Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Little black fruit swaying in the hot summer sun
such succulent skin shriving, baking beneath the crisp, green leaves
what strange fruit hangs from the cottonwood tree?

What sour fruit falls to the earth and makes a thud?
whose blood soaked flesh leaks into the underbelly of the earth
whose body lays motionless....
whose once sweet flesh now sways in the autumn breeze

what strange fruit hangs from the cottonwood tree?....
r Oct 2014
canyon wren
sings her sweet song
perched upon
the piñon-

for my love
who lies beneath-
the cottonwood
twee twee twee
tsheeeeee.

:)

r ~ 10/3/14
\¥/\
  |.     song of the canyon wren
/ \
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2015
Preface

(not even 9:00 am and
I've wet myself

this was my to be
my Poet Palm Sunday,
when my pen is in
some room,
by other's well hidden,
and composition is a prohibition,
the hours yet to come,
come negligently but happily,
whiled and whittled,
reading the better poetry of others,
on this, a day of rest for the
body's satisfaction
and the body of the soul's,
even greater

yet a day of rest,
be not South Pole opposite
from a day of no North Pole work

this early I-am-risen Sunday dawn,
finds me focused, two dog ears alert,
forty one poems in descending order,
read and wept over and upon,
a real, not a faux Bush,
"mission accomplished"

lived long and occasionally prospered,
of poets, I am familiar some,
of writing poetry,
have learned my sums,
know what is likeable
love what is
loving and loveable

it is the poetry of every day life

of strange noises of strangers
in the mid of night,
dogs rhythmically snoring,
while you curse/overcome
the bright eyed, darkened alertness of insomnia
by word whittling yourself,
by the softness of skin of a grand kid
that momentarily manages to convince,
it was indeed,
all worth it

the zoo animals of the lawn and trees,
singing concertos in any minor they please,
as long as it's major enough
to command the world's attention

six stanzas and yet have not commenced,
the task God gave me this sabbath morn,
for the problem with seeing the world,
thru the filter of aging eyes,
is you grow vulnerable, wistful,
distracted by your own ancient feeling streams
that lie too deep in the Manhattan schist
of what others call, your heart,
but somehow still manage
to bubble up and geyser out your eyes)

~~~

Joe Cottonwood

as Patton said to Rommel,
"I've read your book"

the book of forty one poems
that are the products of
years in the making, with tools
that hang upon the belt of yourself,
that you acquired long before
the leathered and weathered
tool belt of four decades of you daily dress,
was first ever worn

you tell us of your ancestry,
thus reveal your story simple intimate,
and by the fourth or fifth essay,
our poetic ancestor,
Walt Whitman,
was readily apparent,
in the little life things
the American and all families  
celebrate

of my six decades,
I yet
still struggle for a summary definition
of who I am,
what I'm worth,
yet weep at your simple eloquence,
self described scribe and man
detailing a life well lived

Hammer nails. Write poems. Bake bread. Shake hands.

is that all there is?
Oh god there are veins
in this poet run deeper than the
iron ore that makes his nails,
the sun ray mines that electric heat
his bread oven

they are mined by me this morning

he does not write of
anguish, blood, love or scars,
that are newly born on a
summer's day youthful blush,
no, he writes of
anguish, blood, love or scars
that humans accumulate,
and in poetry encapsulate
of a life very well lived

I know you Joe,
and apologize for the
paucity of mine,
in honoring yours...


~~~
Postface**

the coffee beans grinding,
the pots banging,
the music suddenly turned softer,
surely constellation cosmic signs
that a lover's breakfast soon to arrive

so I away, but in earnest plead,
share the simple joyousness
of his poetry,
and our communal Sunday
and everyday lives
will be indeed come
as a day of comfort blessed,
the only toil,
tear removal...
If your value a skill and love
that captures more of life and love,
please read
http://hellopoetry.com/joe-cottonwood/

a single excerpt,
no two, a sampler
~
Coffee and corn bread.
They putter about with weekend chores:
she waters plants; he snakes the cursed toilet.
They take turns riding the exercise bike.
He cleans the hot tub filter;
she stretches yoga-like while listening to an audiobook.
He makes a wooden toy, gift for a grandchild;
she prepares chicken burgers and salad.
They watch a movie from Netflix
about Miss Potter, Beatrix
a rebel of another century.
In the dark, outdoors, scarred bodies
water-slick in the moonlight,
they soak in the hot tub
while a dog guards, sphinx position, ears *****
to the rustle of raccoons in the underbrush.
At fifteen minutes to midnight
as steam wafts in moonbeams
she says, “Hey — it’s our anniversary.”
Almost forgotten. The forty-sixth. Or fifty-first
in a different calculus, because at the wedding
they’d already been lovers five years. He sings
     Oh my love is a wallflower
     so pretty and so shy
She answers:
     No boy I’d ever marry
     until you gave me a try.
Under water, their toes touch.

~

old bronze
your cheek, so brown
old bronze
brushed with down
shekels of freckles
over a dusky moon

bronze is an alloy
forged in heat
shaped in art
durable as stone
darkens with age
glows when rubbed
still warm
against my lips
Mary McCray Apr 2014
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 4, 2014)


Intellect before beauty.
Business before pleasure,
unless intellect is beauty.
Who is to say
in the business of pleasure?
To say what a cottonwood stands for.
It stands to reason.
It stands to shade.
It stands to hold the opportunity
of end tables and envelopes.
Even a tree is a recycled tree
made to hang recycled wind and snow.
Progress always involves retrograde.
Garbage in, shiny new plastic item out.
HRTsOnFyR Jul 2015
I watch the cottonwood
seeds
gather on the
wildflowers and
the weeds.
The trail looks a gentle
snowfall
  of dust,
Like the back corner
of grandmother's attic...
Blanketed in mystery
and
  well worn with
                   the years.
White sand and flakes of
pyrite
  glitter on the
  water's edge,
Dancing
with the rythym of the  
  waves...
A hummingbird
chases a dragonfly
into a tangerine sunset.
A hawk circles the road looking
for a wayward mouse.
I cry a silent prayer.
And can
   only
think of you,
My Angel.
And
    the
       wind
            cries
                 too...
Singing her
sorrowful song
Only for you,
My Angel,
Only for you...
amt Jun 2014
The cottonwood fell from the skies and covered the grass

Like snow

It smelled fresh and young, like summer

Like you

Like the winter that barely lasted, the snow melted too soon

You were gone too soon


I'll never forget the night I heard.
That
Was the night
It snowed.
Summer girl, in the wintertime
HRTsOnFyR Aug 2015
Here the waves rise high and fall on the icy
seas and white caps chew the driftwood logs of
hemlock and toss them wildly upon sandy beaches.
The steep mountains rise straight from the sea
floor as the December sun shines through the dark
clouds that hang heavy with snow near the top peaks.
Blue icebergs drift slowly down the narrow channel.
This volcanic island is one of many that are scattered
along the coast of Southeastern Alaska.
On the South end of the island is another
tiny island and on it stands an old lighthouse,
a shambles. It has a curving staircase and an
old broken lamp that used to beckon to ships at
sea. Wild grasses and goosetongue cover the ground
and close by Sitka blacktail feed and gray gulls
circle. There is a mountain stream nearby and
in the fall the salmon spawn at its mouth. The
black bear and grizzly scoop them up with great
sweeps of their paws, their sharp claws gaffing
the silver bodies.
Walking North along the deer trail from the
South end of the island are remnants of the Treadwell
Mine. It was the largest gold mine in the world.
In the early 1900's the tunnel they were digging
underneath Gastineau Channel caved in and the sea
claimed her gold. The foundry still stands a rusty
red.
The dining halls are vacant, broken white
dishes are strewn inside. The tennis court that
was built for the employees is overgrown with hops
that have climbed over the high fence and grown
up between cracks in the cement floor. The flume
still carries water rushing in it half-hidden in
the rain-forest which is slowly reclaiming the
land. The beach here by the ocean is fine white
sand, full of mica, gold and pieces of white dishes.
Potsherds for future archeologists, washed clean,
smooth and round by the circular waves of this
deep, dark green water.
Down past the old gold mine is Cahill's house,
yellow and once magnificent. They managed the mine. The long staircase is boarded up and so
are the large windows. The gardens are wild, irises
bud in the spring at the end of the lawn, and in
the summer a huge rose path, full of dark crimson
blooms frames the edge of the sea; strawberries
grow nearby dark pink and succulent. Red raspberries
grow further down the path in a tangle of profusion;
close by is a pale pink rose path, full of those
small wild roses that smell fragrant. An iron-
barred swing stands tall on the edge of the beach.
I swing there and at high tide I can jump in the
ocean from high up in the air. There is an old
tetter-totter too. And, it is like finding the
emperor's palace abandoned.
There is a knoll behind the old house called
Grassy Hill. It is covered with a blanket of hard
crisp snow. In the spring it is covered with sweet
white clover and soft grasses. It is easy to find
four leaf clovers there, walking below the hill
toward the beach is a dell. It is a small clearing
in between the raspberry patch and tall cottonwood
trees. It is a good place for a picnic. It is
a short walk again to the beach and off to the
right is a small pond, Grassy Pond. It is frozen
solid and I skate on it. In the summer I swim
here because it is warmer than the ocean. In the
spring I wade out, stand very still and catch baby
flounders and bullheads with my hands; I am fast
and quick and have good eyes. Flounders are bottom
fish that look like sand.
Walking North again over a rise I come to
a field filled with snow; in the spring it is a
blaze of magenta fireweed. Often I will sit in
it surrounded by bright petals and sketch the mountains
beyond. Nearby are salmonberry bushes which have
cerise blossoms in early spring; by the end of
summer, golden-orange berries hang on their green
branches. The bears love to eat them and so do
I. But the wild strawberries are my first love,
then the tangy raspberries. I don't like the high-
bush cranberries, huckleberries, currants or the
sour gooseberries that grow in my mother's garden
and the blueberries are only good for pies, jams
and jellies. I like the little ligonberries that
grow close to the earth in the meadow, but they
are hard to find.
Looking across this island I see Mt. Jumbo,
the mountain that towers above the thick Tongass forest of pine, hemlock and spruce. It was a volcano
and is rugged and snow-covered. I hike up the
trail leading to the base of the mountain. The
trail starts out behind a patch of blueberry bushes
and winds lazily upwards crossing a stream where
I can stop and fish for trout and eat lunch; on
top is a meadow. Spring is my favorite season
here. The yellow water lilies bud on top of large
muskeg holes. The dark pink blueberry bushes form
a ring around the meadow with their delicate pink
blossoms. The purple and yellow violets are in
bloom and bright yellow skunk cabbage abounds, the
devil's club are turning green again and fields
of beige Alaskan cotton fan the air, slender stalks
that grow in the wet marshy places. Here and there
a wild columbine blooms. It is here in these meadows
that I find the lime-green bull pine, whose limbs
grow up instead of down. Walking along the trail
beside the meadow I soon come to an old wooden
cabin. It is owned by the mine and consists of
two rooms, a medium-sized kitchen with an eating
area and wood table and a large bedroom with four
World War II army cots and a cream colored dresser.
Nobody lives here anymore, but hikers, deer hunters,
and an occasional bear use the place. Next door
to the cabin is the well house which feeds the
flume. The flume flows from here down the mountain
side to the old mine and power plant. An old man
still takes care of the power plant. He lives
in a big dark green house with his family and the
power plant is all blue-gray metal. I can stand
outside and listen to the whirl of the generators.
I like to walk in the forest on top of the old
flume and listen to the sound of the water rushing
past under my bare feet.
In the winter the meadow is different: all
silent, still and snow-covered. The trees are
heavy with weighty branches and icicles dangle
off their limbs, long, elegant, shining. All the
birds are gone but the little brown snowbirds and
the white ptarmigan. The meadow is a field of
white and I can ski softly down towards the sea.
The trout stream is frozen and the waterfall quiet,
an ice palace behind crystal caves. The hard smooth-
ness of the ice feels good to my touch, this frozen
water, this winter.
Down below at the edge of the sea is yet another
type of ice. Salt water is treacherous; it doesn'tfreeze solid, it is unreliable and will break under
my weight. Here are the beached icebergs that
the high tide has left. Blue white treasures,
gigantic crystals tossed adrift by glaciers. Glisten-
ing, wet, gleaming in the winter sun, some still
half-buried in the sea, drifting slowly out again.
And it is noisy here, the gray gulls call to each
other, circling overhead. The ravens and crows
are walking, squawking along the beach. The Taku
wind is blowing down the channel, swirling, chill,
singing in my ear. Far out across the channel
humpback whales slap their tails against the water.
On the beach kelp whips are caught in wet clumps
of seaweed as the winter tide rises higher and
higher. The smell of salty spray permeates everything
and the dark clouds roll in from behind the steep
mountains.
Suddenly it snows. Soft, furry, thick flakes,
in front of me, behind, to the sides, holding me
in a blizzard of whiteness, light: snow.
This is a piece my grandmother had published in the 70's and I was lucky enough to find it. She passed on a few years ago and I miss her with all of my heart. She was my rock and my foundation, my counselor, mentor and best friend. I can still hear the windchimes that gently twinkled on her front porch, and smell the scent of the earth on my hands as I helped her **** the rose garden. I am glad that she is finally free of the pain that entombed her crippled body for nearly half of her life, but I wish I could hear her voice one last time. So thank God she was a writer, because when I read her poems and stories, I can!  She wasn't a perfect woman, but she was the strongest, smartest, most courageous woman I have ever known.
Love is our cottonwood.

Further I give chase,
Further it strays.

If only it may fall upon my palms,
May I fleetingly hold and sway,

Until Wind takes us,
Far, Far away.

~Robert van Lingen
Stu Harley Sep 2018
truth
is
the
woodpecker's
beak-hammer
steady
tipping
at
your
cottonwood door

— The End —