En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Treecreepers

Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.

Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.

They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.

From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet

In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Tree And The Breeze

Have you ever noticed how the trees sway with the breeze?
It's as if they were dancing in rhythm with a mellow tune
Have you ever notice how a tree is home to a bird's nest...
where the birds rest?
It's as if the tree were a peaceful and relaxed get-away
From where their troubles stray
But then the tree also has another side
In which it can take the birds for a bit of a ride
It is its party side...
when a pile of birds get together in one tree...
to sing along to the breeze as back and forth it sways the tree

The tree's stuck in the ground
Every day its life's the same
But the breeze
Now that's a different story
The breeze is free
It goes and comes as it pleases
The tree it seizes
Have you ever noticed half the things a tree does are caused by the breeze?

poem by Amy Parkinson
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On Seeing Tawny Frogmouths

At nightfall the birds known as tawny frogmouth come out in family groups of three or four
They do not have a song the only sounds they do make is a sort of a low pitched nasal snore
In the wooded parkland they fly from tree to tree in their search for tree insects and flies
And they return to roost on their roosting trees at the dawning just before sunrise,
Quite expert at camouflage in their colours of brown lengthwise on a bare branch of a tree
In the bright light of day they look part of the branch they are almost impossible to see
Disguised from the prying eyes of predators in safety they rest Nature never ceases to amaze
Of her so little we do seem to know we are strangers to Nature's ways,
Related to the nightgars nocturnal insect eating birds though frogmouths far greater in size
For better vision in dimlight the night birds 'twould seem than day birds have far larger eyes,
I have seen the frogmouths at nightfall in the park near my home almost tame to them I approached near
Of human kind so little they seem to know so of humans they show little fear,
From tree to tree in the parkland they fly these quiet brown birds of the night
So well camouflaged on their bare roosting branch they seem part of the tree in daylight.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Yellow Billed Spoonbill

By the lake shore in the shallows where the waters are still
He walks in water to his knees the white bird with yellow legs and long yellow spoon like bill
With his bill in the water as he walk moving from side to side
His prey water insects, crustaceans and tiny fish in the water weed hide.

He and his partner build their nest on a high branch of a tree
On her nest of sticks she lays four white eggs though sometimes two or three
They both take care of their young a bird devoted to fatherhood as well as to his mate
Food from their stomachs to their nestlings they do regurgitate.

On river rapids never seen the still waters they need
Birds of the inland lakes and dams in the shallows they feed
Of humans 'twould be fair to say they have a healthy fear
To a human standing on the shore they never venture near.

Yellow billed or yellow legged spoonbill are names they are known by
On the lake I see one yesterday he did seem rather shy
With his long yellow bill moving from side to side in the shallows he shuffled up and down
The shiest of the water birds in the big park by the Town.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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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Red Browed Finches

Red browed finches or red browed firetails two names they are known by
They like to live near cover where from bush to tree they fly
The reason they live near cover the well informed say
Is that they need places to hide in from bigger birds of prey.

Dark olive green in colour red eyebrows, red rump and olive tail
And with only minor differences between the female and the male
Their calls rather high pitched sound a bit like tizeee
Familiar to bushy places and birds one often see.

In a flask shaped nest of dried grass in a thorny bush the female her eggs lay
Six to seven or even eight eggs that look more white than gray
They breed from September to November in Australia in the south
And their young in December can be seen flying about.

They never seem to venture far from the cover of the trees
And they eat grass seeds and insects and sometimes berries and bees
With red eyebrows, red bills and red rumps and darkish olive green
Australia's red browed fnches by cover often seen.

poem by Francis Duggan
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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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Willow tree by the lake

Willow tree by the lake standing tall since the day one
Home for birds and squirrels, place of fun
Breeze will come and play with her branches
Whistle at them before they move on
Any time, at mid day, at night or at the crack of dawn
Humming bird feeder and bird house hanging all over the tree
They swing back and forth and hang free
All summer it is a fun house as the birds come and go
Rabbits will hop around on the ground below.
Ducks will sit idle or sleep under her shade
Squirrels will carry food up the trunk, not afraid
During winter when nature sleeps no life around
Willow tree will shelter the birds, the squirrels
and even the worms under it's ground.
Many yrs ago I planted the tree, saw it grow day by day
Sat under it, wrote poems, it made me happy and gay
I know one day my time will be up and I will be gone
But my willow tree will still be here, singing with the wind at each dawn.

poem by Syed Karim
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SONNET: And This is Life!

Two Birds, a male and female met at last;
They found the tree on which to build their nest;
But soon, their little ones came rather fast;
The Birds hadn’t time for love-making or rest!

The Wind blew strongly; scorching was the Sun;
The Rain fell heavily upon their nest;
Rearing the young ones was both strain and fun;
Even a Snake came to their nest as guest1

But God helped them to find the worms for food;
And Spring replaced the Winter’s freezing cold;
The Birds laboured all life as best as could;
Their young ones turned adults; and they grew old!

When Death came like a robber in the night,
Both Birds never offered the slightest fight!

poem by John Celes
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That Knows

the face in the mirror,
grows darker with time...
deep and grainy,
weathered and beaten.
the trunk of an old tree,
where birds hide their nests,
and squirrels meet to plot
the downfall of man.
hollowed and sketched,
with dignity unspoken,
the scars of love and wars,
where insects breed and whisper.
and time itself,
bows in awe and respect,
for the tree that knows
itself to be a tree!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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First Flight

Brand new baby birds in a nest
don't you fall to the ground.
For there are too many predators waiting
and quietly lurking around.

Don't leave your nest 'til you can fly.
Be patient and bide your time.
Then when you feel your wings are strong
then out of your nest you'll climb.

Now see what you were born for.
Flap your wings and soar into the air.
The sky's the limit for such as you.
As for me I can only stare.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Self Portrait

The willow tree stands alone.
It grows alone, relying only on the Sun and the Rain.

This willow tree offers shade.
It only shades during the day, casting a monster
of a shadow in the mornings and evenings,
its size shrinking in between. Its shadow
is solid in some places, but has empty
places of sunlight dotting the ground beneath
it, allowing room for purity among the darkness.

This willow tree is immune to the Wind.
It bends whichever way it needs to survive,
sacrificing its tiny leaves to be carried away.

This willow tree is a home.
Small birds build nests on its branches,
laying eggs that will bring new Life to the World.
The nest is supported. Some things of little
weight can be supported, but anything that drags
the branches too close to the ground
will be dropped so the tree can be saved.

This willow tree is weak.
As it grows, its branches come closer and closer
to the ground, for it cannot support the weight
of itself anymore. It cannot help its own soul.
With one swing of an ax, the tree will be felled.
It will be finished, left there to be eaten
and burrowed in and rotted away by the Earth.

poem by Zoe Guillory
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The Poem Tree

The poem tree is a very safe haven,
for birds and fowl, a hawk, a raven, or
a little barn owl.The tree could be a
silhouette, or the finest place to raise
your pet.The poem tree could bear
the fruit of life.Such as apples and
pears, with morning dew.A wonderful
place to play the flute.The poem tree
could have a nest.Giving birds with
eggs, a place to rest.It could capture
a kite who someone lost, or be bitten
by the morning frost.It could capture
a balloon, which went astray, or drop
all its leaflets by the bay.The poem
tree could have a lollipop, or maybe
a candycane, umbrella branches, to
stop the rain.The tree could protect
all animals, from an oncoming flood,
and keep all the tree bugs out of the
mud.Above the tree the sun will shine.
Home for a raccoon, or a porcupine..

The Poem Tree by Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2011.All rights reserved.

poem by Kim Robin Edwards
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A Bird's Happiness

A cherry hello to you
So the bird said to me
I asked him why he was happy
As he was sitting in a tree

I looked at him in the tree
And wondered what he was doing
Then he said that he saw a worm
And it was what he was pursuing

So we should take lessons
From the bird in the tree
Ashe was getting ready to build a nest
As he had use to be

Then he returned to his nest
As happy as could be
He sang and sang
As he was in the tree.

poem by Dolores Mahan
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Red Browed Firetails

One can't mistake them for their scratchy song
To small seed eating family of birds they belong
Some call them red browed finches others the red browed firetails
And the females hard to distinguish from the males.

With red bill and brows and neck and unders gray
And red rump, dark tail and greenish wings I see them every day
They perch on fence wire near where paddocks are
And to get their food they don't have to fly far.

They live in small flocks on a diet of seeds
And I see them often amongst grasses and weeds
Of the human kind they do seem rather shy
And from the paddock to the fence they fly.

On sapling tree or creeper they build their globe nest of dried grass or hay
Where they lay up to six eggs of white to gray
And their nests hard to find and well hidden away
From currawong and other birds of prey.

Red browed firetails or finches birds I often see
On paddock fence wire or on branch of tree
Of human kind they have a healthy fear
And they fly away if to them you come near.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Two birds on a tree

Look at this old photograph..
some of these old photos look
more ancient than their, what,
hundred-and-twenty years;
as if the very air was different, then?

This one’s simply of
two birds in a tree:
one sits and watches;
the other eats the fruits..

this moment, frozen, framed, in time,
takes on the epic stature
of a metaphor, a myth:
what of the previous second
in our passing time? What
of the next second?
Where have those birds come from,
where may they go next?

If we cease to patronise
their ‘bird-brains’, see them
closer to their God than we
whose minds depart so far from nature…

if we think they think, in thoughts
which we may share – then,
what are they thinking? what
do they think of one another?
I look again at the photo, speculate;
the photo grows in my concern
to some great tree of primal Paradise…
the Tree of Knowledge, could it be?

Is the one bird thinking,
what a fine place this is to rest!
A place to hide, if so need be,
among its leaves; a height,
an observation post,
I still, the world about its business;
in stillness, I a little nearer to God,
just a little lower than the angels,
without beating my wings to find
a heaven above…

Is the other bird thinking,
what a fine restaurant I’ve found,
that God provided; I so hungry
on my way; how much I need to eat
to give me strength for further flight…

and have these two birds even noticed
each other, and each other’s state?
Are they two siblings from the self-same nest,
flying together through their lives;
loving one another until the last birdfall?
Two rivals, just about to fight to death?
Or, two fore-flyers of the same great flock,
about to land and strip the tree of fruit,
then rest, God-filled, to know Him in that stillness?

These thoughts; an ancient photograph;
now I wonder about the unknown photographer
who saw the world, in two birds on a tree.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Banyan Tree

Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.

Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.

A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?

God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved

poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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Which Tree Am I?

Which tree, Which tree, Which tree Am I?
Do gaunt limbs swing high upon my trunk-
Etching signals in the sky?

Maybe my roots are solid and firm,
Grounded in being, strong and thick,
Passing soil and grub worm?

Specifically-
Am I, perhaps, an evergreen?
Warm and welcoming- Sheltering,
Birds within my canopy?

Or-
Do I sag, like a willow,
Showcasing agony with each wind,
Whispering melancholic mellows?

Which tree, Which tree, Which tree, Am I?
Oak, Redwood, Willow…. Bonsai?

poem by Lazarus Knix
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The Tree (a Repost)

the tree


when the big tree falls
hit by lightning
roared by thunder

when the big tree finally falls
and i am there
the big sound
of a giant old tree
falling finally to the ground

the arrogance
that used to be

of that big old tree
we all look up
it is so high
and we do not
climb it anyhow

we fear
and
perhaps we too pay respect
for its grandeur

and today this big tree falls
hit by lightning and roared by thunder

the universe claps upon the
fall of arrogance and pride
and a tree's belief about
its hugeness and
strength

now this tree falls
and i am here watching it

you are not here
you are in some foreign country

how can i tell you
that this tree has fallen
and there is nothing to fear anymore?

when a tree falls and you are not there
your logic tells
there is no tree
there is no tree of such strength and posture
there is no tree like that

that can ever fall
all because a lightning hit it
and all because the thunder roared

without you.

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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The tree

When the big tree falls
Hit by lightning
Roared by thunder

When the big tree finally falls
And I was there
A big sound
Of a giant old tree
Falling finally to the ground

The arrogance
That used to be

By that big old tree
We all looked upon
It was so high
And we did not
Climb it anyhow

For fear
And
Perhaps respect for its grandeur

And today this big tree falls
Hit by lightning and roared by thunder

The universe claps upon the
Fall of arrogance and pride
And a tree's belief about
Its hugeness and
Strength

Now this tree falls
And I am here watching it

You are not here
You are in some foreign country

How can I tell you

That this tree has fallen

And there is nothing to fear anymore?

When a tree falls and you are not there
Your logic tells

There is no tree
There is no tree of such strength and posture
There is no tree like that

That can ever fall
All because a lightning hits it
And all because the thunder roared

Without you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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