We are the Tree Poet connection at The Source communication via collaboration triggers imagination
Food flows down the train not to be sent back again We receive when you do all debts paid in gratitude
Blue rice is nice while what you truly desire always tastes best We have access to all resources
Let us feed you
We love to sit with trees and connect our consciousness to theirs. We collaborate like surrendering to being a vessel only they have all our memories at our disposal so these words mean much to our being yet feel almost like in this case We are the paint not the painter. The Trees have all the wisdom We could ever need and are here ready to love you.
The Blossoms from the Pear-less Trees blow like Snow in this spring breeze glistening in the sunlight smiling as their in flight not a care about where they land becoming one again with our Mother this life one adventure after another
We live on a ranch in the Sierra Nevadas, We very much enjoy sitting and allowing Mother Earth to put on a performance for us. As we began to write this the Blossoms at that moment didn't look like Snow. I had noticed it earlier but when We sat down the Wind wasn't blowing. Once we put pen to paper and wrote "Snow in the spring breeze" it's as if Mother Earth heard us. Send a big gust a wind and it was like winter on a warm sunny day. Synchronicity is what we call it. Moments coming together to create an art piece that disappears as quickly as it was birthed. Thanks for reading.
I ground my feet into Her Gaze up at Her mountain peaks, tree tops and blue skies Taste Her springs, swim in Her seas Feel Her Love embrace me in the air that I breathe Caressing my body, filling my lungs. Her light brings life Her dark brings depths of emotion She blinds me yet helps me see so clearly She inspires, Fulfills my heart’s desires Which is simply to feel Her Underneath and all around me.
Pearl of the Indus, January fades into February. February slumbers in march on your lap, I wonder what’s with the November criminals. The waves of silence that Hit our ears and eyes in October; Did they get engulfed by the November criminals? Late into the Maytime January faded into February. The flowers napped happily As February bloomed it to march. I understand if the flowers were stolen by the November criminals But must they shroud the heavens too? The little child wails along with sky and above When the other children Set them to fire. November criminals; What do you see in those November flower pots? That you miss in march’s pots. Do they have to crackle to bring joy in you? Do they have to combust to bring life around you? When they often take them away from you. if you move with the moon every year, why conceal it with your fog every night during the five-day strike? November criminals, I’m afraid you can’t be contained. The customs are bigger than the laws in our land. Hopefully, you pass as a man-made disaster… -4324
a single perambulator idles on the cobbled stone It's filled with dusty, Fractured bones yearning, yearning mother earth cries out for those she gave birth wishing to envelop her kin once again From time now, until the end.
mangled gangly trunks spin round, growing limbs throughout the town they advance in such peculiar ways knocking bones from where they lay so they could rest where Mother meant vines covered up the corpses, and they wept
The pink sky in this gloomy evening made your heart feel something That orange ball of fiery in the sky made you presumptuous Then it all faded to grey Clarifying your uneasiness of what’s at bay Too fast for your mood fluctuations Even though it matches This weather is too much a part of your madness Everything from the sky To the rivers flowing To the air & the soil you neglect by wearing shoes How are you going to be the true you If the one thing that’s tryna help you Is dying cause of you