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CA Guilfoyle Feb 2017
These winter trees
cold and shouldering winds
their bending branches unhinge
falling limbs crash and break the snow
further still a secret world of mud and bulbs
that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns
and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms
this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.
Rexhep Morina Apr 2017
extensions to an emotion
grown like branches on a tree,
blooming towards beauty,
further reaching the sky,
touching the blue
with the tip of the flowers.
life, bursting out,
in one way or another.
endurance, the key
a way of living, so to speak
surviving the storm, or adapting to it.
giving the branches strength,
strength to withstand the worst,
only to be given another day
another day to bloom,
another day to grow,
to branch out, thicken and, burst out
into something unexplainable,
rather observable,
reaching out to hights
and depths, simultaneously.
most of the times, filling the notes is way more difficult than writing poems, but oh well, I don't like to leave blank spaces, it's just another opportunity to write something, enjoy.
Katira Niquidet May 2017
Rain plummets from your branches
to my face,
Overflowing leaf's chimb
Onto unvigilant ish limbs
While my blinking eyes are dim,
You long for an embrace,

Without word yet of rejection,
You are ever bold.
You've thrown your achy breeze at me
And now you throw those icy leaves at me
Cause this pain to freeze in me.
With your icy hold.

I do not have a love for you
Deluging tree.
Stay close to your own stem,
You're a cold love I condemn
Leave me in my lonesome,
Can you not see?

I do not want your flowers, berries,
branch nor bark
I don't want your petals' play,
Nor your leafy locks to sway,
I want your leaflets to on this day
remain at far.

Your frosty touch on my skin
it blanches
I'm not ready for love so steely
I suspect I never will be
So stick to your own tree, please
Rainy branches.
Inspired by George H. Miles' Said the Rose 2001
Kathryn Rose Mar 2018
Don't you dare speak those words.

You know exactly what they will do,
to you,
and to him.

There will be no more
you and him.

Like the peach blossoms
broken from the delicate, young branches,
the verbal hail storm,
the weight of the ice,
will knock him to the frozen ground.

Raw,
Unsure how much affection he can return,
of how his own whirling thoughts fit with yours.
Your tale, far from fairy, will end.

Your open heart will shrivel,
like the salty sardines you left on the wooden picnic table
in the burning sun.

You will regret your thoughts and
you will regret your feelings,
but know, sadly, there was nothing left to do,
but leave too soon.
ryn Oct 2014
Give me a minute
To read the stars
Lamenting in their stories
Their laboured twinkling far and sparse

Give me this moment
To stumble and swoon
My branches reaching for
The faraway moon

Give me a while
To be one with the universe
Hear the colliding planets
As they spill their mournful verse

Give me some time
To plot my rightful place
Within my uncharted galaxy
And collapsing space...
Nathalie Dec 2018
Pearls of rain kissed each petal

Of pink, yellow and green

As the rabbit scurried to find refuge

Under the old birch tree

The branches mingled playfully

To support each other under

A sky of gray mixed clouds



The howling echo of the wind

Reverberated throughout

the house, announcing

the arrival of the scowling storm

adding a sense of urgency

to fasten all the windows shut.



Trails of papers scattered on

the floor as the air stormed through

the entrance of the study

and the scent of jasmine

from the neighbouring yard

filled the empty spaces.



The cat curled up on the sofa

As birdy remained quiet

And found comfort at the

bottom of its cage; feasting

on seeds that had tumbled

to the ground floor of its castle.



We smiled as the awareness

Of our heightened state

Revealing the contrast

Between the brewing storm

And the peace that flowed

Through our hearts …



~Nathalie
Jesse stillwater May 2018
.

He liked to gather up the silence in the springtime
  Pack it up and carry it in an old timeworn leather rucksack
From a distance it looked like he was a senseless fool
  Picking up handfuls of nothing;  then putting it in an empty jar


No mind is paid to the fleeting glance in the corner of a stranger's eyes
  They were out of reach from the box he was living in
He kept gathering up the endless silence like missing pieces of a lost soul
   It seemed to be everywhere ―  and in it heard,  the only voice he knew


Supposing all his thoughts pondered come forth of silence
  Often resting sheltered beneath branches where it grew on the trees ―
It wasn't just the songbird that broke the stillness in dappled sunlight
  It was the dearth of love that rivers through a strong heartbeat’s
silenced words ...


Jesse Stillwater

04   May   2018
Thank you for reading and considering "gathering silence"
L B Jun 2018
I don't think about it any more
I take out the trash
noting
Sticks caught in the crotch of a tree
The wind does what the wind does
breaks weaker branches down
does not care where
it leaves
them
on its invisible way

Days do what the days do
they don't count themselves
worthy as they go
to release
the afternoon
to evening—
an artless
emptying
to a low spot
where tears tend to pool
if I'd let them down

“You know,
in that low spot
out there...?”
Where it's hard to see
Where its hard to care?

They take heart
out
divide it by energy
for sadness—
I haven't got

Watched the clock go round
wipe out my little plans
with relentless hands

...and I never got dressed today
6-12-18
The echoing sound of seagulls
Flying above the sea
And leaves upon their branches
Such a wonderful harmony.

Nature's inspiration was it
The reason for his call
From a humble shepherd on the land
To packing out town halls.

Music there within his soul
And words inside his head
Singing was his only goal
His future, good as read.

He sang his songs every day
He was asked to join a choir
Little did he realise
His fame would grow much higher.

He made a massive impact
Wherever he would go
Although he never wrote a song
His voice would steal the show.

He found himself a little band
They became like family
He treated them like brothers
The way that it should be.

Suddenly his fame was over
The result of a tragedy
Sadly he left us
Leaving behind his legacy.
My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-
All feedback is appreciated and welcome!
Esther Krenzin Oct 2018
Strong and resolute, it stands
seeking with claw-like limbs
for sunlight and raindrops.
Leaves, crimson and gold
slip from trailing branches
coming to rest on frozen ground.
Whispering and sighing
the great oak bends and sways
in the icy wind.
Roots, beneath the surface
delve deep down
growing
strengthening
as ages pass--
untouched by frost.
The strong winds may blow
and wage their wars
brittle branches may splinter.
But still the oak stands
bending
not breaking against the forces.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
We must learn to be more flexible in life, and not let the world make us hard and unforgiving. If a tree were hard and brittle, than it would break and fall over. And if it had no roots, it would never be standing in the first place. When we are born, we are born a tree bud with roots like small veins. As the years past we grow and learn the ways of the world, our roots growing and spreading. Life may be difficult, there may be suffering, and we may become hard and splinter into pieces. But remember that everything that is broken, comes back stronger than before. I once saw lightning strike down a towering oak, causing it to fall and leave nothing but a barren stump.
After a year or two, a little tree began to grow from the stump of its former self, becoming everything it was before it fell--if not even more beautiful.
To this day, it still stands, looking as if nothing ever happened.
Life will knock you down, but it is your choice whether or not you will stand up again, or stay down.
King Panda Nov 2015
you in quail feathers means
that your red is my red
and the way that you taste pizza
is the way that I taste it

our
homogeneous brains
hard mother
hard father
the states we were raised in

melt running through
area 41 where the nefarious
Rolando implanted
our splitting
branches

qualia
what it means for you
to have mental states
pure consciousness
perceiving you there
in the corner

your toenails still painted
purple
Anecandu Jul 2018
The gilded opening is terse and with age defined,
Locking away the pathway from a golden mind,
Hairlike roots of tiny letters form a braid,
Ficus-ing along stretching prongs of Purple and Jade,

Pushing they gather and spider around its ovate curves,
occasioning sprouts from cracks lips perturbed,
grammarized rain fertilizing delicate pods of flesh,
blossoming frosty lemon blooms of T's R's come to rest,

The bunched words hanging, dangling like grapes, of frailty,
dipping on fickle branches barely holding on to reality,
threatening to fall like daggered swords,
But alas are some silently whispered Jamaican words
Lawrence Hall Oct 2018
“Thy people shall be my people”

                                          -Ruth 1:16

Smoke rises here from foul Gehenna’s fires
Fires set by souls twisted like cold barbed wire
Sole argument of ideologies
Strung geometrically from hate to hate

Smoke rises here; soft ashes fall as death
Torah, Mishnah, and Gemera – and us
For without the Word and the People Israel
We are but wraiths, and darkly blown about

O Israel!

You are the broom tree in the wilderness
The Tree of Life who shelters all with love
You are the tent of Sarah and Abraham
And we are blessed who find refuge in you
King Panda May 2016
this table in the
shade
these commune hippies
in the river
I wrote a poem
in my sleep
I looked at the mountains
and thought
rain
staccato
metronome
irrigation
and caps
melting
but enough of this
nature
let’s go back
to the concrete
mouth
where we walk
through the city
full of cake
bloated like
balloons
but rolling
because
cake doesn’t make
you float
no
cake only makes you
fat
the conversation turns
to the stench
there’s something dying
in the air
we leave
and roll joints
spot magnums
on tree branches
and think
only monkeys ****
in trees
and we would never
want to see
monkey ***
and ******?
no
we’d never try it
and the homeless man next to us
puts his spoon
away
but god
why do we sleep
when we just wake up?
why do we sleep
to dream
such ******-up
things
where celebrities
feed us salami in
back alleyways
and we see our mother
pooping on
world maps?
time rips of
lyrical grass
conductive smile
soap bubbles
these beautiful
dreamtime mornings
spent thinking of you
in playhouse mountains
like a child
you smile
like a friend
I offer you my hand
and we walk
to the white
together
bill withers is there
he is singing
in his yellow
turtleneck
Jesse stillwater Dec 2018
Healing leaves are now disrobed branches
on the edge of this wilderness.
Many tall Douglas Fir stand sentinel
over 100 foot tall amazing grace — the fleeting leaves
expose the beauty of the moss clad scaffolds
adorned with a lime-grey lichen lace
Nature is my refuge — solid ground to stand
in this harmony and peacefulness.


Jesse Stillwater — December 2018
Left as a comment yesterday, mused by "Healing Leaves" by Reena Sharma:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2843497/healing-leaves/
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Promise me, my flesh you'll place
'neath a fledgling willow tree.
And as it grows toward blue sky,
It's in its grace you'll hear me cry.
Laden with the heaviest fears,
resembling, reflecting
my darkest years.

A fragile bone was once my arm,
so likened to the willows charm.
It's branches delicate,
could ne'er do harm.
It's soft and fluffy hand like bud,
encased in skin, the willow's wood.

Hold its hand at branches end.
My message, a vibration,
to you I'll send.
Until the death of said willow tree,
reminding you . . . . .
. . . . . . always of me.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The tired and deathly willow tree with stories to tell of debutantes, swinging
before entering hell.
Logan Robertson Apr 2017
My little deer
Is that you
peeking between the trees
peering at the stag
but your heart's
still not at ease
... time ago
a short time
a stray cupid's arrow
shot the night air
splitting your spirit in two
frightened you took off
from the foreboding
hiding in a lea
there was sun
and cloudless skies
but not really
as your insides
raged
in a storm
in a hourglass
with sand pebbles fighting
to heal
for the best
now as you peer
between the trees
of salvation
do you hear
birds singing near a brook
... songs sung
so beautiful
in concerto
with the chipmunks, *****, crickets
then, as you take
that step forward
so lion hearted
peering
between those
branches
of redemption
my little deer
are there rays
of sunshine
peeking back

LR-4/23/17
This poem I write with passion, mainly because the deer personifies all the women in my life that walked away.
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