have in the tree,
There is no habor safe from me;
In many a singing sanctuary
My meat I seek.
Beware! The swift grey ghost is out!
Be still! Grey death lurks near about!
Crouch close! Shrink low! ... But have no doubt
I've marked my kill.
Grim nemesis. I never fail;
Gaint hunger is my spur, my flail.
I feast. And now away I sail
O'er the far hill.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bluebird
A wistful note from out the sky,
'Pure, pure, pure,' in plaintive tone,
As if the wand'rer were alone,
And hardly knew to sing or cry.
But now a flash of eager wing,
Flitting, twinkling by the wall,
And pleadings sweet and am'rous call,-
Ah, now I know his heart doth sing!
O bluebird, welcome back again,
Thy azure coat and ruddy vest
Are hues that April loveth best,-
Warm skies above the furrowed plain.
The farm boy hears thy tender voice,
And visions come of crystal days,
With sugar-camps in maple ways,
And scenes that make his heart rejoice.
The lucid smoke drifts on the breeze,
The steaming pans are mantling white,
And thy blue wing's a joyous sight,
Among the brown and leafless trees.
Now loosened currents glance and run,
And buckets shine on sturdy boles,
The forest folk peep from their holes,
And work is play from sun to sun.
The downy beats his sounding limb,
The nuthatch pipes his nasal call,
And Robin perched on tree-top tall
Heavenward lifts his evening hymn.
Now go and bring thy homesick bride,
Persuade her here is just the place
To build a home and found a race
In Downy's cell, my lodge beside.
poem by John Burroughs
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God's Lil' Snowflakes
God’s lil’ Snowflake
Snowflakes are denizens
Of cold winter sky
Drawn from grey clouds
To icy drifts, where they lie
They blanket bare limbs
Of cold shivering trees
Through which they swim
Like swarms of crystalline bees
Individually formed,
no two are alike…and which with,
Mother Nature, the artist
Paints her canvas of white
Each snowflake is a delight
The best of which is among
The delight in a child’s eyes
When snowflake lights on the tongue
poem by David Whalen
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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
Trees
I Tthink that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
poem by Joyce Kilmer
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A drought is just like
An arid arid desert
That hungers for rain
quote by by Edwin Tanguma
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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B l u e s
no, it’s beyond words.
say a word your word
if you need,
death loss tears grief gone ever
it’s beyond all these
take them hold them
press them tear them
squeeze from them
the tears of things
tears at the heart of things
squeeze this pure pure liquid
from these from life itself
so pure it’s nameless
so pure it’s the being
of your being,
the truth of truth,
the beauty, of all the sadness
that ever,
so pure, so true
that never again;
so pure, it could be
joy or love or grace
wash in its purity
this is life
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0175 Love's Butterfly
As butterflies with beauty grace the air,
so love cannot be lazy in its love;
true love brings lovely energies to bear;
love's actions grace the true contemplative.
devoted action is the path we tread
when stirred at first by love of love's first cause;
to purge our souls of that we wish us rid;
such tasks may grace our caterpillar days.
humility - which is to know pure self,
seen clearly as the light of bad and good -
brings contemplation's share in godly wealth;
those shining works which are love's neighbourhood;
then we God's goodness, truth and beauty share;
as butterflies with beauty grace the air.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Sonnet: The Need for Purity of Soul
I need to be sin-free and pure of heart,
And mind, soul, body and spirit as well,
As ’tis my duty and my earthly part,
To avoid punishment in fire of hell.
I need to be a virtuous earthling,
For, God gave me a soul and so expects,
My readiness for His Second Coming,
Although my freedom always, He respects.
I need to keep my soul afilled with grace,
To get God’s blessings, favors and His gifts,
And keep my righteous path, heavenly gaze,
And get rewarded by His divine lifts.
I need to be all pure of mind and soul,
For, that’s my ultimate aim and my role.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-27-2008
poem by John Celes
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Nightfall
grey limbs twisting
through emerald shade
reaching at last,
clear blue day!
fern overflowing,
with living lace
red rose embracing
impassioned grace.
the sun’s final flames
high leaves emblaze,
soft night claims
fading day.
poem by Steven Federle
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The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top
Blood - blood and torn grass -
Had marked the rise of his agony -
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.
A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: 'John!'
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.
poem by Stephen Crane
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