Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sciresen Sep 8
We bask in the burning sun no longer shadowed by trees or softened by layers of cloud and dust. We relish the heat and gloat of our strength.

"I can bare the sun."

"Look how weak its rays dart forth."

The palm tree dries its delicate arms, and the willow falls with a final exhalation.

Man doth need no shade, for a strong man weathers the sun. A great mountain boasts before the wailing shimmer, and the roses soak up the heat at their leisure.

"I am my own person."
"I am strong and independent."
"I don't need anyone."

But the roses cry without the rain, and the mountain crumbles before the trembling earth below.

The sun withers them all alike. It burns the fields and torches cities. It churns and wails and scorches the lilies.

Oh man. Poor man. How do you plead? For you built no well you lonely sinner. You lie in pain, but you cut down your shade.

You need the sun. You need the rain. You need the shelter, the friend, and the pain.

The rose was born for your pleasure and the sun to keep you warm.

So, sob in the rain, but the palm was born for shelter. Burn in the heat, but the willow reaches out.
As an American, I know who deeply ingrained independence is in our culture. We live and breath for the strongest individualism. We uphold the self-made man. We praise the single mother who made it all on her own. And these are wonderful success stories, but they should bring us to tears!

As an American who travels a lot and has lived in multiple communal cultural contexts, I understand the need for one another. I understand the baffled looks when I explain Americans habits to pay each other back to the cent. I understand the pain in my friend's hearts when they hear me talk about the beauty of a strong and independent American. They hurt. They see pain for me. They see immense loss for my American brothers and sisters. How could anyone want to be so independent?

As a guy who met a girl, who thought he loved a girl, who was told by this girl after dating for some time that she was "just too independent - always having one foot in and one foot out - afraid of commitment - wanting to make her own way in life..." I understand the pain too.

I am the willow of this story. Millions of people in Asian and African cultures would see themselves as the willow in this story. And my poem is to Western culture. More specifically, to America. Most specifically, to you.
In the Garden, by the Creek,
Stands a Tree –
A Weary Willow, weeping, in
A prayerful plea:

“The scoffing Oaks hold
All their leaves,
But mine wither in this winter;
Don’t You see?!”

But, oh, what She
Doesn’t yet know
Is that, now, below the ground,
Growing down, and reaching out –

Hidden to sight or sound –
Are her Roots, preparing Her
To bear a thing no Oak has ever known:
Fruit.

---

So, may Her weeping turn to singing
For spring is bringing
A New Beginning
…In the Garden, by the Creek.

.
You dripped
Down
On
Me
And I
Waited on
...
.
...
Each drop
Slow
But
So
Worth
Waiting for
...
.
...
Sticky and
Oh so
So
Oh
Sweet
Your taste
...
.
...
On my lips
I bow be
For
Her
Queen
In the tree
...
.
...
Melting
Into
Us
Into
Both of Us
Bee
......
Hive Queen
.....
Bee
Leafy limbs dangle
Lazily. Melancholy
Resides in the name
Willow shade Jul 27
Ah, my Sun! You are still shining somewhere
Keeping the secret of lifetime seasons
You give light and reveal the consequences
Inside my dark brain where lie reasons

Take a look and see this abandoned willow
The leaves are shriveled and desperately pale
The nests were blown away by winds of blues
As there will never sing a nightingale

I will become green again and again
It is just a way of deeper growing
Sometimes I need to be pruned  by solitude
Sometimes to be watered by melancholy

...And you really smelled life, sounded meaning
You nourished the seeds for inner peace and rest
My young and evergreen saplings are growing
You will meet me one day in a willow forest
De una
Historia
Ahora
Ya
;
No
Engaño
La Fàbula
Comienza
Hoy
#####
Simon
Persephone Jul 6
Her wings fell away
And she descended into the willow
Screaming for her laughter
And wishing for her hope
She warped into a free fall
Crashing into heartless branches
Grasping for a helpful hand
Engulfed in wordless fear
Forgetting to believe in herself
The uniVerse Oct 2017
The silence it deafens me
with violence they threaten me
to carry me off to an asylum
unless I can provide them
with an ulterior motive
till I hand in my notice
relinquish the chains upon my bed
the fiendish brain inside my head
deviously plotting my own demise
take leave from this place to warmer tides
bathe my body beneath calmer skies
naked like the day I drew breath
naked as I stare upon death
one hand holding a crooked scythe
the other beckoning to me, my life
did you forget to count the die?
or forgo the countless lies
that made the Countess cry
neither man nor mystery could change her path
so it's left to me to rearrange the past
jigsaw pieces scattered upon my pillow
connecting dots to draw the willow
who could forget the weeping widow
that cried herself to sleep.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzgaX_GHJRE/
grace Jul 2
her matted long hair trembles
as the clouds scream danger
and the white birds
fly free

terror radiates through her
leaving her finger tips curled
shaking her rough skin
***** from time

lightening pierces through the sky
and she trembles again
clinging on
to what she knows

relief washes over her
as the droplets soften
and she knows
she will remain
an old poem
Next page