"branching" poems
Four limbs
Branching from a peach tree
My skin is a shield
My fat is fuel
A vessel for my weary soul
I will let it carry me
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 12:54 AM UTC
Caste in India is a dense forest
Ambedkar wanted to make it a plain
And tried his best to abolish it in right earnest
But he knew full well that he was in vain
If one wants to cut a poisonous plant
The other shouts like a maddening giant
The environmentalist feels deforestation is dangerous
So the re-forestation makes him curious
The wise believe deforestation is a myth
The roots are so entrenched in earth
The trees will continue to branching out and out
And grow and grow to a greater height
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 7:16 AM UTC
I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
smiling
the tackle box optimism in my sights
butterfly's in my net
visions of a hotrod
I look up at the marque
with a good cast and reel
my boats singing
a song that's hooked on love
I enter the theatre
among the trees
branching towards my spot
such forestry
I race past the mainstream
hotrod in tow
I take to my seat
setting anchor to a fun outing
as the lights abate
skip to my Lou
at bay
watching the cast make a splash
Logan Robertson
8/2/2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
It always does before I can see
before my foot, my heart
goes out to the sea.
Like the East, like the West
every pole comes in full circle
around this quay.
Far from the bottom of the land
every drop of water spills out
streaming along the rivers
march over to the sea.
I too pop up branching in
with the widest circle sliding
down to this so big but lingering dip.
Therein the sea when a river
looks for the bottom
a star up above in the sky
without a rope without a roof
looks for its peak!
Eye on but touch not
keep off the Moon.
It's for the sea.
For the Moon
the sea too is a Moon!
Feb 21, 2018
Feb 21, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
One day I'll be like a
Sakura Tree
Standing by myself leaning
Only on myself
Supplying food and shelter
For just me
I'll be as independent as a
Sailor on the open seas
I'll be like a Sakura Tree
So pretty and free
With a brown body and
Beautiful pink leaves that couldn't
Care less about anything
I'll be like Sakura Tree
Branching out to touch everybody's soul
And their inner sense of beauty
I'll be able to let the cool breeze flow
Through me without caring about a thing
One day I'll be like a Sakura Tree
Dying oh so beautifully
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
Your stars glimmers
Belching, wrenching
Exposing my ethnic aura
A tape of heavenly bliss
The acoustic rhythm
Essentially subliminal
Satiably insatiable
Tracked traces covered
Your tree branching out
Railing through my bark
My bosoms blossoming
Tip-toe to my bareness
Your entirely arousing
A summation of beauty
A firefly to enlighten
Encased within to liven
A body I hold twinkles
Whistle magnetic presence
Sprinkle my mind to entwine
Assign your soul peacefully
A might, a light at sight
A whole in me,a one in you
Pluck, nip,smash,trap,stash
In dreamscapes and reality
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
In the world of man
any woman could be it
and though it was you who was enchanted
blame it on her;
her wits, her charm, her garment.
Make a bonfire, we're branching out
truth hidden by the sound of chants
joined in a primal dance, inner circle only
she’ll be the one burned alive.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC
It shifts, dual purpose,
Illusions, truth,
Mirages in deserts,
Purity, the stream of life,
It flows, it flows.
The young lady, she stands there,
Her voice muffled in the silence,
She says something but not a sound escapes,
I take her hand and,
She guides me through this crevice,
Between reality and spirituality,
A key between the black door and the white door,
A way out of the waiting room,
She guides me.
Trees a burning gold,
Everything is connected,
Branching out into infinity,
I walk until the path leads me,
To the two rivers in the seam,
I stand in between.
Silence.
What does it mean?
Perhaps an exaggerated dream,
Foreshadowing,
Of what is yet to come.
I walk, and walk,
She guides me,
The deer wanders,
Behind unboundedly,
Liberated, not a care,
Time is an illusion.
We walk until we stop,
My legs like fluid,
No restraint,
A body of water,
Made from the purest glacier,
Connecting from the two rivers,
Understanding.
A towering mountain stands,
King of everything.
Dipping my face in the water,
Rejuvenation and comprehension arrive,
I see a peek of truth at the bottom,
Swim down but I am stuck,
It's not my time.
I surface as she takes my hand,
We walk down the path,
So inebriated with the vision,
Unaware of the avalanche,
Everything collapsing,
Falling, falling, crashing,
I am not to grasp it yet.
A taste of possibility,
The perfect amount of tranquility,
The Creator poured just enough of each ingredient,
A glimpse of what I need to change.
I take the first step into the last days,
A different man.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:07 PM UTC
blushing hues
preserving precious nutrition
the sun is moving closer
releasing fingers that once reached high
tumbling to the ground
drying out, and crinkling
the sun is turning its face
allowing the next phase to begin
insignificant
like tiny ants crowding the cracks
minuscule
like the creeper ******* nutrients
*one "being" on earth
one earth, in the middle of "space"*
ancient methuselah,
your mycelium branching-
entwining, and communicating
giving strength to brethren
as hibernation takes hold
birthing fungi anew
***orange, browns, yellows and reds
i give my breath away***
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
The flames branching upwards in a spire
It's cruel twists never seem to tire
A dark soul comes from the fire
It's Sam, a kid they all admire
Fables try to claim thee
Through stories of a tree
Branching upwards in a plea
A widow stares at a stain, left by the rain
Constructs a local fane, all in her saviours name
Caught between the fear and guilt
Of living off someone's fame
Knowing the day it all stops, she'll be engulfed by a flame
Abaddon is calling, Ezekiel is balling
Babylon returns
Mathias saw the world, while Belial just watched it burn
With immense follow through
The path becomes true
As he watches triple 7's disciple scamming for a buck or two
Out on a past due lease
The Man Of Peace
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
*Simple things in Life seems complicated
Brains busy mapping the branching logic
Trying out every possible options
Getting lost in the labyrinth of paths
Losing out on the options given by Life*
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
I think it quite strange living here walled by this house
when I was wilder than now I lived in nature
stalking birds and pollen laden things
always my toes in sands or hot footed in summer.
I was in love with the sky, no matter the weather
in storms I hid beneath branching cedars
sleeping on mossy pillows, in the woods of my backyard.
I never gave much thought to houses then, I only went there
to sleep or eat and waited to leave again
waited for an inkling of sun to warm the cold grass
spent days climbing trees, red plums and cherries
I imagined that's how life would always be,
living outdoors under the sun or clouds
wet with rain, always picking flowers.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 10:49 PM UTC
an oval antique photograph
from the century just passed
six youthful brothers
must be sunday dressed
exuding life and promise
facing forward all in line
symmetry pervading
sister mary in their center
on the photos right
a startling recognition
an image seen before
colins great grandfather
raymond often ray
in features and a gaze
seemed as colin
would have stood
photo has a crease
fading but still clear
now with photos recent
privileged to compare
colin next to ray
both fully present
yet a gaze away
rays gaze anticipating
army time in paris
fortune seeking in the west
fortunes to be found
four generations branching
to colin and beyond
colins gaze capturing
a journey now beginning
does he see montana paris
or the stars
repeating patterns forward
reflect photographic truth
music completes the pattern
with colorings of sound
rays trumpet and harmonica
introducing a guitar
which colin has absorbed
thus in his confirmation
new dimensions
now foreseen
confirming four generations
reflecting many more
expanding light and love
carrying our gratitude
for the glimpse
an old photograph
favored us
to find
(poem written for my grandson's
confirmation....)
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
#The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)
Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..
not as surrender,
but as choice.
Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.
Within the responsibility of what
leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her
without deception.
Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.
It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,
the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound
and wonder.
Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:
*the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,
the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.*
This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.
Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.
The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..
*through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.*
And inside--
the war begins.
.. .. .. ..
Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding
what stays,
what burns away.
Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,
what is earned,
what is Light.
The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;
they choose.
And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.
Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.
Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.
The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.
The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,
*Light has begun
to rise.*
#
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 11:54 AM UTC
I
Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?
II
I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
Springing alone
With a shrill inner sound
Over the throne
In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.
III
But at night I would wander away, away,
I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play
With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.
Then all the dry-pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
3.9k
on that night
with winter
winds,
hums,
and miserable
breeze,
there he sat,
his eyes
wandering
from right to left
up and down
all around
corners to corners
branching
a thought
to another
a note
to a song
a word
to a poem.
him with his
glances,
stands
and built,
under that
moonlit sky
with starlights,
air filled with
warmth and
frost,
i witness his
cries,
heard his tears,
felt his fears.
i became
an overthinker
from worrying
about the other.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 3:11 AM UTC
I am the
fleeting darkness
after the lights flicker off.
Shrouding shadows.
I am the
ever present
feeling of hidden eyes.
Secretly staring.
I am the
ominous, cold jolt
branching up shaking spines.
Striking silently.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
Flying above the plain of my existence
Floating not falling
Searching for a new kind of substance
Or just another calling
Something to take me higher
Above this place you call reality
This angel in my ear is a liar
But this cloud of smoke is heavenly
Surrounding me
Taking me in under it's wing
A light dusting of white
To calm the insanity
And that's just the beginning
Inside there's a growing need
Branching out through my limbs
Starting with some stems and a seed
There's no lack of pseudonyms
Call it whatever you can think of
It takes me to that place I need to be
Maybe it's a new kind of love
Reaching unknown depths inside of me
Cascading with dreams of sanity
Planting roots in my core
It's almost calming
Knowing when I can't handle anymore
And when I wanna keep flying
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
At evening the autumn woodlands ring
With deadly weapons. Over the golden plains
And lakes of blue, the sun
More darkly rolls. The night surrounds
Warriors dying and the wild lament
Of their fragmented mouths.
Yet silently there gather in the willow combe
Red clouds inhabited by an angry god,
Shed blood, and the chill of the moon.
All roads lead to black decay.
Under golden branching of the night and stars
A sister's shadow sways through the still grove
To greet the heroes' spirits, the bloodied heads.
And softly in the reeds Autumn's dark flutes resound.
O prouder mourning! - You brazen altars,
The spirit's hot flame is fed now by a tremendous pain:
The grandsons, unborn.
3.2k
Trees
I know nothing about them
but,
they mean everything
to me
Each one
a branching group of wizards
waving their wands up to
the sky
Inviting the magic of inspiration
Sep 27, 2021
Sep 27, 2021 at 10:51 AM UTC
.
Rose of your ear,
Lantern in your eyes,
Forest of branching hair,
In Inverness of your midlands,
I shall broach lit vernal deltas,
Kiss deep into darkling depths,
Climb the leaved trunks of thigh,
Drunk in the moisted, muted sighs
Of promise, tendered to surrender,
I shall know your ripened *******
As bloom of moon paints moons
At night, I will be ****** in milk—
That offers itself to leeching babe,
With little, lithe fingers you rake one,
A wan vagabond, ***** homeward,
I shall know your flowing wetness,
Below my desert, with purpose,
I am lost, in sleep and dream,
May I never wake, may I
Sleep, never, may eye
Always open, keep
In tableaus of oil,
Strokes, hues,
Glittering
Of you.
.
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC
Lips, soft as petals, rarefied as undiscovered
Wild orchids.
Hair, threads of gold gathered, woven, mined
From secret caves.
Eyes, that fell from violet skies landing on new
Isles of azure.
Skin, so salmon flecked, subtle, delicate, solas,
Destination.
Your body is buried cask and gilded keeper
Of jewels and flame, whispers, searing cold,
Blue fires untamed—
Lush, fertile wanderings, colourful birds, sweeping
Moon, pools of sorrows and light, trees branching,
Pleasures keen, crushing delights without name.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
The bad seed :: takes root :: roots extend :: in the head :: A constant branching :: budding bursting :: away :: and away :: and away :: roots branch and extend :: The Holy Schism :: Mother's breast :: bisected :: salt and milk :: curdle :: then settle :: into the nine creamy layers of Hell :: roots extend :: bury into Her pith :: bisected :: a honeysuckle rut :: Mother screams :: a poisonous :: foam :: spraying Her wither around :: killing :: the sacred cow :: :: :: there :: there She is :: the pretty blight :: the slit :: in the stem pursed tight :: down lower :: over two hills :: to a black and blue lagoon :: Mother in bloom :: Her putrid flower :: slaps open sloppy :: wide :: open :: for osmosis :: for curdled spore spew :: sucking flaccid :: with lips and teeth
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
The Israelites (/ˈɪzriəlaɪts/; Hebrew: בני ישראל Bnei Yisra'el)
were a confederation of Iron Age
Semitic-speaking tribes of the ancient Near East
inhabiting parts of Canaan during the tribal & monarchic periods;
Modern archaeology has largely discarded
the historicity of the Jewish religious narrative;
re-framing it as constituting an inspired national myth:
The Israelites & their culture according to modern
archaeological accounts,
did not overtake the region by force,
instead branching out from the indigenous [Canaanite peoples
long inhabiting the Southern Levant, Syria,
ancient Israel, and the Trans-Jordan region]
through the development of a distinct _monolatristic_—
[_Monolatry_ (Greek: μόνος (monos) = single,
and λατρεία (latreia) = worship) is the belief
in the existence of many gods but with the
consistent worship of the one deity; the term
"monolatry" was perhaps first used
by Julius Wellhausen;
Modern scholars of Israel's religion have
become much more circumspect in how
they use the Old Testament; not least
because many have concluded the Bible
is not a reliable witness to the true religion
of ancient Israel and Judah; representing
the beliefs of only a small segment of the
ancient community _centered in Jerusalem_
& devoted to the exclusive worship
of the god "Yahweh": Monolatry is
distinct from monotheism,
which asserts the existence of only one god;
and henotheism, a religious system in which
the believer worships one god w/out denying
that others may worship different gods with
equal validity]; later cementing as a monotheistic religion
centered on Yahweh, one of the Ancient Canaanite deities;
the outgrowth of Yahweh-centric beliefs
along with a number of cult practices
gradually gave rise to a distinct Israelite
ethnic group setting them apart
from the other Canaanites
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC