em>Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. -Herman Hesse

This willow weeps for no one

It hears the mountain's tears
riding on the backs of slow waves

This willow knows

that the sun's silence
is understood by every atom

It knows

that soon the rocks will rise up and
take arms

They will wage a war against concrete
and flesh

Soon the earth will heave a sigh of relief
and will resume feeding the willows that have
long ago stopped crying
I love willow trees and it's true, this one spoke to me. I'm simply its messenger.
the following quite quirky epistle may not exhibit the ordinary characteristics of poetry, but i decided to share this self made challenge (where every word begins with the letter "S" - no explanation can be offered why such self cerebral torture imposed, nor what motivated me to focus on the nineteenth letter of the english alphabet at the exclusion of other noble vowels and consonants.
Sunday September seventh started seemingly same since...silver screen show secured seventy seven SeventhSeals.

Soupy Sales supreme salient strengths (starring smart snarky sidekick Springer Spaniel Socrates same species sansSnoopy) salvaged sagging sporting sorties. Slap stick stereotypical swashbuckling shticks supplied shipshape shenanigans.

Spartan stage set spurred spontaneous simply stupefying solution. Suede shod schlemiel. Sartre seasoned scenes. Sharp sticks supported sphere. Seats situated semicircular semblance.

SPCA, Siemens, Sears sponsored soiree. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious shouted satirically 'specially Saturdays seemingly sellout. Spontaneous spritely Shogun Samurai sangroid stance satiated slipups stripping stellar seasoned Skidamarinks substitutes sacredly, seminally, silently, slipstreaming soulfully saving saga.

Sometimes silly spouse studiously sought spurious strategy stringing superlatives showcasing senseless sophomoric soporific skills specifically spelling storybook sassy sharpshooters supposedly sleuthing shapeless seated sideways (sic seasonal slate smug spotified snapchatting skippers selfishly scooped sloop-ful seasonal six-packs) sinister Swiss scalpers sat sometimes squatted.

Sirens sounded secretly securing source. Strait sacks swooshed scamps scaling sensitive sentries (simply spayed seals) surveying surrounding staked spy sotted sham semicircular slipshod shelter. Snappy, Snippy, Snoopy suited Skyhawks surprisingly swooped somnambulant senseless scriveners. Sargent Salemander slipped shiny shimmering shellacked Sheppards Shutterfly sidearms sized simulated small skyscraper slinky, soapy, spooky squarely summoned, sentenced, sacrificed see swarthy Samsonite satraps Section SpecialOps.

Sometime soon savior snuck stealthily stealing sinful schleppers. sundown syzygy saw serendipitous, surreptitious, surreptitious segue-way shuttled safely Scottish shoals. Stigmatization stayed steady. Supplication statements swatted. Sole survivor swiftly spun self shaming sesquipedalian soliloquy. Sea side serenade soon spewed solipsism saving Slim Shady.

Sayonara seminal surfer swirling scarily sans sinister serpentine silent space.
Tanisha Jackland Dec 2017
I am like an old willow
hoping you will notice me
that you'd want
to hold my embrace in yours
tree branch to flesh
compromising our nuances
like old friends
diving into each others
thought bubbles
and seeking out the lit sun
in our eyes...
who's to say that the tree
is not sentient
maybe we are not tree enough
just seed thoughts
floating along
for a place to belong
a place worth settling for...
Trees are people too.
Mark Wanless Nov 2017
"Amber Noise"

The amber noise of sunrise
       the sable dead tonight
And in between a spectrum
       of beings sentient
Accost the earth with myriad feet
       pounding as a drum
A frantic beat of busyness
       gild vestibule of mind
colzzmacdonald Nov 2017
The love of a woman
Is paramount to life, as he breathes it
One must die to oneself
Before rapture takes over in copious amounts
Inside an embittered heart
Where a mind of morbid thoughts rely on
The earth revolving around its axle
As the soul seeps heaven lost to a physical realm
Forgotten are the languid moments
Of perfection not found in this land
Those only held in humankind
The act of freewill
Kills completion of mind, body and soul
Doomed to failure in a world controlled by greed
Supported by power hungry demons
Sent to diminish the goodness
We only find in our visions of Nirvana
We can only dream of such fulfillment
Until we cross over beyond a material world
Where eternal rest seems so inviting
Peace will bring equilibrium
Love will be of a higher quality
O sweetest death...
How I long for you
Is the true love we feel, even possible to live out in this life?
Unknown and known
Poetic terms that you
Delicately paint across
The screen

Unreal and real
Canvas 's

Is like n opium
Is a lovely simile
Is a metaphor for a fantastic
Is a statement
Of falling in love
With your words
With your work
With the You
Aetheral and crystalized
Snowflakes through air
Briefly temporal, anchored
On the misty treetops of my
Unreasonable reason
Holding on those
Unleaved, yet loving
Widspread branches
Waver and yeald...within
Blizzards of swirling
Of my and thine mind
Growing from souls
Spontaneously, naturally,
Without a question!?

Rays of our universal consciousness
Gently melt snowflakes into the water
That sleeps and slides awaken slipping

Downwards the lichened tree barks toward The ground, appointing and connecting
North, South, East and West
Where they rejoice the seasonal
Foundation of fastbinding spins
Thine and mine
Tiny dot particles asking eachother
Inviting the most beautiful
To appear
The foundation of love...
Dance of life. . .
Paul Butters May 2015
The Laws of Physics say
That Everyone Dies
And is Gone:
Every blade of grass, insect, man and woman.
Every sentient being.
From Big Bang to Big Whatever.
They all Die.

Yet is there more than this?
Something of the spirit.
More than ghosts
And poltergeists.
An afterlife
In Heaven.
Another Realm.

Some say that when you die
You re-join The One Being,
Let’s call it “God”.

Your individuality may be gone,
But you become part of that Super-Consciousness,
The One,
And thus Remain.

The logic of this is frightening:
It means that I am part of God,
Just going through a phase
We call Life,
In readiness for
For Ever.

You too are part of God
And logic dictates
That I am my own Mum and Dad,
My sister, friends and everyone else:
Mother Theresa, Hitler, Shakespeare
And Eddie The Eagle.

I am a wasp, a lion, a dolphin, a tree
Maybe even a germ.
Another poet
Commenting on my poems.
I’m even You.

Better get on with it then.
I’ve got plenty to do!

Paul Butters
Still thinking...
Akemi Aug 2013
Conscious creature
You opened your eyes
And saw into infinity
Beyond a vast divide

You walked with agitation
Under a circadian sphere
But in slumber lapped upon
A recursive lie turned fear

So you gnawed and you nibbled
You scratched and you split
Without a pause in your malice
Until reality thinned

Until the atmosphere bled
All life, light, and breath
And you were left with closed eyes
And vast emptiness
11:29pm, July 30th 2013

'to dream' or 'sentience is suffering'.

We can imagine things far greater than reality can give. Those unreachable things will blind you to all the beauty in your surroundings.

Inspired by: http://topshelfrecords.bandcamp.com/album/lacuna

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