Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
III Jul 9
How content
     Could it be
That in this life after death
     I grow again as a willow tree,
Standing weak to
     Dry wind blowing calm,
           In a grassy field,
           High on a hill,
     Alone against the contrast
           Of the sky
     And together with the symmetry
           Of existing just for the sake of it.
An attempt to remind us what comes out when the sun goes down, but I know what the darkness brings.
It brings your smile. Nothing could have been as bright and magical in the dead of this summer night. Not even the willow lights.
To absent is my heart that beats

And bitter tears inside me weep

Amongst the crowds I am alone

I live each day yet have no home

My soul drops like a weeping willow

The life long journey of a widow
Some days the wind blows
and bends yonder willow
  Its roots hold sway
  perched high upon
  steep sea cliff walls
No gale could affix
a bow to such a limber
heartwood backbone
  Wind arched echoes
  undulate to and fro
  alike a gentle restoration;
  a resilience unrenowned

It looks as if it takes
the skies weight so lightly,
while the rising waves
gather an unhallowed chill
fomenting untamed
at the heart of the prevailing
       westerly swell

A human tends to lean rigidity
right up to the yonder most edge,
a thin line threshold
        a step away  ―
pushed by a moment's gravity;
a blind jump over a cliff
into an unfathomable deep ocean
       far beyond
       a forgiving
       willow's bend

Jesse Stillwater ... 09  May  2018
They say willow trees are weeping because
their branches sag towards the ground
while all the other trees
choose to reach up and up
towards a gorgeous sky

But perhaps willows just know that
you gain nothing from
grasping towards an endless horizon
and no matter what you do
you will never touch the clouds
nor will reaching them
do anything for you

and instead they let their branches bend
towards an earth
that yields boundless and glittering treasures
diamonds and gold
for those who are willing
to put in the work
and keep their feet on the ground
My work has me weeping :P.
A girl sits beneath a willow tree
alone, pondering the branches,
embracing the cracks of the bark
while the scenery around her
flutters away in the bitter wind.
The secluded still point she had
built for her own protection
peaks at the last drop of breath
and roles off of her bottom lip,
but does not completely vanish.
Her thoughts of then and now
pile up onto an abundance of polluted
picture books, stacked beneath
the leaves of the tree. However,
they too flutter away with the wind,
lost in the sea of empty desires
and leave her to ponder the tree;
Only the old willow tree remains.
Her eyes trace the the divide
between the willow and the nothingness,
and she could feel the weight of nothing
pressing down on the branches.
The abundance of absence tugging
each limb closer and closer to her feet
and yet closer to the edge of nothingness.
The willow is now her pondering home,
the place where her free-most self
is trapped under the convexity
of her dearly beloved willow tree.
She sits and sits and wonders the beyond
of nothingness, but feels no inclination
to leave her familiarity, her home.
The bark forms her armor, the grain
becomes her fortress, and the trunk
is her best friend, whom keeps her warm.
She sits and sits, and will continue to sit,
forever more, forever less.
For my dearly beloved girlfriend who struggles with depression, anxiety, and paranoia.
Seanathon Jan 21
Thin like the willow
Grey as the dove

Quiet as the wind beneath which pesters the cat floats the wings and sweeps the city streets clean of debris

Dark as the asphalt
Soft as the paws

Lean like meat
Old like soil
And slick like oil as it drips from beneath

Shaking like the bedrock
The running water whips

Damp as the corners
And dry as your eyes
It slips

And where asphalt meets the mossgrown bricks
Corners are placed and worlds collide

And the man within is locked away
Within the metaphorical city street

Would the Central Park I know and love, return to me?
In all such glory

The Willow trees
Must go.
Star BG Jan 1
Old man Willow stands,
regal and proper.
Giving shelter to birds
and is instrument for wind to whistle.

He’s full of wisdom in his roots
that meander to hug feet.
Allows one to hear grand tales
and invites meditation
beneath its woven majestic branches.

medicine from leaves
become tools for healing’s.

Old man river is his friend in distant
as they both sing
in backyard of Mother Gia’s garden.

Yes Old Man Willow is a gift of a sage
who patiently waits to impart his wisdom.
a gift I bow to inside gratitude and smile.
Topic Inspired by Closet Case...Thanks
Next page