"midrib" poems
The Key To Success
A leaf has many veins connected by the midrib, similar to the Corolla in flowers connected by the sepal,
A stem has many leaves, connected through it, even the roots in this design- fibrous or tap are in their own way special,
Many stalks form a branch, many branches form a tree but all connect at the base, the trunk,
This happens in every tree, but to rebirth has to separate some chunk,
The message being conveyed by nature is unity is the key to success in this world where every person is a different type of petal,
Land Of The Ganga
In this Garth, trees are never watered by a soul, but the river Ganges herself,
The trees even after sinking inwards into the ground, continue to bloom in themselves,
Filled with myriad species of undreamt trees and the rarest of all florets in the daintiest of bowers
The most prodigious banyan tree with about three hundred aerial roots is the main
attracter
A tree that stores water is one of the hundred phenomena in the Botanical Garden in the land of the Ganga itself
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
my dearest, today you are twenty and five
and my, how lucky we are to be alive
right now, a junction of playful health and slightly wise
loving you keeps me in constant joy and surprise
together we, two intertwined trees being one another's rains
our life a midrib of a leaf yet to grow and spread its veins
with each tear, embrace, and tender kiss
I hope you will always remember this
as long as the nettles remain on the evergreen pine
I am your Nick and you are my Dine
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 7:40 AM UTC
A morning herb developing its hue,
Slight and delicate yet it possesses a vigorous core.
Granted with freedom and eternity,
or so it seems.
As the midrib locks itself with the branch of humanity,
other leaves nearby would fluctuate.
But one day, the green revealed an unexplainable blockade
that disturbed the arm tremendously.
It was as if the Autumn door was closing and the frost
was making it's entry.
The edges have decided to hibernate and
The veins have begun to fold.
The stem grasped tightly onto its existence and focused
greatly towards the key.
Connection.
A sudden burst of bushes surrounded this plant
to assist the complication.
Drenched in dew and a never ending cycle of misery
may have dispersed,
But the ambition could never disappear.
For the tree will continue to sprout and soon
the leaf will overcome.
If it preserves the power that is sustained,
the leaf is a fragment of what will bloom.
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
It was the murky stench of forgotten water
hidden somewhere
in the depths of an ivy-winding garden
and the autumn leaves which crunch into the mixing bowl
The rotting flesh of their midrib and veins
binding themselves a new life with the arms
of trees
which had fallen into the reapers puddle
- this is where they come to die.
Their graves, painting the garden Fallow and Umber
lay buried underneath a distant grey sky
the gloom of an English October is at their wake
and the feet of people
trample on their caskets
no remorse
no pause for thought
for nature's feeble skeleton
slipping out of breath
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
philosophy has but one maxim, given the post-socratics: read slowly; learn to orchestrate: what is lost in punctuation (and recognised as asthma); forget being lost in translation, remember what's lost in punctuation. philosophy is the only prose that measures the reader's speed of scattered eyeing of the page... revel in the poetics of the non-arable for the eyes likened to a withered forest of scarce trees on the deathbed of autumn - i know, missing comma, but you make your mind up when to pause - all this is a playground of your choosing: when to crawl, and when to swing; and when to stitch snout to the plough of unearthing precious truffle mushrooms.
is this really a poem
of what humanity is,
worth encoding by a single man,
or if, what then, representative,
representing, simply according to a
byway of the fact that man
walked on the moon (applause),
and coerced with holocaust (the cruxifix)
a historical discussion about the midrib...
well, grin the grim
paradox of the lighthouse search
for the ships yet to be shattered
against the rocks, against the reality:
the drowning lives with our lives
assured on the shore for our imagination
to be fed... so that the drowning ones
might make our memory edible with practice
of sing-along of lyrics remembered -
this rather than what's to be new and rejuvenated?
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 9:09 PM UTC
Leaves flee in the dusk
near a fine ending in this evening
bringing a musk
in the air in a fragrant mist.
Surpassing the land
lies radiant shades
held in the midrib or strand
fluttering and drifting in the wind.
Up high in the gentle breeze
leaves take flight and travel
Leaving their safe place in the trees
all embracing the taste nature brings.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC