"catalpa" poems - Hello Poetry

as though a small town beauty pageant winner paraded through local roads tossing sweet petals like fist-fulls of candy from her seat perched high above this fragrant litter purged in layers as the Catalpa tree with its divinely designed heart-shaped leaves plainly remains an organic shade for the neighbor's ratty shed .

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Jun 11, 2014

Jun 11, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC

april-dawn

Scattered Blossoms

as though a small town beauty pageant winner paraded through local roads tossing sweet petals like fist-fulls of candy from her seat perched high above this fragrant litter purged in layers as the Catalpa tree with its divinely designed heart-shaped leaves plainly remains an organic shade for the neighbor's ratty shed .

18

Dark around my house sounds Scratch of little claws on tiny feet across my front porch Rough slide and tumble of a dry leaf on the patio Faint hoofsteps pointing noses to where my green Hosta grows Flap of Catalpa leaves in an unexpected but welcome summer breeze Neighbor's door and then the cover on her garbage can Then her door again Dead branch falling through the maple tree to the ground The call of an owl furious perhaps hungry having missed the tiny claws on my porch

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Jul 24, 2012

Jul 24, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC

skip-ploss-1

Furious Owl

Dark around my house sounds Scratch of little claws on tiny feet across my front porch Rough slide and tumble of a dry leaf on the patio Faint hoofsteps pointing noses to where my green Hosta grows Flap of Catalpa leaves in an unexpected but welcome summer breeze Neighbor's door and then the cover on her garbage can Then her door again Dead branch falling through the maple tree to the ground The call of an owl furious perhaps hungry having missed the tiny claws on my porch

12

in the catalpa tree beautiful daddy flits and flutters by plane jane mama sits in the branches on patrol spring storms savage this little winged family Lily cat's restless prowl anticipates the promise of eggs nothing is ever guaranteed

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Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC

april-dawn

Cardinals

in the catalpa tree beautiful daddy flits and flutters by plane jane mama sits in the branches on patrol spring storms savage this little winged family Lily cat's restless prowl anticipates the promise of eggs nothing is ever guaranteed

12

*towering and sheltering shading and nourishing a blossoming innocence of suckled sweetness draped in wand pods sowing magical seeds sprouting sapling bridges between hoping and knowing fluttering metamorphosis butterflies of the night seeking the light of home dimmed within memory though storms may wail these roots run deep though lightening strikes these wings have spread*

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Jul 29, 2014

Jul 29, 2014 at 7:58 AM UTC

liam

Beneath the Catalpa

*towering and sheltering shading and nourishing a blossoming innocence of suckled sweetness draped in wand pods sowing magical seeds sprouting sapling bridges between hoping and knowing fluttering metamorphosis butterflies of the night seeking the light of home dimmed within memory though storms may wail these roots run deep though lightening strikes these wings have spread*

16

There is something about this House in Hackensack... It attracts people...like a magnet. They often gather here, and They are welcomed any time. Eyes and souls surround, Even strangers are drawn to it, Like bees attracted to the flowers. Reunions are looked forward to... Even short chats and visits For some coffee or wine Are always welcome. This house.... It makes people want to come back... It's not just the food, Or the help it offers... The comeliness of the place, The people that live within... The noise... ever-present, The shaking of the stairs, when the boys Chase, tease each other... The squabbles, replete with tears... Cabinets are real heavy, With weight-y stories to tell... The bedrooms, so inviting, where jokes And giggles underneath the covers Could be heard till late hours of the night... All gather in the kitchen, The hub in this house... Family, friends...even new guests Do not go to the living room... They walk straight to the kitchen. There, where the home scents Exude warmth, Fragrant with home-cooking. The long dining table says it all... A different kind of music Plays every time And invites everyone To stay for a while and relax... It beckons each time... It whispers... "Go, find your corner...do your thing, You'll be okay..." And so, the cozy sun room became A favorite spot in that house, Where beautiful poetry bloomed At any hour during that whole month. From out front, along the street, Circling around to the backyard, Then back inside... It has now finally dawned on this clouded mind, What that "something" is... This house, metamorphosed From an old, kind of cold Victorian, to a homier, More comfortable modernized domicile... Now radiates with love, warmth and kindness, The energy emitted by the family living within... The people are the crown and the charm... They are the smoke coming out of the chimney... The A U R A of this house, standing proud Along Catalpa Avenue......... ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

0

Jan 10, 2014

Jan 10, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC

sally-a-bayan

The House...

There is something about this House in Hackensack... It attracts people...like a magnet. They often gather here, and They are welcomed any time. Eyes and souls surround, Even strangers are drawn to it, Like bees attracted to the flowers. Reunions are looked forward to... Even short chats and visits For some coffee or wine Are always welcome. This house.... It makes people want to come back... It's not just the food, Or the help it offers... The comeliness of the place, The people that live within... The noise... ever-present, The shaking of the stairs, when the boys Chase, tease each other... The squabbles, replete with tears... Cabinets are real heavy, With weight-y stories to tell... The bedrooms, so inviting, where jokes And giggles underneath the covers Could be heard till late hours of the night... All gather in the kitchen, The hub in this house... Family, friends...even new guests Do not go to the living room... They walk straight to the kitchen. There, where the home scents Exude warmth, Fragrant with home-cooking. The long dining table says it all... A different kind of music Plays every time And invites everyone To stay for a while and relax... It beckons each time... It whispers... "Go, find your corner...do your thing, You'll be okay..." And so, the cozy sun room became A favorite spot in that house, Where beautiful poetry bloomed At any hour during that whole month. From out front, along the street, Circling around to the backyard, Then back inside... It has now finally dawned on this clouded mind, What that "something" is... This house, metamorphosed From an old, kind of cold Victorian, to a homier, More comfortable modernized domicile... Now radiates with love, warmth and kindness, The energy emitted by the family living within... The people are the crown and the charm... They are the smoke coming out of the chimney... The A U R A of this house, standing proud Along Catalpa Avenue......... ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: Sally Copyright 2014 Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan

66

Maytime romance under the vernal lamp of creation Wrapped with invisible arms Under the spell of sylvan charms Appeasing lanes embellished- with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky Strawberry thoughts , young lessons- from green pinecones Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor- saplings Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens

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Apr 7, 2016

Apr 7, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Runaway Pleasures ..

Maytime romance under the vernal lamp of creation Wrapped with invisible arms Under the spell of sylvan charms Appeasing lanes embellished- with pink Begonia and baby-blue -eyes Catalpa trees blushing in the marmalade sky Strawberry thoughts , young lessons- from green pinecones Brandy freshwater branches fill river neighbor- saplings Nuthatch mothers sing of the day in sunflower gardens

12

IF you, that have grown old, were the first dead, Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of Time. Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms; night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.

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1.5k

William Butler Yeats

The New Faces

IF you, that have grown old, were the first dead, Neither catalpa tree nor scented lime Should hear my living feet, nor would I tread Where we wrought that shall break the teeth of Time. Let the new faces play what tricks they will In the old rooms; night can outbalance day, Our shadows rove the garden gravel still, The living seem more shadowy than they.

8

Shine on, O moon of summer. Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak, All silver under your rain to-night. An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion. A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are throwing you kisses. An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back yard. The clocks say I must go--I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down. Shine on, O moon, Shake out more and more silver changes.

0

1.5k

Carl Sandburg

Back Yard

Shine on, O moon of summer. Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak, All silver under your rain to-night. An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion. A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month; to-night they are throwing you kisses. An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a cherry tree in his back yard. The clocks say I must go--I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking white thoughts you rain down. Shine on, O moon, Shake out more and more silver changes.

13

How fast fade most pinkest trees How digits dance 'neath Catalpa breeze Ignoring last October's deadest death They arrived on time then took last breaths Scattered seeds among their foes Had no need of planting earthen work As cycles shadow ploughman's dream The fickle fruitless cherry grows He rode rough crests over wildest waves His ship stayed unsunk under skinny toil His family landed and held holiest hope Now blossom buds over grassy graves Darkness darkened darkest health Metal sheets broke bones full force Lungs would not get the care of air But hours still channeled wisdom wealth She bent the knee for sacred loves She scraped it on the firmest strife Her pies nor pulchritude but soul inspired Now stillness stays beneath starry moves When bloodiest blood ****** didn't produce It drained itself from veins and strained Veiling valleys making mountains make-believe But sharpest tongue emptiness refused What meagre maggots worthless worms Are those of us who never yearn! We rarely learn to live so well as they Who gave us genes and grace and days All I offer oft only when I try and I work Nothing else can I do nor more can I hope This most modest shallowest honor to give Of them in springtime remembering is

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May 8, 2015

May 8, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC

rj-days

In Springtime Remembering

How fast fade most pinkest trees How digits dance 'neath Catalpa breeze Ignoring last October's deadest death They arrived on time then took last breaths Scattered seeds among their foes Had no need of planting earthen work As cycles shadow ploughman's dream The fickle fruitless cherry grows He rode rough crests over wildest waves His ship stayed unsunk under skinny toil His family landed and held holiest hope Now blossom buds over grassy graves Darkness darkened darkest health Metal sheets broke bones full force Lungs would not get the care of air But hours still channeled wisdom wealth She bent the knee for sacred loves She scraped it on the firmest strife Her pies nor pulchritude but soul inspired Now stillness stays beneath starry moves When bloodiest blood ****** didn't produce It drained itself from veins and strained Veiling valleys making mountains make-believe But sharpest tongue emptiness refused What meagre maggots worthless worms Are those of us who never yearn! We rarely learn to live so well as they Who gave us genes and grace and days All I offer oft only when I try and I work Nothing else can I do nor more can I hope This most modest shallowest honor to give Of them in springtime remembering is

32

Early dusk and it's as if all the birds have memorized lullabies; they've quieted to delicate refrains as the summer sun descends flame orange and spent to its western berth. Birds huddle deep within the cradling catalpa trees and murmur in their soft way to one other, barely audible to those who would listen, perhaps reassuring each other that the night will not be long. --

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Sep 9, 2011

Sep 9, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC

warren-gossett

Bird Lullabies

Early dusk and it's as if all the birds have memorized lullabies; they've quieted to delicate refrains as the summer sun descends flame orange and spent to its western berth. Birds huddle deep within the cradling catalpa trees and murmur in their soft way to one other, barely audible to those who would listen, perhaps reassuring each other that the night will not be long. --

15

I remember driving down the sun-baked city street, on a mission to find something, somewhere, which now I cannot remember. But I do remember this: you pulled the truck aside and said, “Go grab some of those pods off those trees.” When I protested you simply gestured for me to get going. To this day, I still have mimosa and catalpa beans stashed away in an old cigar box, silk trees waiting to be planted in the rich, dark earth.

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Jun 25, 2018

Jun 25, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC

lifeasalyric

Silk Trees

I remember driving down the sun-baked city street, on a mission to find something, somewhere, which now I cannot remember. But I do remember this: you pulled the truck aside and said, “Go grab some of those pods off those trees.” When I protested you simply gestured for me to get going. To this day, I still have mimosa and catalpa beans stashed away in an old cigar box, silk trees waiting to be planted in the rich, dark earth.

13

White catalpa blooms caressed - my soul A morning jaunt through cool , knee high 'wiregrass' - bound for Camp Creeks wisteria hollow A cardinal was a long lost friend A bluebird mourned of withered love A mockingbird fervent in the hope - of tomorrow

0

Apr 10, 2018

Apr 10, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Along The Mill Road ...

White catalpa blooms caressed - my soul A morning jaunt through cool , knee high 'wiregrass' - bound for Camp Creeks wisteria hollow A cardinal was a long lost friend A bluebird mourned of withered love A mockingbird fervent in the hope - of tomorrow

7

Somewhere buried deep beneath your family albums, Mother’s Day cards, embroidered pillow cases, Canadian coins and high school yearbooks there is a hidden picture of you and me under the limbs of a flowering Catalpa tree. It only sees light on uncommon days when you are alone.

0

Sep 8, 2016

Sep 8, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC

doug-potter

Picture

Somewhere buried deep beneath your family albums, Mother’s Day cards, embroidered pillow cases, Canadian coins and high school yearbooks there is a hidden picture of you and me under the limbs of a flowering Catalpa tree. It only sees light on uncommon days when you are alone.

7