katherine-mason-wadley - Hello Poetry

The Oak tree in the garden fasts her luscious bodice skinned Though dream we did that autumn last, none could conquer cold coarse wind Ethereal laces, red and gold once cloaked her graceful form As sun-warmed skin, turned white with cold flesh falls like ladies’ laces torn Light which drenched her leaves ’til soaked has vanished long with autumn’s coat Instead, bare arms, broken and ***** Fight November’s bitter, bleak demote And then one day I check upon her Has winter’s brutal beating claimed vict’ry by that cruel crisp monster gainst my garden’s fairest dame? Alas, my prize has not been slain her beauty ne’er been thieved For in the night the winter came, but dressed her as a queen! Under folds of whitest silk she stands draped in drops of diamond light Defeated crude and forceful hands bow down to such exquisite might So once again she rises, sleek and silver stands she now Transformed by winter’s laces whitest she shall remain my garden crown

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC

The Great Tree

The Oak tree in the garden fasts her luscious bodice skinned Though dream we did that autumn last, none could conquer cold coarse wind Ethereal laces, red and gold once cloaked her graceful form As sun-warmed skin, turned white with cold flesh falls like ladies’ laces torn Light which drenched her leaves ’til soaked has vanished long with autumn’s coat Instead, bare arms, broken and ***** Fight November’s bitter, bleak demote And then one day I check upon her Has winter’s brutal beating claimed vict’ry by that cruel crisp monster gainst my garden’s fairest dame? Alas, my prize has not been slain her beauty ne’er been thieved For in the night the winter came, but dressed her as a queen! Under folds of whitest silk she stands draped in drops of diamond light Defeated crude and forceful hands bow down to such exquisite might So once again she rises, sleek and silver stands she now Transformed by winter’s laces whitest she shall remain my garden crown

28

I wish you could see what I see here. Smell the beautiful stench of sewage and un-showered people. Feel the African wind fly through your hair, bringing with it a mouthful of dirt. Pick dry black boogers from your nose, and bits of dirt and grime from your eyelashes. Clean your teeth of the ram you watched them **** last night, just before you ate it. I wish you could feel the Ethiopian sun on your bare arms, licking dry lips because you ran out of clean water to drink. See millions of curious brown eyes as you fly down dirt roads in a squeaky dust-covered van. Watch the African sun rise upon a city of stories, stories which walk the streets every day without fail. I wish you could be here and experience this. I wish I could bring you here. One day.

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC

ethiopia

I wish you could see what I see here. Smell the beautiful stench of sewage and un-showered people. Feel the African wind fly through your hair, bringing with it a mouthful of dirt. Pick dry black boogers from your nose, and bits of dirt and grime from your eyelashes. Clean your teeth of the ram you watched them **** last night, just before you ate it. I wish you could feel the Ethiopian sun on your bare arms, licking dry lips because you ran out of clean water to drink. See millions of curious brown eyes as you fly down dirt roads in a squeaky dust-covered van. Watch the African sun rise upon a city of stories, stories which walk the streets every day without fail. I wish you could be here and experience this. I wish I could bring you here. One day.

17

sometimes I look at myself and I see a rock hard angular and solid never bending to the will of another or the force of the wind incapable of being morphed except by the sharpest chisel rocks know no time everlasting never changing but to be honest I wish I looked and I saw a tree and not a rock for trees may be weaker, yes they do know time, they fall powerless to its passing they are weak against wind they do not always make it but trees, they grow and the wrinkles they earn they never try to conceal trees have seen things, they know stories they’ve lost branches they’ve grown new ones trees see death and new life again and again and the mess of a tree tells the tale of many years they morph, and they change they may be powerless to outside forces they may bend and sometimes break but when a tree makes it, there is something glorious and admirable because rocks, they exist. but trees, trees actually live.

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC

poem of the tree

sometimes I look at myself and I see a rock hard angular and solid never bending to the will of another or the force of the wind incapable of being morphed except by the sharpest chisel rocks know no time everlasting never changing but to be honest I wish I looked and I saw a tree and not a rock for trees may be weaker, yes they do know time, they fall powerless to its passing they are weak against wind they do not always make it but trees, they grow and the wrinkles they earn they never try to conceal trees have seen things, they know stories they’ve lost branches they’ve grown new ones trees see death and new life again and again and the mess of a tree tells the tale of many years they morph, and they change they may be powerless to outside forces they may bend and sometimes break but when a tree makes it, there is something glorious and admirable because rocks, they exist. but trees, trees actually live.

28

sometimes all I want is to feel the wind surround my face capture my hair and send it dancing pulling me toward the unknown adventure that waits. I want tiny glimpses of glowing lights twinkling flames hidden scents, delicate and sweet I want grass beneath my feet even ants between my toes I want to brush dirt from my heels and to feel silk against my skin I want to see every color hear every sound smell every smell taste every spice touch every thing! I want to find all the beauty that there is in the world and all the beauty that there is outside of it I want stars above my head new lands before my eyes every people at my side and nothing in between.

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC

a sunday in april

sometimes all I want is to feel the wind surround my face capture my hair and send it dancing pulling me toward the unknown adventure that waits. I want tiny glimpses of glowing lights twinkling flames hidden scents, delicate and sweet I want grass beneath my feet even ants between my toes I want to brush dirt from my heels and to feel silk against my skin I want to see every color hear every sound smell every smell taste every spice touch every thing! I want to find all the beauty that there is in the world and all the beauty that there is outside of it I want stars above my head new lands before my eyes every people at my side and nothing in between.

25

I am buried far beneath everything and anything that is good. Or that is how I feel at least. I often wish I were the cat, or dog, or squirrel they have so few worries, I envy them. The list never decreases, the rain never lets up. In here, at least. I am like an old empty house. Cold, dank, dark, dusty. Sometimes the sun shines through my windows. But only at just the right time of day, and even then it is usually cloudy. It feels cloudy, anyway. Even if you see the sun. Not everyone does.

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Oct 2, 2014

Oct 2, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC

september seventeenth

I am buried far beneath everything and anything that is good. Or that is how I feel at least. I often wish I were the cat, or dog, or squirrel they have so few worries, I envy them. The list never decreases, the rain never lets up. In here, at least. I am like an old empty house. Cold, dank, dark, dusty. Sometimes the sun shines through my windows. But only at just the right time of day, and even then it is usually cloudy. It feels cloudy, anyway. Even if you see the sun. Not everyone does.

15