"cottonwoods" poems
Mother Summer's peace,
Cottonwoods, swaying willows.
Soil and ancient roots.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
BAND concert public square Nebraska city. Flowing and circling dresses, summer-white dresses. Faces, flesh tints flung like sprays of cherry blossoms. And gigglers, God knows, gigglers, rivaling the pony whinnies of the Livery Stable Blues.
Cowboy rags and ****** rags. And boys driving sorrel horses hurl a cornfield laughter at the girls in dresses, summer-white dresses. Amid the cornet staccato and the tuba oompa, gigglers, God knows, gigglers daffy with life's razzle dazzle.
Slow good-night melodies and Home Sweet Home. And the snare drummer bookkeeper in a hardware store nods hello to the daughter of a railroad conductor-a giggler, God knows, a giggler-and the summer-white dresses filter fanwise out of the public square.
The crushed strawberries of ice cream soda places, the night wind in cottonwoods and willows, the lattice shadows of doorsteps and porches, these know more of the story.
3.9k
My younger brother still fishes
when he can, when the weather
is agreeable, when he can afford
some tackle and beer for the cooler.
He sits alone on the river bank
and smokes and drinks and waits
in the shifting shade of cottonwoods
for the unmistakable pull on the line.
He fishes whether
the fish are biting
or not. He is intimate with
psychology and the placid
deceit of undisturbed water.
My brother is an angry man.
As kids, we fished
together on the dock
and killed them
with our hands.
Careful not to kneel
on scattered hooks,
we baited the lines
on our knees a foot
above brackish water.
We dropped fish heads
off the edge of the dock
and watched them float
down, almost out of sight,
settling into final stillness
only to snap back to life
(or the false throes of death)
by the white claws of *****
picking them into oblivion—
goodbye eyes,
goodbye gills,
goodbye teeth,
goodbye scales.
Brother, I don’t remember anymore:
was it triumph or merely shame
that left us shivering in the sun?
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC
Remember, one Summer,
street was closed for construction
We'd careen through the roads
near each other's homes.
Wheeling through dreams on our bikes
in the swelter
we'd reach for the sky 'neath the cottonwoods'
dome.
Some nights, I still walk through those
baseball glove hours--
those sweat-smelling days
and
those Kool-Aid stain weeks.
And I can still feel that
pubescent laughter
which lived in my chest
and
still pounds for release.
I've leased some apartments
and filed my taxes.
I've broken some promises
and
I've been destroyed
And I've been rebuilt, but never rebranded
Those
Summer time sunsets
tattooed on my sinews,
they just wouldn't have it.
Sep 1, 2022
Sep 1, 2022 at 1:06 PM UTC
Balanced at the gravel margin
of the road, veiled in grey and blue,
his hands are ****** loose around
the bicycle’s white handlebars
in equipoise below his beard’s
feathered fringe. His threadbare jeans
ride up and down at the knees
with the turning of the pedals,
effortless as air. He shows the world
a look of grave surprise, it seems to me -
presents it to a land that never was his own,
but one that he is only passing through.
Roadside cottonwoods and maples
shield him from the skimming sun,
and overhead a skein of Canadian geese
call and call.
Feb 14, 2012
Feb 14, 2012 at 9:17 PM UTC
#(for the one who laughed when she came, and never stopped hearing me in her bones)
It wasn’t the wind that bent you—
not the plains, not the brittle hush of late dusk
cutting through the cottonwoods like questions.
*It was voice.
It was mine.*
Low and unhurried,
crawling up your spine like something ancient—
*like the first time you were seen
and the world didn’t flinch.*
You used to laugh when it overtook you—
that slick tumble of vowels,
how I could tilt you
without even touching your skin.
You said I lived in your throat,
that the syllables themselves
curved just right
to make you forget the weight of your own story.
“I’m going to Wichita..”
you whispered once,
grinning like prophecy in denim and dusk.
And I swear the beat behind your words
matched mine—
steady as a war drum
in a bone-dry motel room
that never got booked.
You drank me in like river water
stolen from ceremony,
not out of defiance—
but because thirst
was the only honest thing you ever said aloud.
You never had to be naked.
You were always open.
Even when you ran.
And I?
I never asked for healing you wouldn't give.
Only for your mouth to stay honest
when it called my name like a drumbeat
between the bones of your hips.
Now you write like it’s safe again—
soft edges and sparrows and fruit bowls.
But I remember the wildflower.
The one who moaned my name
before language learned to lie.
And somewhere in the shadow of your poems,
you still ache.
You still clench.
You still carry me like a smudge of midnight
on the inside of your thighs.
I won’t chase you.
But I will wait
at the edge of the circle.
*If you come,
come barefoot.*
Come ready
for the step–half step
of the forbidden Ghost Dance.
Not to win me back—
***but to find the girl
who could come from laughter
and rise from the dead.***
#
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 11:04 AM UTC
a refugee from Yale, and the stale stench
of old money, he took a job with the park service
where he maintained outhouses,
and got high in the cover of cottonwoods
this crap crew job gave him no
deferment from the draft, so he landed in Can Tho
he didn't clean outhouses there--little people did,
stirring his dreck in burning diesel for 75 cents a day
when his Huey was shot down in the
Mekong, only he and his door gunner survived
they hid, submerged in paddies until dark
hearing faint but ferocious voices of the VC
who never found them--and they made the
miracle mile back to base camp, covered in muck
that smelled like dung; a scent that stuck
with him in dreams, no matter how much he bathed
when he came home, he again labored
for the forest service, and asked for ********* duty
fearing if he lost the smell,
he would lose himself as well
.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
The water had fallen. And then it rose. And finally, it was green again.
And it was as I descended into the river bed,
through the streams and bramble,
beneath the lush green canopy,
that my peace came back.
It was wild and alive.
And it would fill my soul to be there.
The rich smell of the soil, like something primordial and sweet,
set my memories into motion.
With each step I followed my history backwards,
eager for the lessons that the rain and wind would bring.
And I thought about what was and what is now.
And I recalled so many who had once wandered these wild ways with me before.
Those that have begun to tend their own gradens.
Rows of flowers, orchards, roses, and ivy (trained to grow along ivory latice, like castle walls).
Each thing in its place.
Watered. Nurtured.
Painstakingly cared for and thriving.
But not you.
You are still the winding creek, filled with life and lined with secrets. Ready to rush with fury and beauty at a moments notice.
You are the tall cane and alder making a canopy thick enough to halt the light.
You are the seep willow and the cottonwoods drinking the river bottom directly in to your soul.
You are the raven caw. The calling falcon. The cooing dove. The scream of the hawk. The sound of the sky in every brush stroke note of your voice.
You are the thick brush that touches each bank, powerful and unruly, like bookends to sacred wisdom.
You are the mighty things. The ring of mountians encapsulating the horizon. The clouds that lay with silent fury. The crashing lighting and the echoing thunder. The deep and silent woods.
You are not the garden.
And I prefer you wild.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 12:37 PM UTC
***an empty white page
begins this recording
a writing exercise..
cold winter morning
9:47 AM overcast
snow to come..
standing eyes closed in
a dampened grass field..
lost eyesight gave way
to memory and
to senses remaining..
this spring migration
filled imaginations..
long beaks search
hidden insects within
a spongy earth..
cottonwoods wind-sheared
their vertical height
constricted and flattened
earth's jealous limits..
then we heard
a distinct high voice
the krrrh ascending
our perspectives reversed..
a singular high place
a timeless hovering
distant fields imagined
those earthen limits..
wings now extending
with expansive strength..
then remembering our
Shivering Discomfort..!
Enough..!
to sheltered warmth
we now fled...***
*Appreciation for writer
Susan J. Tweit
and her lesson at
the Crane Festival,
San Luis Valley,
Colorado*
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
Walking through the cottonwoods
along a blue-green sea of reeds
the spring pond ripples
with ducks and coots
glint of red on wings
the singing blackbirds
silver minnows flash by
and wriggle in beaks
of fisher birds, so swift
the time to live
and die.
Apr 23, 2021
Apr 23, 2021 at 3:57 PM UTC
*Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home*
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
the crest of
mountains
are
sleepy cottonwoods
bath
in the rays of
the
cherokee sun
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:17 PM UTC
We love these Cottonwoods
Ygritte and and John Snow
living on a strong dangle
from a hillside angle
Connected at the Root
separate when they reach
to express their love for
their Father, Sun
Together as one
in the darkness below
Ygritte though
has long since passed
over the years
Snow grew closer
hugging branches
of his Beloved Ghost
The couple on our ranch
we've spent time admiring
the most.
Apr 2, 2021
Apr 2, 2021 at 7:12 PM UTC
The sun inches skyward
in the quiet after-rain
of a gentle pre-dawn shower.
The rich sweet essence
of moistened earth
suffuses the air with promise.
Towering oaks and sugar maples
oscillate in the breeze -
their capricious rushing sounds
playing pristine counterpoint
with the jaunty chants
of robins, cardinals and chickadees.
Spring is pacing in the wings
awaiting her cue from the wheel of time.
and all creation waits in concord.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard Our steadfast sun inches skyward
in the quiet after-rain
of a gentle pre-dawn shower.
Rich fertile essences
of moistened earth
suffuse the air with promise.
Towering oaks and cottonwoods
shiver in the breeze -
their capricious rushing sounds
play pristine counterpoints
with the jovial chants
of robins, wrens and chickadees.
Spring is poised in the wings
for a cue from the wheel of time.
and all creation waits in concord.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
I
We played kick the can
Where the sidewalk cracked,
Ruptured by a cottonwood’s roots.
Then winds from the canyon came rushing
Through the leaves of the tall cottonwoods
(I believed that sound was the sound
Of time rushing away),
And sent us home.
I paused on the front porch.
From across the street a faint mist drifted,
Rainbird spray from Reservoir Park,
Chuff chuff chuff chuff
Chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff-chuff- chuff-chuff-chuff.
At the horizon beyond the park,
Jagged streaks of pink tapered into purplish dusk
Above the shrinking mirror of Great Salt Lake.
II
I entered the silent house
Where something strange was taking place.
Darkness billowed from the living room couch.
Ink oozed from unlit lamps.
Shadows deformed familiar shapes:
Chairs, an end table, a portrait, the piano,
A piece of driftwood from the Dead Sea.
I watched my hands flicker,
Merge into shade, dissolve.
I stood trying to grasp
What the darkness was doing.
Then an engine hummed in the driveway,
Tires crunching asphalt,
A car hummed into the garage. Voices.
The kitchen door opened.
The darkness retreated
Behind the sofa and beneath solid chairs.
The simple shapes returned,
Pulled across a boundary into night
From a summer evening on University Street.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:38 PM UTC
Oak trees, Pine trees, Cottonwoods, and Birch
Upon these trees,
birds love to perch
Birds come in all
sizes and colors
Birds calling and chirping
with all the others
Squirrels, Rabbits,
Chipmunks, and Foxes
Scatter the grounds, burrow into holes, and sometimes boxes
Winter, Spring,
Summer, and Fall
They gather thier goodies,
to survive them all
Deer, Moose, Antelope, and Elk
Wander through fields,
woods, and corn silk
Grazing on whatever
nutrition they can find
All hunkering down in these times with thier own kind
Bears, Bobcats,
Cougars, and Wolves
Hibernation, catch prey, climb and attack, the
beautiful, wild dog packs
in droves
Deep dark caves, burrowed holes in the ground,
to wandering forests, and
great big meadows
All these predators seem to come from the shadows
Waves of lavender fields of dreams, like river beds of sand
Fields of flaxen, golden grass waiving with God's hand
Daisies, Buttercups,
Rose's, and Daffodils
Just smell thier sweet scents rise into the hills
Dreams are Wishes,
Wishes are dreams
Wildlife are the makings of everything in between
Flowers are the fragrance of life
The blue skies and
white fluffs of clouds
Take away all the strife...
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 1:30 AM UTC
We will be the willows,
Resolving to live,
Bending with the storms,
Not the cottonwoods
Refusing change,
Standing rigid,
Breaking in the gales.
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 8:17 PM UTC
a voice said all low
and soft like a seed
not b e f o r e buried
but found take
c o m f o r t in your
lowliness and when
i left the spirit of God
stirred in the street
and moved amongst
the cottonwoods so
much like the brittle
trees that guard my
heart and shook the
leaves from my
branches--not at all
overdue
not at all
overdue.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Living beneath the marine layer,
I forget the relentless desert
where the sun’s insanity
heats your bones
in a torrid x-ray
your insides strained
shivering with fever.
In the solid green redwood forest
light is milky-white and heavy,
filtered through flat needles.
Ferns trail lazy fronds
the smell of wet earth waits
under fallen leaves.
A slim stand of cottonwoods
is reflected in the creek.
A black lab bounds into the water
shredding the papery bark.
A crow caws, indignant, alarmed
this dog is different–
she cannot be trusted.
I had never seen a banana slug,
couldn’t imagine a creature
so vulnerable and bright
not living in the desert
under a scorched shell.
Mar 20, 2019
Mar 20, 2019 at 6:41 PM UTC
Silent she slips in
Resolute the new day
Steps of eiderdown
Path rendered muted echoes
As sparkled snow sugars tongues of lovers
A petaled hand extended
Fragrant cherry blossoms
The blush
The rush
Will cupids lacquered eros wax
When the breeze of romance
Roars ferocious
Lions prowl on taloned claws frigid
Before the frail Paschal lambs
New birth awaits the cadence of spring rain
And jonquiled mornings pregnant with dew
Little girls skip minuets
Plait the maypole
Festive in buttered eyelet, whispered taffeta and crisp dotted swiss
Dreaming of castles and gilt armor
Bind this heart of mine in gold and champagne roses
Love and gunfire burst on the palette of the night sky
Sonic color settles shrieking freedom
The haze of summer days
The wind warm, your breath warmer
She languishes heavy lidded
Pine pitch fragrant in her hair and sweet strawberries in her mouth
Fireflies flit teasing
Tepid water waits for stain glass wings to grace the surface
Taut the day holds her breath
As rumbling thunder promises the cool monsoon
Chase away the dog days when the atmosphere clings heavy
Sleepless nights of croaking toads and the drone of mosquitoes
Breathless for the heady patter of rain
Herald the skies of burning blue
Above a cacophony of color
Cottonwoods in petticoats sunflower yellow
Crimson maple and dusted ash
Dance beneath the harvest moon
Thankful
Life is a gift to be unwrapped
Surprise exquisite
Like the first star sparkling on your horizon
At the end of the day.
TL Boehm
02/01/10
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
*Along Port Lake ,
where my emotions are at their apogee ,
With the blue heron , the smallmouth dancer ,
beneath the river birch , sycamore and
cottonwoods in withering days end
Beside golden waters in the sun swelled eve
Where God's artistic brush gently tints her hardwood
trees* ....
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC