"maples" poems
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
My legacy --
What will it be?
Flowers in spring,
The cuckoo in summer,
And the crimson maples
Of autumn...
11.7k
One perfect autumn day,
you stood under maples
in Northern Illinois, and there
was this kind of yellowness.
With compassion and technology,
you captured the light,
gave us an image,
gave us peace.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
Summer's warm currents retreat
the advancing brisk amber sunsets.
Submerging the world under
the reign of enduring starry nights.
The maples blush as Autumn whispers
the gentle lullaby of Winter's sweet breath.
Erasing Summer's memory with a crimson brush
preparing the golden landscape's long frigid rest.
~~~
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.
“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.
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Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
In a dreamy woodland
There's a cottage just for me
And it's waiting there now
Beside a peaceful stream
Where quiet maples grow
And deer are not afraid
Where mushrooms grow in sweet silence
And sunlight glistens amongst the leaves
There's an enchanted cottage
Hidden in those shady woods
Where running cedar
And lady ferns intertwine
Where tears never fall
From any eye
That is where my secret abode
Is found in shadowy canopy
Of sun-dappled trees
Where dewdrops passionately kiss
The demure bluebells
Where breezes whisper
Through tall, swaying pines
And rustle ancient autumn leaves
From many seasons ago
Where time stands still
And woodland fairies dance
Where willow harps are played
Echoing in dreamy breezes
Through the trees and dancing through the air
Waltzing with the butterflies
Touching the lemon citrus sun
With fingers of gold
And spring days bygone
That's where you'll find me
Dreaming riparian
Scent of petrichor
Healing my soul
In summer woodland yonder
~Marian~
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
The shadows have their seasons, too.
The feathery web the budding maples
cast down upon the sullen lawn
bears but a faint relation to
high summer's umbrageous weight
and tunnellike continuum-
black leached from green, deep pools
wherein a globe of gnats revolves
as airy as an astrolabe.
The thinning shade of autumn is
an inherited Oriental,
red worn to pink, nap worn to thread.
Shadows on snow look blue. The skier,
exultant at the summit, sees his poles
elongate toward the valley: thus
each blade of grass projects another
opposite the sun, and in marshes
the mesh is infinite,
as the winged eclipse an eagle in flight
drags across the desert floor
is infinitesimal.
And shadows on water!-
the beech bough bent to the speckled lake
where silt motes flicker gold,
or the steel dock underslung
with a submarine that trembles,
its ladder stiffened by air.
And loveliest, because least looked-for,
gray on gray, the stripes
the pearl-white winter sun
hung low beneath the leafless wood
draws out from trunk to trunk across the road
like a stairway that does not rise.
4.7k
The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
Of early spring, and quiet again. Will
Speech disturb you? We're
Alone now; we have no reason for silence.
Can you see, over the garden-the full moon rises.
I won't see the next full moon.
In spring, when the moon rose, it meant
Time was endless. Snowdrops
Opened and closed, the clustered
Seeds of the maples fell in pale drifts.
White over white, the moon rose over the birch tree.
And in the crook, where the tree divides,
Leaves of the first daffodils, in moonlight
Soft greenish-silver.
We have come too far together toward the end now
To fear the end. These nights, I am no longer even certain
I know what the end means. And you, who've been
With a man--
After the first cries,
Doesn't joy, like fear, make no sound?
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RUSH
"SUBDIVISIONS"
Words by Neil Peart, Music by Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson
The Trees
There is unrest in the forest,
There is trouble with the trees,
For the maples want more sunlight
And the oaks ignore their pleas.
The trouble with the maples,
(And they're quite convinced the're right)
They say the oaks are just too lofty
And they grab up all the light.
But the oaks can't help their feelings
If they like the way they're made.
And they wonder why the maples
Can't be happy in their shade?
There is trouble in the Forest
And the creatures all have fled
As the Maples scream 'Oppression!'
And the Oaks, just shake their heads
So the maples formed a union
And demanded equal rights.
'These oaks are just too greedy;
We will make them give us light.'
Now there's no more oak oppression,
For they passed a noble law,
And the trees are all kept equal
By hatchet,
Axe,
And saw.
by Rush
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
1320
Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, Come right up the stairs with me—
I have so much to tell—
I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—till I called
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—and
All those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—
Who knocks? That April.
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That Blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—
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It was a lilac day, a dream of scented heaven
what world sings of this blue, green summer?
Early morning raindrops splash giant maples,
droplets of sun, above far hills
alighting flowering fields, with flashing wings
of tiny sparrows
Cormorant swoops, the falling sky, far beyond
clouds of pink edge the bluest sky
silvery fish, below in cooling waves
blue herons stalk long where
seaweed sways
Sunlight poured, warming mossy woods
tallest trees breathing steam - spectrally
lichen blooms, tiny flowers in the sun
before the dawn of washing rain
a silent ancient forest
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
The sun was gone, and the moon was coming
Over the blue Connecticut hills;
The west was rosy, the east was flushed,
And over my head the swallows rushed
This way and that, with changeful wills.
I heard them twitter and watched them dart
Now together and now apart
Like dark petals blown from a tree;
The maples stamped against the west
Were black and stately and full of rest,
And the hazy orange moon grew up
And slowly changed to yellow gold
While the hills were darkened, fold on fold
To a deeper blue than a flower could hold.
Down the hill I went, and then
I forgot the ways of men,
For night-scents, heady, and damp and cool
Wakened ecstasy in me
On the brink of a shining pool.
O Beauty, out of many a cup
You have made me drunk and wild
Ever since I was a child,
But when have I been sure as now
That no bitterness can bend
And no sorrow wholly bow
One who loves you to the end?
And though I must give my breath
And my laughter all to death,
And my eyes through which joy came,
And my heart, a wavering flame;
If all must leave me and go back
Along a blind and fearful track
So that you can make anew,
Fusing with intenser fire,
Something nearer your desire;
If my soul must go alone
Through a cold infinity,
Or even if it vanish, too,
Beauty, I have worshipped you.
Let this single hour atone
For the theft of all of me.
2.5k
May the devils have their due, and the angels get their share. Long live the home brewer of meads and brews and other godly delights that came from the yeast.
Here, here, to the dreamers that made the flavors of barley, hops, and malts.
Here, here, to the honey the fruits and maples that make the mead so sweet.
So raise your glass and tip your steines to the brewers that made life a lot more easier to shine.
Ziggy, zoggy, ziggy, zoggy, oy, oy, oy.
Oct 8, 2023
Oct 8, 2023 at 10:32 PM UTC
She was a sapling,
Small and shaded by
The branches of
One hundred year old oak trees
Maples and Evergreens
Wilting without sunlight,
The rain never reaching the dirt around
The places she buried her roots
The sky was a dream
Clouds she could not see
Through the thickness
Of birds’ nests and tree forts
Nestled in the arms of
The great plants surrounding
The seedling, starving for sustenance
I was a sapling, dying alone
In a petrified forest
Surrounded by what seemed
Like no hope for hope
No chance for survival
Then along came a woodsman
Or so I thought
Ready to put me out of my misery
Cut me into kindling and
Burn me into my next life
But a woodsman, no
Instead he was a farmer
Come to hack and saw the trees around me
And cultivate my species
Nurturing and sacrificing
He cleared the air around me and
For the first time I found myself
Breathing in
He cut away the branches
Prison bars that held me
Back and down for so long
Released me from a doomed fate
I had nearly begun to accept and
Because of him I drank the tears
That fell from heaven
And for the first time
Felt alive
And then one day I realized
A farmer you were not
But instead like me
You were another tree
With vines that grew towards
And with me
You brought me back to life
You know
Reminded me of why it is
I wake each morning and
Lean towards the sun
Soaking in her rays
And living
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Day breaks on Doubletop Mountain, shadowing villages below.
Three-thousand eight hundred feet tall, it captures the eye!
And standing at attention there in front of me, a battalion of Sugar Maples in full…. Fall…. Regalia!
Cascading tones of Crimsons, Burgundy, scarlet reds and Golden Hue.
Gazing over Dunk Hill as farmer’s plow fields, turn again for fertility,
There are only brief streams of life giving sunlight, and now the sky turns to a pale grey.
Me, well I live for this time of year….enjoying the evening autumn constellations,
Or Moms dining table adorned with Indian corn and blackberry canes!
Bessie's Margaretville home begins the fall ritual of canning and drying.
Breaking out winter clothes…as she proclaims "no whites after Labor Day"!
The last bit of warmth now dwells just behind the Catskill’s Harvest Moon,
And the V of geese honk their good-byes to the summer sun.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
Maynard the Martyr
moored in the marshland
misrepresented
and misinformed
much maligned
melancholy
misfortunate and small-minded
unmotivated
a real Melvin –
macho magpies munch
mangos and marshmallows
in the moonlight
mired in muck and mud
misshapen
mutated
malformed
mushrooms
manifest momentarily
mocking Miss Marple –
marbleized Maples
mobilize
marching to madness
in moccasins
across Morocco
to Monico
or Mexico
perhaps Montana?
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Lyric night of the lingering Indian summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.
The grasshopper’s horn, and far off, high in the maples
The wheel of a locust slowly grinding the silence,
Under a moon waning and warn and broken,
Tired with summer.
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember you, soon the winter will be on us,
Snow-hushed and heartless.
Over my soul murmur your mute benediction
While I gaze, oh fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.
2.2k
Earth's children cleave to Earth--her frail
Decaying children dread decay.
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale,
And lessens in the morning ray:
Look, how, by mountain rivulet,
It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set
Along the green and dewy steeps:
Clings to the fragrant kalmia, clings
To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings,
And bowers of fragrant sassafras.
Yet all in vain--it passes still
From hold to hold, it cannot stay,
And in the very beams that fill
The world with glory, wastes away,
Till, parting from the mountain's brow,
It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now
A portion of the glorious sky.
2.2k
The water turned brown in the rain,
An eagle hangs in the maples arms above.
The toads jump green on shore,
The meander fills with shells,
Skipping stones and drift wood.
The current carries 500 feet per second.
The bait fish feast on flies,
Jumping into the air unrestrained and ignorant
While I carry the weight of the city,
Little town kayak holds me up,
A raft against the natural life
Beyond the reach of people,
Only dead fish float down stream.
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
If Stephen King was black
Obama would not be president
Segregation would exist all over again
OJ would have gotten guilty without a trial
Except the black part would be technologically advanced
cars that navigate themselves
Sonic energy distribution
portable wings
the Rockateer would also therefore be black
Disney Land would be scary and real
Darwin would have been black
Go go Gadget’s engineer would be black
Malcolm X would have been mixed race
Carl Sagan ran the blackest gang in Oakland
If Stephen King was black
Therefore
Stephen Hawkings is black too
Einstein invented Compton in ten minutes
On a coffee break
The bees Einstein was referring to are the African Killa bees
And Einstein was the father of Wu tang
Stephen Hawkings hangs out with Mike Tyson and Alicia Keys
The Black Panthers like every other morning in the blackest house Washington DC
Made me eggs benedict with fresh eggs and ham
Dr Seuss is therefore black by association
Aunt Jemima would run the FDA and tap maples trees in the Berkshires
But she is white now
America would turn a blind eye and play more volley ball
and in us
God would trust
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of **** All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On ****** Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimneys to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC