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owls in willow trees
saddest of images to me

owls in willow trees
softened broken limbs in me

owls in willow trees
let mossy scars all over me

owls in willow trees
night windows time in me

owls in willow trees
now have nothing to do with me

owls in willow trees
where I have been arrives in me

owls in willow trees
more than many of each of me

owls in willow trees
past beyond memory me

owls in willow trees
now there is enough of me
Rose Albireo May 2020
Picking, lacy clouds from April skies
to make a bouquet of wildflowers,
I get tired of leaning and think of was

since when did I decide to
hide myself behind insincerity?  

Made, my wish come true
by writing one more poem on
dull riots of burning willows

twice-born within
seven days of this in a hotel
of days like a passing shadow

Pitied, myself for being so
for having such a weak
and childish heart  

Humm, in the marketplace  
I patiently pick out the perfect
moments from a basket of kiwis

Surprised, by ten years roamed
of letting days go idly by
while I stay perfectly still

compiling my work
of brushing grass and prose,
not caring anymore about fame

Mindless, my shutter snaps
another beautiful day that’s mine
and I quickly pin it on my wall

without a word,
I fall from April skies
Rowan Ash Mar 2019
On the bank of a river
A weeping willow sags down,
Crying quietly into
The shallow water.
I watch, as the sun rises,
And slowly dries the tears.
    But yet;
I see a single tear slowly
Meander its way down a
Lone branch, dropping gently
A ripple forms, a never-ending
Circle of gentle waves and
Unbroken promises.
And I watch silently,
As they reach out to forever.
Shut your eyes and go
to sleep listening to the
gnarled willows weep.
Kisses on the forehead
goodnight to ensure you
are tucked in just right.
I will sing you a gentle
lullaby as the birds fly
off into the jet black sky.
The moon is laying low
for you to use as a night
light in case you are to
get a nightmare and feel
a distressing kind of fear.
But do not be scared of
what lurks and loiters in
the shadows of your soul
for I will hold your hand
and tame those demons
to a dominant demand.
The hold they have had
for quite some time is
now reaching the end
of its disintegrated line.
I can see your cold smile
defrosting in the sun now
as the willows shake off
the winter snow and you
capture some of the new
season’s glow inside of
your wholesome soul.
So my beloved friend,
shut your eyes and sleep
listening to the willows
weep as now this peace
is finally yours to keep!
Kiara Hoxie Dec 2018
Over the mountains you may find
The wind blowing clouds over the sky
Lovely flowers blooming
Under the mountains looming
The wind will sigh
Making the trees wave
The reeds will cry
Their joyful tune
The daffodils will dance
In the bright light of noon
And the willows will shake
With every breath the wind takes
AsJay Nov 2018
Knowing my head’s telling me lies
But my throat hurts as it swallows
Thoughts buzzing ‘round like fireflies
While underneath the willows

From the rising of the sun
To the sunset during summer
It’s hard to forget someone
That gave you so much to remember

Cannot sleep in this empty bed
Unsure if I’m gonna cope
Many colorful shapes in my head
Like an everlasting kaleidoscope

Again seeing you in my cavity
When you wrote an address that night
That wasn’t just a dream to me
I’m gonna hyperventilate

Figuring out what happened to you
Why our talks ended so sudden
Still wanting to find the truth
Two years with completely nothing

It’s easier to move on I know
But you have to understand
Everyone said to just let go
I guess I was a one-man band

I remember when I saw her face
When I heard her say my name
She wasn’t just another grace
I felt her make me sane

Delusion they call it, sensing their hate
I know I saw you in every dream
Hope doesn’t have an expiry date
But silence is the loudest scream
This poem, Willows, was a rather emotional piece to come up with and took some time to construct because of the emotion and story behind it.
The poem is about a person that came into my life back a few years ago, we became close but have since lost contact and the connection that was once so fluent, although she and her memory has stayed with me ever since.
Does anyone else out there wish that sometimes they didn't have such a good memory? Because I most certainly do, but she's a memory I'd rather keep in mind.
Anywho, so here it is... my latest poem, Willows.
forestfaith Jun 2018
There I was, tired and all, basking under a willow tree. Nothing much, just reading a book, reading aloud once in a while… Birds chirping, river, still flowing, the sun, still shining. The light of the sun peeks through the leaves of the willow trees, playing a game of hide and seek.The willows swaying by and by, just going with its own river of life, still flowing. Just swaying to the rhythm of the wind. The willows, their leaves, they look like raindrops, hanging down from the tree. Just so beautiful, those willows, , so free and peaceful, covering over me as i sleep….
I love this one too
Destiny sans mine family of origin domicile
   locked in a full nelson,
   and...eventually wrestled
   to the ground as pile of jagged rubble!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Synonymous with fragile hulk
   (pitted against backhoe and wrecking ball)
   incredibly resilient,
   when incessantly whip lashed
   until unanchored off mooring

thence, her frail exterior (rabidly
chomped via humungous steely toothed jaws)
bowed, teetered and collapsed
stern weight accosted, beckoned, and caved, 
spot on dead reckoning,

   non bash full machination yen
suffering being most weather beaten
   since about nineteen ten
embodying painstaking craftsmanship
   from way back when,

effort to build an enduring domicile
   ruled as blueprint for a den
not necessarily of thieves,
but extra ordinary ship shape,
   rich n hard folks (The Leipers)

fancying innovative
   Hercules hue men, and women 
who wrought their family genealogy
   via quilted pen
predecessors of Barbie and their ken
Erected by strong strapping young men.

Since February 28th 1968
   mighty noble domain occupied
by thine now octogenarian widower father
echoing with ghosts,
   who formerly inhabited 324 Level Road
(plus spirit of deceased mother), 

a plethora of past occupants came to life
when’re he visited berth of his lady friend
who lives in the langhorne area
haggled with Gambone builders
   to pocket a *** of cash
resigned immeasurable

   blood, sweat and tears all for naught,
nor without Miley Cyrus astride
   the demolition destroyer
which hundred year old mansion
once a stately summer resort
   (to the upscale who owned 
the Bell & Clapper),

   a respectable haven for well to do Philadelphians
whar English ivy obscured visible slated patio
upon said pseudo pier viewer proffered view
where lily padded fishpond aqua culture bounded

(where froggy went a court'n
   hopping tubby a prince) below decks
which once renown estate
accrued facade as mere dark shadow 
sitting like a charade along,

   the outer limits of the twilight zone 
casting shadowy silhouettes, 
   sans lovely bones the edge of night
versus former vestige of former radiant glory
prompted this prodigal son to be somber and brood
perchance never to set my eyes, whereat 

no artisan gentrified abode of vested gentry 
thus, debilitating, hunkering,
   and landing plain trampled
so much uniqueness expended viz zit by the hands 

of thine extraordinarily dexterous
   hands of me papa,
who spent immeasurable energy
and countless precious blocks of time 
to gentrify, mend and rescue
   from natural degradation

(whence thee bell tolled the hour
   maws gouged gored a gaping hole 
from this fixer upper, 
   the entire complex edifice
Like fate of humpty Dumpty

   did crumble and fall 
vis a vis, our own Roman version
Thence, my father removed a sign
passersby (whether on foot or via auto de fe), 
would never know, nor glance to read

historical indication, viz the original occupants 
i.e. captain Leiper, and listed in registry
steered his shipshape tract titled "Glen Elm",
a vast vibrant 100 + green acres
before dilapidated home
   listlessly lumbered ponderously

with nary hub buyer shaking hands at acceptable price
thus, the sad outcome as indicated above
mine dada did agreed
   on a deal with contractor 
who bought scrappy spit of land

Acres bandied crumbs
   dealt enough finances "bread"
hence (as explained)
   by the end of November 2012 
demolition crews 
   bull dozed childhood crucible
   of memories without fail.
On quiet afternoons
When soft winds blow
When grass covers tombs
And delicate buds grow

When drooping branches shade
And birds make nest
Before sun's rays fade
And drowsy children rest

When long days close
And innocent babies sleep
Only one who's vigilant knows
When old willows weep
Bridget Ewing Feb 2017
the acid green numbersof the digital clock surge
flickering indefinitely against their black-board canvas
Symbols in a constant flow of rotation, here where our circadian rhythm dances, 
stepping forward gently into the grace of each hour
You taught me to move my feet,
I passively glide to her lead
as she guides my hand
tilts up my chin with the night of her finger tips
into the sea of the sky my moss marble eyes sink
clinging to the vast, black, uncertainty of it all
a weight off my shoulders,
now chained to my ankles
no better than a corpse, within the hold of gravity’s grasp
flooded airways
who had just met an unknowing last breath
which had escaped silently into the innocence of reflective bubbles.
And if still waters run deep,
is it wrong to tread them blindly? Shattered as the seashells scattered across the frantic ocean floor
is the state of the sanctuary
that I used to know as my mind.
Cement side walks still cracking in encounter with life’s forces
sentenced by it’s own inflexibility. 
But with the willows i’ll bend, 
swaying silently with the sureness of the traveling breeze
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