"dryad" poems
On a plateau
by the seashore
sits a naked goddess,
a dryad or a naiad--
she laments a soft
song of mechanical
love. Bathing in the
quiet night, the
light, the
diamond-bright
stillness. She looks
at me with sad eyes.
On a conch-shell loveboat
together we sail
through snaky canals
of the heart.
Cool, lapping
water drips
from her long
seaweed hair as she
sings for me--
we go beneath
the sea &
look up at
intangible starfish
that mirror
the stars of the
surface.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
.
*When a Dryad cries …
… the bright red leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a pool
of blood
… forest green leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a pond
of heartbreak
… red and green leaves
drip
and the tree stands
in a lake
of sorrow
There is no sadder song
than when a tree dies,
there is no deeper grief
than when a Dryad cries.*
© Pagan Paul (01/07/18)
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 12:11 PM UTC
I remember well my first day of preschool
When the teacher taught us the Golden Rule
And how we were all God’s little caterpillars.
I remember the love I bore my stuffed horse
And how tightly I hugged my stuffed dog with great force;
I would be the world’s best zookeeper.
I remember my parents’ copious gifts of books,
How they were more important than my friends’ good looks;
Their stories still represent my dear childhood.
I remember the first time I discovered music of my own
Through a 90s band CD I had as a loan.
I danced with my headphones like a dryad.
I know the exact date I noticed at last
How much of my life friends had seemingly surpassed
And I vowed that I could never again be happy.
The stories were never again a fully open door,
More like a ditch dug out in the floor
Behind which I could hide my face forever.
One day, songs became a desperate race
To see who could sing and play bass,
So I’ve dropped out like a sixteen-year-old kid.
Now, lying under the stars thinking of this and that
I actually cower from the once-beloved animals like cats
Because they have uncomfortable interest in worms.
I was better off a caterpillar.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
under the sludge of this depression, I am awake. it’s morning outside but that doesn’t change a thing.
tiredness takes me to quiet places. I follow like I’m devout.
this forest is new. there’s a drumming of a heartbeat within the trunks of these trees.
it thrums under my fingertips. blood rushes forward to touch this rhythm.
songbirds nest, plume against plume for love and for rest. the birdsong is sweet as saccharine.
I taste the sap on my lips, its nectar, thick with agape. a salve for myriad laments under the roof of a single bell jar.
the indigo sky convulses, telling of fortunes. the clouds retch gilded roses.
blades of grass fence the circumferences of leaves in gypsy winds. the forest warms like a flame.
my body sways in solipsistic wonder. the crescents of my nails are crusted with lichen.
my limbs are drawn into its boughs, like gravity. like the bark is starved.
my mind is foliage and my crown is littered with inflorescence. my sky is finally cerulean and lilac.
each gall is an ancient hurt. each wound is a knot.
I breathe my mourning. I wait to bloom.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 3:07 AM UTC
O BID the minstrel tune his harp,
And bid the minstrel sing;
And let it be a perfect strain
That round the hall shall ring:
A strain to throb in lady's heart,
To brim the warrior's soul,
As dew fills up the summer rose
And wine the lordly bowl!
O let the minstrel's voice ring clear,
His touch sweep gay and light;
Nor let his glittering tresses know
One streak of wintry white.
And let the light of ruddy June
Shine in his joyous eyes,
If he would wake the only strain
That never fully dies!
O what the strain that woos the knight
To turn from steed and lance,
The page to turn from hound and hawk,
The maid from lute and dance;
The potent strain, that nigh would draw
The hermit from his cave,
The dryad from the leafy oak,
The mermaid from the wave;
That almost might still charm the hawk
To drop the trembling dove?
O ruddy minstrel, tune thy harp,
And sing of Youthful Love!
2.9k
An acorn falls down from itself
change is only made in time
and near where that acorn had fell
it's dryad form doth mime
Twice in its life the acorn falls
down great halls the portraits keep
the acorns that fall infinately
members of his family tree
They sow then grow
but leave the reap
to the subtle pull
of gravity
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC
Here is a voice that soundeth low and far
And lyricvoice of wind among the pines,
Where the untroubled, glimmering waters are,
And sunlight seldom shines.
Elusive shadows linger shyly here,
And wood-flowers blow, like pale, sweet spirit-bloom,
And white, slim birches whisper, mirrored clear
In the pool's lucent gloom.
Here Pan might pipe, or wandering dryad kneel
To view her loveliness beside the brim,
Or laughing wood-nymphs from the byways steal
To dance around its rim.
'Tis such a witching spot as might beseem
A seeker for young friendship's trysting place,
Or lover yielding to the immortal dream
Of one beloved face.
2.3k
Walk along the riverbed.
You will come upon a nymph,
Aged and smooth
As a riverstone
Sighing and singing with
The water’s flow
Ask her, “How are you, Nymph?”
And she will
Smile
Up at you and say
“I am but a tired soul
In a tired sea
Of tired souls.”
Her voice the soft bubbling of the river.
Walk among the trees.
You will come upon a dryad,
Ridged and furrowed
As the tree limb
Upon which she sat as she watched
The leaves fall with the autumn breeze
Ask her, “How long have you sat here, Dryad?”
And she will
Gaze
Down at you and say
“I grow and grow old
With the tree.
And the tree has grown tired.”
Her voice the raspy crinkle of the fallen leaves.
Walk amidst the flowers.
You will come upon a deva,
Light and sweet
As the honeysuckle she sat amongst
Watching and humming with
The many bees
Ask her, “Who are you, Deva?”
And she will
Frown
Away from you and say
“We, those of us that
Belong
To this place,
We are Afraid.
And we wish to no longer be Afraid.”
Her voice the wavering stems of delicate flowers.
The nymph chokes on her sisters' remains as
the dryad is cut down and shredded and the deva is
forced into restrained clay pots.
They cannot be freed by one
but by the response
of all.
Feb 17, 2021
Feb 17, 2021 at 8:46 PM UTC
We are killing too many trees
for notebooks, and mail envelopes,
and not enough people recycle.
My mom says that every tree is a home for a Dryad.
Dryads are nice people that care for the tree they live in.
When you **** an old tree, that the Dryad has already left
its not so bad. But when you chop down a young tree
you could **** a baby Dryad!
Stop chopping down little healthy trees
because the trees give us oxygen to breath with.
We need the trees, and the Dryads need the trees.
Stop killing baby Dryads. And always recycle too.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
she wanders through the forests and the groves,
her bare feet scarce upon the mossy ground,
as day sinks into night without a sound
and sunset fills the skies with pinks and mauves;
and like a restless breeze she wildly roves,
a love-lost woodland dryad, summer-crowned
and who could ever guess where she was bound,
or why the sea so whispered near the coves.
her eyes as bright as a white-feathered dove,
beyond the river, near a sheltered tree,
she rests awhile finds lilies for her hair,
their flowery mist no prettier than she,
(enchanting in the hearkened, vibrant air,)
her heart soft-brimmed with longing and with love.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 10:44 AM UTC
A blue dress stands out against the moving leaves.
Reaching up she holds a limb and swings her feet,
Catching a branch with her legs she pulls herself higher,
She laughs as she climbs.
A moving world of green,
A thousand shades,
Leaves brushing her face,
Twigs catching her clothes.
Twenty feet below,
Infinity above,
She climbs on,
Seeming to dance as she twists and turns,
Whirls and spins,
Joy of life,
Happiness and freedom,
Carefree and light as the wind and the leaves.
Thirty feet up,
There's no stopping her now,
She knows what she's doing,
She's not afraid.
The height is nothing to her,
She needs to breathe the air the birds breathe,
The fairies are calling her,
Guiding her to the top,
And she herself becoming more fairy-like the higher she gets.
A sprite, dancing,
A brownie, weaving,
A nymph, a dryad,
An elf, spiralling through the leaves.
Forty feet, she's almost there,
A breath of wind curls through her yellow hair,
Her laughter tinkling through the air,
Her voice joins the birdsong.
Fifty feet! She's there at last!
She bursts through the canopy,
Arms waving,
Face upturned to the sky,
She's free,
A smudge of gold in a world of green.
14/09/2006
© Bonnie C. Aspinwall 2006
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
awake my love! oh, don't be weary-eyed
and hearken to my lover's serenade,
i'll take you to the dryad's mossy glade,
leave slumber like a mist upon the tide.
i'll whisper secrets in your moonstruck ear,
declare my passion in the midnight hours,
where fairies hide beside the milky flowers
and i'll be tender for i hold you dear.
we'll sit where moonlight glimmers in the trees,
drink honey mead and toast the balmy night
and you will find enchantment and delight,
oh, how i'll love you, how i'll laugh and tease.
the stars will guide us shining in the deep;
awake my love! awaken from your sleep.
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
O darling, darling
I’m so in love with thee
For you must know
My veins amber fire
My heart an old oak tree
I hear soft syllables
Standing here
Many a year
I have watched thee
Bending deep
Sitting preen
O darling you gardener
Silent your till
When you are near
Long do I in reach
Yet watch I sun play
On brown rich tints
Your hair
No longer soft
Are my leaves
Waning are limbs
Slow has been age
On English forests edge
Whispering in winds
Majestic nights
Quivering leaves
I dreamt of thee
Tis I Hama that hides
When you are near
Many a long day
I have loved thee
Yet danced in your till
Sung among rose splendours
Tickling buttercup sparkles
O’er golden sun sets
Skipping along nights
Silvery moonbeams
For you must know
O darling, darling
I’m in love with thee
Creatures of blue skies
Have come to die at mine feet
From deep beloved forest
Poisoned they came to die
Darker now my base
Yellow my leaves
Grandfather sings to me
Watching silently
My place of passion
Dreaming of ancient glories
My prison is palace
It is time to leave this world
To dance with night butterflies
And sleep with sparkling mercury
Star clad skies
Good bye my time is near
Remember me
For I am with the buttercups
Yet blooming as you touch me
Your prize white rose that spirits the fence
O Darling, darling
I’m in love with thee
© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet 2014
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 9:50 AM UTC
Do not incur the wrath of trees
Or sticks will scratch you in a breeze
Branches fall
And knock you out
With not a sound
Or warning shout.
If you are wise
Be in no doubt
Trees can give you
Quite a clout.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
I have tried to find a way to pull this world from the way it clings to you
to somehow cure it from all the color of your eyes.
But you are the deep blue of midnight
in which the stars swim and light the rippling dark.
You are the music fading in the halls
like every dryad footstep fall.
You live, for better or for worse
in the slivered silver glints of rain.
In all my attempts to rip you out
I simply find you there again.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair,
a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent
air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.
The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs
after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice
communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its
gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations
swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch
of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.
There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves,
assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of
names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns
maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,
a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor
of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude
towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,
you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse
fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing
what it means to sing and drone only words.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Bone needle,
Jarred in wooden skin.
Silver thread glistens
In murky crimson sap, blood-akin.
Disciple Ajörn,
Squints beyond yonder.
Sap oozing in steady streams,
Into High Witch Åy'lla's beaker.
'Dryad, dryad, come
Foundling lost in Mireswamp.
Bless the Father of Lies,
Solitude begone.
Breathe fluid,
This wound I inflict.
Seep, drench, drown me
Beside you this moon I sit'
Seven quarters turned,
Blighted, glazed and dead.
Moon spanned all skies,
While Ajörn lay in a stranger's bed.
Reckoning came,
As sudden as his unfortunate arrival.
Witch and Dryad stirred ,
This night the moon, in denial.
'Stop, please?'
Hungry cackle, a shift of pose.
Needle removed, so gently
Soulsap collected in whole.
Åyll'a's bones, deft, finger blades
Nipping and knotting,
Slipping and sliding,
Silver of her thread, red of his being.
'Now we begin'
Sap and thread entwined.
Needles countless descended,
Pain silencing her whines.
Elder craft, this magick,
Dirge of the deathless.
Blood-bone colour of threads
Weaving over her *******
Weave, weave, my gentle love
What was two can be one.
Bounds known not to sentient life
Awake once more beyond ****** strife.
Through her skin, by her hand,
His sap she sewed unplanned.
Rivulets and lanes of High Witch blood,
Danced black and dark over skin, bland.
A tiara made flesh,
A finger bound in rings,
Ruby fluid flowed freely
Dancing with it's silver twin.
Moans ensued,
Pursuing now departed cries.
The Ritual of The Weave,
One death from being complete.
Like sawdust, he fell,
Strong disciple Ajörn.
Soul, sap, life taken in turns,
An undead Warlock was born.
Not corporeal, fatally surreal,
An existence wrought in threads
Strung by unearthly hands,
A partner in despair and dread.
Dryad lost,
Witch no more.
Two lives threaded
As one, forevermore.
'I'
'I'
'am'
'am'
Wheezed two voices in unison
'we'
'are'
Chanted the Witchlock in delusion.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
It was complicated. It was
Swallowing rusty nails
And clawing our way towards something
We didn’t know we wanted.
I remember my sister
All brown eyes and bitten nails
Body bound in towel.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,”
As a stripe of blood
Serpents down her dryad leg.
She points to where her razor slipped.
I remember how ripe the evening was.
He was cool and still
And my ears blushed from the wine.
He quietly asked me home
And my No was quieter.
He picked me up like I weighed nothing.
We were laughing.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
A faded memory flayed.
Layers peeled back unveiling
Frayed old strings for a symphony of sympathy.
A suffocated cacophony, he says. Let it be.
A jaded sentinel slayed.
Players reeled back, unfailing.
Prayed for wings, but found empty of empathy.
The scintillating epiphany she shares set it free.
I swore I’d never be the victim.
But I have been the whole time.
Those words are wiser than wisdom.
Her eyes grow wider with mine.
A notion inspiring devotion divine.
An ocean of new truths all spoken in rhyme.
My Dryad’s mydriasis is something sublime.
Aug 11, 2021
Aug 11, 2021 at 7:19 AM UTC
does a tree care if you cut it down
to make a house
a hundred books
a boat
a crib
a trebuchet
a bow and arrow
if you dig it up to build a street
a church
a home
a mall
a wall
a well
a garden
If you burn it to the ground
for fun
for spite
by accident
to stop the fire
to **** the dryad
all it thinks about is Sun
and Earth
and dirt
and rain
and bud
and root
and wood
and leaf
and acorn
would that there were
more of these thoughts
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC
Aren’t you cold?
I.
Me?
the wind swept up the solemn yellow leaves, along with my
solemn yellow feet,
and dusted off the crumbs of yester-was
and yester-would
from the hem of my puffer...
Well,
listen.
I hold your heart in my hand,
it holds itself in my palm,
my palm holds itself onto your heart…
Hold your eyes a bit longer and soon, you too,
can hold mine…
So, no.
(Silence. I shivered from the core, to no avail)
II.
Me?
Meanwhile, Amber October and Brown November lie like crumpled,
dryad carcasses beside my feet.
Hm, I said,
I lament!
the skin on my fingers have frittered away from
countless, dead hours
in colorless computers,
but alas, not from the cold.
(trite)
Hmm, I said,
the skin on my fingers
hangs like a nail.
Never have I thought an unwise flick of a wrist could render me an onion.
(Dear Lord)
A curt laugh, cheap,
cheap-cheap, like the swallows.
but yes,
I am
alright.
(Silence. We both shivered from the core, to no avail)
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 2:13 AM UTC