Ren117 5d

Be awake and walk
Through the copse of trees.
Descend the staircase
To the warm fire's will.

In thy merry home
Life begins to flow.
Rise once more among
The sycamore trees.

Gentle golden leaves
Brushes autumns chilly air
With really sweet dreams

I drink this cup of water
For maybe if I quench my thirst
The dry hole in my chest might grow whole again
They say if you pour water to a planted seed
Life will sprout out of it
But human flesh
No matter how wet
Is no place to sustain life
The seed in me has never been so dead before

The world is filled with seeds
All shapes, size and colors
I want to be like the ripe ones
Where their prosaic is pleasure, and breathing is bliss
I want to be like the other trees around me
Tall, green, powerful, and safe
Bless this pure heart of mine for thinking it was possible to find life after death
Like a tree when its branches are cut in the dead winter
Like a tree that rises from its crisp brown death in the lively spring

Mother Nature, why are we not strong like trees?
Why do we not possess the power to regrow our branches when it comes for us?
Even my hair turns brown and dead
And falls like leaves of autumn trees
Yet unlike autumn trees
I don't grow back what was lost
Even when they snap my heart into pieces
All that will be on the floor is pieces
No part will become new again

Mother Nature, why do you lie to me?
Why do you tell me that I am part of your divine when in truth I am wretched?
Maybe that's why humans are so adamant about taking you apart
Mixing and blending your parts
Into little pieces of profit
Into little pieces of power
Our selfish revenge is inexcusable
We know but our horrible judgement is what makes us human

I cried over this dry hole
My tears are insufficient
The seed remains dead
And we remain malicious

Revive the seeds.
Donna Jones Sep 13

Turning a new page
Masters of the universe
Start a new chapter

Many leaves falling now will miss summer but it will soon arrive again x

A seed is planted
On the earth.
Watered with care
And touched with life.

A seed grows
Into a sapling
Watered by god,
And touched with hope.

Now a seed grows
Into a teenager
A teenage tree
Imagine that

Finally a seed grows
Into a man
And that man wrote poetry
And had ideas

Like maybe we're all just trees
In a never ending forest
Or were all just fish
In a sea of faces

But that doesn't make us the same
For there are many kinds of fish
And there are many kinds of trees

I mainly write haiku so this is was more difficult for me to do.

I wrote to you, love.
I hope you got my message.
I am leaving here.

Listen to me.
Pagan Paul Sep 10

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 (2016/2017)

David W Sep 6

This one is raw and unedited. It's about the forest in the Columbia River Gorge, here in Oregon, USA, that has been all but burned away in the last three days. I simply needed to get it down before I lost the light. That said, I would love any corrections or critiques you might have, as it needs a lot of work.

I walked these halls in happier days,
With climbing emerald walls,
This home of mine with laughter filled,
And chattering down, the falls.
These rooms were filled with golden light,
Floors carpeted in green,
That caught the twisting shadows cast,
From Ancient swaying beams.
Our stony seats with careless cast,
Arranged by smiling brookes,
And the ceiling somewhere whispers —
Pages in ancient books.
This home of mine had stories, once,
Written in wood and stone,
A joyful secret always kept,
For family alone.
I’ll walk these halls again, some day,
Though my bones will then be old,
My memories of happier days,
I’ll have written down and sold.
This home of mine will laugh again,
And chatter in the falls.
The golden light on mossy floors,
And younger, greener walls.
But this home of mine is hollow, now,
Her mossy crown laid down.
These walls are dark and ashen now,
That once were tall and proud.
My children will not dance upon
Those golden, mossy floors.
These rivers in their endless run,
Now weep, and laugh no more.
Those stories now are burned away,
That I once used to know,
Those secrets now are stolen from
The ceiling laid so low.
I wonder why with foolish hands,
They’ve burned this house of mine.
With gleeful shouts they sent it off,
To bleed, and burn, and die.
What amusement could be worth the cost,
Of this home of mine?
I hope it was worth the laugher,
That killed this home of mine.
I’ll walk these halls again someday,
I hope in happier times.
For oh to rest my weary bones,
In this old home of mine.

Renée Casey Mar 8

There's a space in my heart shaped
like cloudy skies and rain- spattered glasses.
It's shaped like breathless,
sweeping green and
trees as high as my hopes.

Someday maybe that space will be filled.

Inkveined Sep 4

I could have stayed until the earth disintegrated

I could have cried until the oceans turned red with jealousy

I could have laughed until the sky held no more oxygen

I could have sighed until the moon pushed tides away

I could have listened until the trees had no more words

But, instead I ran

Saying, I could have

I could have

But you don't deserve all those things.

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