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to choose the forest is to be
lost, and lost in the trees
guided by stars, not to a journey
but turning to some place worth exploring

you loved life with your being
and passed the forest for its trees;
the string of red ribbons happens to be
constellations within the captive sea

but lost you were with your own
itself ripped apart of definition
looking back, its love brings you
back to its original destination

though their signposts lead to more obstacles
and landmarks fetter into miserable,
its fractures into a blissful wonder
in place of stars for faded luster
Cné 3d
Shhhhh …. A world awakes
As colors burst forth, like celestial flares
Blues cascade down, like shimmering streams
Greens and oranges dance, in neon dreams

Amidst this kaleidoscope, a wise gaze meets
Owl eyes, piercing bright, with secrets to keep
Feathers etched sharp, like whispers in the night
A beak that holds the mysteries of delight

In the foreground, a wolf's presence roams
A guardian of the forest, where ancient secrets call home
Two birds take flight, on wings of wind and grace
As the owl watches over, with a gentle, knowing face

In this symphony of color and light
brushstrokes weave a tale, of wonder and sight
A world of magic, where creatures roam free
A testament to the beauty, that's born from painted creativity
An artist statement written for one of my paintings.
Heidi Franke Apr 13
Out of the darkness
I claw and rise to see
There is a forest inside.
The green surrounds me.
The sun's rays splatter
Me awake to my open body.
I let in the light
I lean into the forest
With the trees holding me up
- as I tilt to fall
Reinforcing my stand I forgot
- I was a part of.

The green has grown so strong
Like the blood that sweeps away
Inside of me to a rivers tune.
I don't want to leave this place,
Fearing it will be taken beyond
Or that it was never mine.
Reinventing this woodland
That has always been inside.
The pine, the wind through the branches, the owl winks.
It has always been here with me
Compelled to germinate
Waiting for my return.
I lift up my head and the sky
- Is so blue.
Recovery from PTSD
Hadrian Veska Feb 21
Rolling hills beneath a low grey sky
The rippling water in the back of my eyes
Stillness hallowed, forlorn and sweet
The black sacred ground beneath my feet

The earth is rich yet nothing here grows
The river has dried and no longer flows
The trees are bare of leaves but not fruit
An omen of something below the deep roots

Does anyone here but lost husks remain
If I stay will anything thus here be gained
Does the sun here rise or does it merely set
The twilight stretches on but cannot end yet
A journey from when to where
Man Jan 19
Forest floor, underbrush abound;
The light sprinklings of winter found.
Snow kissed scenery, that
Whether cold be dreary
Still seems the more dreamy, than
Tracing each step.
These frigid months of death-
Before life springs back
Bringing fresh greenery
Two ancient eagles often meet
free and high, celebration dancing our death spiral or mating dance.

Flying over this weeping willow forest lands we found
Our white willow tree bark healing properties own
salicylic acid relieving pains and inflammations.  

Our beautiful pendular branches, the weeping willow trees of us, symbols of fertility are; out willow trees grow best by side roads by body of water rivers lakes, or ponds. And us special eagles, mate by the sea.

And like us our willows of life attract scary snakes, but also birds bees butterflies, cocoons moths many diverse birds make a home in us. Our willow trees seem to hide a fertil sadness within.

In our roots, creatures find habitat restauration erosion control and perfect ******* growth of 6 to 8 inches length.

Our willow trees filter poisons grows quickly and live longer with a human touch like ours.

Our weeping willow tree established root systems decontaminating water and soil.

Raindrops drip down our leaves. My weeping is called pillow P**y willow tree.

When our weeping tree grows largest it casts a grave size shadow and a family member goes supernovae or so it's written.

Thank you my weeping willow tree, sweet poet mine for placing baby blankets under our weeping willow tree.

Your invitation uncovered accepted loved and cherished eternally.

To the one poet Sonnet 75 my
True love, this one honors the day my smile captured thine heart, my weeping willow my everything beloved.
~~~
Inspired by a tree of life planted in my honor once upon a time.
~~~

By: Mr And Mrs Andrews
https://youtube.com/shorts/_Jn499wTp1A?si=EixykCTh7LFS_ybg
B Nov 2023
I remember stories, told through grey smoke
recited slowly, under shadowed eyes
as the old, dry toad croaked,
in a rickety melody by my side.
Forgotten romancers would carve
hearts into the husk of pine.
One was told,
time after time:
Two lovers, a yellow scarf,
we are both the same, headless and blind.

Lose all sense when we meet up
I pray you'll rescue me
chase away my sorrow and bad luck.
Rain always seems to pour most
once I'm building my shelter
my poor face as pale as a ghost
and my urgency, burns like a summer swelter.
I need you like the river needs it's bending
to love you is natural,
a broken bone must go on mending.

So take your weathered hands
lead me to the forest
I cannot see, but I feel its stirring.
The finch and the blackbird, chattering chorus
brain dead trusting, so alluring.
theladyeve Oct 2023
When the sky dons its robes of indigo,
I slip into a tranquil reverie where
shadows lengthen and soften,
and mirrors hold whispers of ancient stories.
A gentle breeze dances through the forest like secrets.
It’s a lullaby for a weary soul.
A gentle reminder than even in stillness,
there is movement, a world in transition.
As I stand on the threshold of day and night,
I think about all the fleeting moments
from my past self and embrace the twilight.
Hadrian Veska Oct 2023
A cool and close mist
Hangs over the highland shrubs and trees
Wild and tall grasses bend heavy
Laden with the chill dew
of a perpetually hidden dawn
10 lifetimes of experiences
Have I gathered since I entered here
I feel it was but a few hours ago
Though I have not seen the sun
Nor has the darkness of night
Yet begun to creep into these woods
Maybe from a dream or perhaps
I passed it earlier this strange house
A ***** place with slanted roof and chimney
Sticking out of the earth in such a way
That it appeared to be a natural growth
I feel as though it is so very familiar
Though I cannot say why
Or why no matter the direction I turn
Or for how long I walk
I come unto its doorstep again and again
In my mind it has replaced my own home
If ever I did have another
And whoever might have been waiting there
I have long since forgotten
Yet when I reach this house
Time and time again
I cannot muster the courage to reach out
To take hold of the handle and turn it
To enter in to that abode
And here I come again
I see it emerge out of the gentle fog
Comfortably nestled on a hillside
I stand for a moment at the gate
The walk through it and a long a path
Interspersed with a step or two here and there
As it turned inwards and outwards
Ascending the hill into the homes entrance
In a moment I stood at the door yet again
Hand half outstretched towards the ****
I placed my hand upon
Feeling the cool of brass
Yet the warmth of something else
Something half remembered from youth
From years long since entwined with dreams
I turned the **** gently
Not yet feeling the click of the lock
I felt a fresh wind at my back
And I rather spontaneously
Wrenched my hand and wrist
All the way to the right
I could feel the weight I’ll the door
Unhindered by any lock or stop
And I pushed through the humble
Yet mighty wooden thing open
And was greeted by a deepening night
Full of countless radiant stars.
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
Deep is the heart of the Forest
a sound stirs sending shivers of sorrow
through the undergrowth
to where wonderful willows wildly weep.

Deep is the voice of the Forest
its core carefully calling clipped chords
through the luscious canopy
to aptly announce an autumn abundance.

Deep is the love of the Forest
in light lancing little lazy legacy lines
through the fresh downpour
to relish rain rapidly replenishing roots.


© Pagan Paul
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