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Khoi Aug 2022
Home heaven halo
a squirrel peeks through the hole
the Acorn stairway
Jean-Rémy Duboc Mar 2021
Jesus is an acorn
Growing a vast oak-tree kingdom;
Do not waste any time to morn
The seed that died in its wisdom
To give you life.

Do not bemoan time and strength lost
Give it away generously
Never, ever count the cost
He never did, so why should we?
Enter the strife.

Step in the fight for your freedom
Giving away all that you are
Detach your soul from the outcome
Losing the world, winning the war,
Gaining your life.
The acorn is threatened and desired
A delightsome delicacy for predators- big and small.
The lucky ones emerge as oak seedlings.
As each taproot burrows to the heart of the earth,
the sapling doth heavenward shoot.

At the mercy of the elements,
The tender sapling’s survival seems
like a fanciful daydream,
one that slumbers in the womb of time.

In the acorn is hidden immense energy
to sustain the sapling until self-sufficiency it attains.
But will the sapling survive the forces of nature-
The floods, fires, and fall foes?

The Tender steps forth to prune in hope
with fired imagination and starry eyes,
He beholds, not a sapling, but a majestic oak.
From sunrise, He draws from his creative aliveness
as He nurtures and nourishes it
to pave the way for a coveted dream.

He is ever lost in ruminations
about the strength of the future Ancient
to provide soccur and solace
to generations yet unborn,
long after his final bow.
He is comforted that
underneath its soothing shade,
Youngsters will find
private escape from the drudgery of life.
Bhill Sep 2020
everyone has heard of the acorn tale
”Delusional thinking, obviously, the other acorns concluded.”
everyone has listened to the Little Red Hen
”she made the bread herself, she will eat the bread herself.”
not everyone has their hands stained with labor
we all need to work together
stop the bickering and name-calling
stop the delusional thinking and help make the bread
we got this - we have to get this!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 249
Isabella Jul 2020
like an acorn,
drifting down to a bed of emerald grass,
amidst a sea of crisp autumn leaves,
swirling like the color of flames,
crimson vermilion sunshine
scraping the dirt below.
but instead a breeze cuts off my course
and I come crashing down
onto concrete cold as ice,
only to crack
and eventually shatter.
Erian Rose Sep 2019
Fields flood high of corn stalks
As we drove along with the country roads
Leaves splattered pathways in a vibrant tint
Electrifying the crisp air around us
Pumpkins grinned softly
Nesting in beds of acorn heads

Fall couldn't be any better
Than watching out the window
And laying my eyes upon the setting sun
While apple cider and spice linger in the ether
Protected in your sweater
MisfitOfSociety Jul 2019
Control where to plant the seed,
But not how the tree will grow.
Colm Dec 2017
For every tree unborn
For every stone unturned
For every page in every book
In every bindery which will burn
Quietly in the fires of industry  

There is death
And there is time
There is life
And there is change

And there's also the light between the leaves which fades
Until it is out of sight
And consumed by this
The lack of brightness within night

For just as acorn stems to tree
So also you will see your growth
As tall as ever it was meant to be

So you need not worry about such things
Because the ink is dry
The life is lived
And the only constancy is change
He is change if you think about it.
Cheyenne Yacono May 2017
The grass is the perfect shade of green
Delicately accessorized by flowers
Each strand lays crisply in its place
Wading through the strong wind
The smell entrances those that walk by
Sending hints of your childhood up your nose
The chickadees' whistle as the trees sway elegantly
Every once in a while an acorn will fall
Rolling onto the pavement wanting to root itself in soil
A squirrel sneakily but sporadically greets it
Jumping around the helpless nut
It drags it only four feet until it is once again distracted
Crawling up the tree, perching itself
Staring at a wooden bench where a young lady sits
With her woven brown scarf wrapped delicately on her head
Writing in a blue book that is filled with experienced drawings
She has a paper bag of safflower seeds in her lap
A nearby dove purrs at her politely
The lady sets her velvety book down
For it is no longer interesting
She spreads the safflower seeds precisely around the off-white animal
Smiling as it gazes suspiciously at its food
Inhaling the powerful smell of the grass and dandelions
She gazes at the field in front of her and tucks her brown curl behind her ear.
Turning a page in her hardback book and writes:
*"The grass is the perfect shade of green"
I wanted to challenge myself in this poem and try to use less first person. I noticed a lot of my poems were quite depressing and were always in the first person. With this poem, i decided to take it to a time many people are familiar with where it almost seems like they are at  a park or lake or something like that
Yoverthinker Sep 2014
I wish I was an acorn, To be protected with tough exoshell.
To not care how high the world is, To not matter what heights I fell.

I wished I was an acorn, to be secluded in the ground,
Bathe in darkness, I’d be lost. Persistent sunlight; me she found.

I wished I was an acorn, young potential packed in a nut,
Consumed by mother Earth, I’d sprout life within her gut.

— The End —