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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
Steve Page Feb 19
It's seems way too early
for blossom
and for blossom to fall.
But who am I to judge?
I've never borne such beauty.
Walked past a tree and was showered in white blossom
Zywa Feb 11
The citizens talk

down the lime trees: they're dripping --


honey every year.
Poem "De voorwaarden" ("The conditions", 1991, Ed Leeflang)

City dwellers demand nature without inconveniences

Collection "Willegos"
MuseumofMax Dec 2023
I’d like to be a willow tree
Swaying next to a cottage

I’d like to be the morning grass
Smelling of fresh dew

I’d like to be the ocean
Calm and steady
Powerful and wise

I’d like to be the warm sand
Letting waves wash it’s surface

I’d like to be a purring cat by a fireplace
Warmed and sleepy

I’d like to feel the bliss

The trees feel

Each time the sun shines brightly

I’d like to feel the sky
As I sit among clouds

I’d like to be a book
Being read for the first time

I’d like to be a painting
To be admired by all

I’d like to be a warm cup
of Chamomile tea

I hope one day
I can like
being me.
Bill MacEachern Dec 2023
Everything Trees

They’re shade
From the sunshine
Shield from the rain
Pulp for the paper
And wood for whittling

They’re body’s
For climbing
Arms for a swing
Markers of time
And fruit for picking


They’re trunks
For the tapping
Billboards of love
Home for critters
High on up above

They’re kindling
For cooking
Heat in our hearths
Leaves for the looking
With your sweetheart

So everybody
Listen to me
Give a big hug
To the
Everything tree


Bill MacEachern
10/29/2021
hyun Nov 2023
whatever i touch
turns into tragedy—
Midas wishes his hands
were made of mine.

i dare not touch
trees and their leaves—
their old age
will not matter
once i graze their skin.

i do wonder
if everything good
that comes are worthy
of my ruin—
they quickly turn
sour and ugly
once they,
finally,
rest their heads
on my lap
and i am left here,
once again,
picking up the scraps,
telling myself
nothing incredibly,
or inherently, bad
has happened yet.

but what if it comes?

what if the world
decides to put
the blame on me
and punish me
for simply being alive?

should i keep
crawling back
to life?

or should i
accept the fate
i have been given?
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.
Kaitlin Sep 2023
the trees were my first love.
you are my second, maybe.
i don’t love you any less, baby,
just because i love them first
and maybe more or deeper.
then again, i miss you more—
but how could i miss the trees,
even as they fill my lungs?
and are nourished by my wastes?

until i turn blue and later black
and later seed, root, and flower
the trees will love me more.
Heidi Franke Sep 2023
One more before I go.
Into the wilderness of parts and dreams. A happy send off in the cool morning.

I will be back in a new form perhaps, a more rounded crown of a tree, after years of pruning.
A "wild and precious life" with untold horrors, spoken dreams, and wandering caravans of thought.

In yellow abodes loving kindness which is yours. Maybe it will seep in like a root gives to it's leaves. Traveling through twisted currents. It's fragile rose petals. Short lived. But remembered.
It's almost mid September and the Julia Child rose bush pushes out it's last rose for this year. A year of waiting, trauma, wandering untethered.
neth jones Aug 2023
in the worst oppressive nights
breeding chafer beetles
  bead the trees   outside the hospital
they copulate
in their hundreds of thousands

what a release
summer 23
no. 4

16/07/23
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