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Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
pine is for leaving
oak is for time
willow, for grieving
love left behind
This verse lies in the grave
of an Englishman
who left for home
from a borrowed land.
.
Bye Dad.


.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
Esther Krenzin Oct 2018
Strong and resolute, it stands
seeking with claw-like limbs
for sunlight and raindrops.
Leaves, crimson and gold
slip from trailing branches
coming to rest on frozen ground.
Whispering and sighing
the great oak bends and sways
in the icy wind.
Roots, beneath the surface
delve deep down
growing
strengthening
as ages pass--
untouched by frost.
The strong winds may blow
and wage their wars
brittle branches may splinter.
But still the oak stands
bending
not breaking against the forces.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
We must learn to be more flexible in life, and not let the world make us hard and unforgiving. If a tree were hard and brittle, than it would break and fall over. And if it had no roots, it would never be standing in the first place. When we are born, we are born a tree bud with roots like small veins. As the years past we grow and learn the ways of the world, our roots growing and spreading. Life may be difficult, there may be suffering, and we may become hard and splinter into pieces. But remember that everything that is broken, comes back stronger than before. I once saw lightning strike down a towering oak, causing it to fall and leave nothing but a barren stump.
After a year or two, a little tree began to grow from the stump of its former self, becoming everything it was before it fell--if not even more beautiful.
To this day, it still stands, looking as if nothing ever happened.
Life will knock you down, but it is your choice whether or not you will stand up again, or stay down.
Steve Jun 2018
.                               ^
                           FrOm
                     ­ LittleAcorns
             MightyOaK
                               Trees
                            GRow
                               EngliskOak
          ­          EuropEanOak
             HardToDiStinguish
    ­                            !
                                !
                                !
                      brexitwrecksit
To me the world needs to get smaller by people feeling joined, not by giving up their individual or national identities but by working together in cooperation and achievement.
As he walked through a forest he knew so long ago,
He sees a withered oak.
A proud thing.
A proud memory.
A proud day.
A proud history.

And yet all he feels now is the darkness of the shadow it casts.
He sees the leaves the rain soaks.
He has no song to sing.
He has nothing to be.
He has gone no way.
He has her in his dreams.

The rain continued as his clothes get wet, smiling at the memory of their first kiss.
It was like this...thing.
He can’t say it another way.
It was something to see.
It was something to light their day.
It was something meant to be.

He sighed and sat down under the far reach of the branches and watched the drops float down slowly; watching them made him happy, and yet they made him sad. They reminded him of the way the were happy, then sad. He laughed at his deep, philosophical banter. Is this not like our love, my dear?, he thought. One moment you’re soaked to the bone and trying nothing more than to run away when all you’d want more is to rush and play in the mud with eachother like children? Hm...and when the cloud are done weeping and they’re once again light with joy, what becomes of us? We simply dry our selves and go on with our full lives again....
Although...if it were meant to be...we'd simply fly and run in the field and let the sun have its way on our skin, no matter how sweltering it makes us feel.

And with that his thoughts were clear as he sat in that knoll.
Under and on that withered oak.
Its leaves laughing with the memories.
Laughing at the two of them.
Sighing at the sight of them.
Praying for the child of them.

And with that rain, each drop gave life to the leaves.
That grand oak.
Withered under its memories
Laughing at its own roots.
Barely a look under mans boots.
And yet, still strong enough to give its support.

———————_————————__

She walked up to that tree they used to love.
And found him lying there.
His skin still so fair.
But pale in comparison of what it used to be.
So she played there with him. Laughing with the tears of the sky. At what they used to be. Then in each other’s arms, they die.

The sun shines, and a shadow under them begins to bloom, letting the sun do what it pleases on their skin. There will be no joy for them this time though; they ran their last the day before.
Part 1
MJL Feb 20
Stripped
Grizzled
Bark worn
Root rotted
Limbs sagged
Infested
Unsafe
Once a dream home
Once a beacon
Once a symbol
Of strength
Of potential
Of freedom
To climb out of an earthly condition
Now home to snakes
For greed
For fire
To burn for the few
American tinder
Patriotism sold.
In the Garden, by the Creek,
Stands a Tree –
A Weary Willow, weeping, in
A prayerful plea:

“The scoffing Oaks hold
All their leaves,
But mine wither in this winter;
Don’t You see?!”

But, oh, what She
Doesn’t yet know
Is that, now, below the ground,
Growing down, and reaching out –

Hidden to sight or sound –
Are her Roots, preparing Her
To bear a thing no Oak has ever known:
Fruit.

---

So, may Her weeping turn to singing
For spring is bringing
A New Beginning
…In the Garden, by the Creek.

.
Maaz Dec 2018
Through eyes of dull green it sees,
Through deep brown bark it breathes;
A place of shelter it does render,
For those have become too tender.

Humans are not the only animals it aids,
For many boundless beings flock to its shade.
To the wise Old Oak tree all the animals go,
The place they hide from the wind that blows.

A habitat it does provide,
For a world that remains hidden from our eyes;
A world that will soon cease to exist,
which shall soon dissapate into a mist.

The sound of an axe swinging in the distance,
is the sound of another Old Oak being stripped from existence.
This Old Oak is now the last of its kind,
A species extinct thanks to the demand of the human mind.
A Tree
Madisen Kuhn Jan 24
i shouldn’t expect
to stand still
while the untethered
and unbothered
wind demonstrates
the power of the universe
as it sends the rain sideways
twisting dead and
soon to be dead leaves
in its playful vortices

because my roots
are brand new
my limbs are still
thin and delicate like
soft green saplings

for awhile
i will bend
and shake
and fear
the thunder
until i dig down
far enough
in the dirt

the bending
and the shaking
is part of
the beauty

if stay here long enough
if i let the storm soak into me
instead of letting myself
run for cover
i will become
strong and steady
like an old oak tree

i will wear my growth rings
like gold metals
proudly parading
the proof of
what i have weathered
—there will be
too many to count

and i will find myself
smiling at the sky
when the dark clouds roll in
because i am
still here
still standing
after all this time.
STATE SHUT DOWN BY IDIOCY

"This is correspondent, uh, burp...
wait, winds r, yeah, okay go
back on live camera..."

pretend the wind
is
blowing you back

"This is the most major storm in recorded history of this network!"

"My God,
I could die in this sh..stuff."

"Five star hotel what the ****?"

"Okay, okay, live we are,
look here, pan closer, these leafs on this Raleigh plant here,
see how violently they are moving?"

LEAVES ARE FALLING!

"That is the fear one feels knowing that a category two,
at any moment, could become a category five."

"This Dave Mowers live from Hawaii,
checking in before I possibly die.
Mom I love you, Dad, well,
look how brave I am!"

"Is that an Asian girl?"

"What an a..cute ***, that,
cut to...
to the violent leaves again you ****!"

"I'll fire you cameraman!"


Four large oak trees have fallen.
HAWAII HAS ENORMOUS SURF!.
 Four large oak trees have fallen.
When young and dreaming minds are set to wander
Into distant and dancing planes
A rhythmic cadence does beckon
While the Earth yields to watch
As barefooted children play.

The tire swings again
Curious shadows linger  
Never too close
Never too far
A fulfilled existence to an unfulfilled world
A silent presence to an absentminded crowd
Accompanied by the laughter of barefooted children
As they play.

When innocent children grow old
And Innocence becomes Ignorance
Unburdened smiles are replaced with
Darkened spirits and carefully crafted words.
The past still remains present.
A mindful shield
Guiding a hollowed crowd
Absent imprints of the soles
Of barefooted children
Far too old to play.

Seconds begin to weather
Tender breaths are met with woeful groans
Hardened by the world
Agonized by joyful memories
Rotting from inside to out.
Alone.
Left to fall
Without any one to hear a sound.

Here lies a calm remembrance,
That while your melodies may become buried
Entombed by Concrete and Machine
When barefooted children turn
To heels and dress shoes and speech
The earth and roots will remain
Tattooed to the souls of our feet.
For the trees that watched as I grew up, and broke my falls when I climbed too high.
Steve Page Feb 12
I can't see above the frosted glass,
but I can see the dark smokey light.
I can feel the music
beneath the rumble of generations
and I swing one foot out of time.

Once in a while the doors thud open,
with a roar of wreaking-ball laughter
and I grip my lemonade a little tighter,
happier as an outsider.

The frosted glass remains,
but it looks cleaner now.
I push the door, the same dark red,
much lighter now.

The whole place seems smaller,
less of a mystery.
I order a lemonade shady,
feeling like I don't belong,
knowing I never wanted to really.
Memories from mum, SE1
D Letwixt Oct 2018
Raindrops from the old oak tree
Fall very slowly
And run down my cheek
Tori Sep 2018
Even weeds bear beautiful blooms,
New and exciting, in colorful hues,
But the roots of an oak tree will withstand a tempest,
And each passing season,
Greater pleases the senses.
Emotions are great but they pass away, hold fast to that which grounds you.
Wandering past Thousand Oaks,
There mines eyes met many folks
And among them was an old man
Whose beard was as white as a Swan,
Whose voice, was as rough as of a Crow
Whose cinder-like eyes all exuded woe.

Hey old folk, hey old folk, hey old folk,
Unto him I called as he laid by the Oak.
Unto me of thy woe speak If thee can,
But softly replied he, "look, young man,
When in days to come old you grow
I pray of woe thee may never know.

For lest thou ever, the less you'll talk.
Not far off lies my child as still as a rock,
For a ******* came, shooting he began;
And my dear child away couldn't run
That now her coldness thrice as of snow
Hath immersed my poor soul in sorrow."

At this, no more could I talk nor walk,
But grew mute and motionless as a rock
When said he, "if we had not a single gun,
Perhaps dear life would truly be fun."
Then vanished he, leavin' me in sorrow
That thee, dear reader might never know.


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros,
Los Angeles, California, USA.
09th/Nov/2018.
This poem hath been born of the shooting that took place yester night at Thousand Oaks, a place not so far from where I currently dwell. I wholeheartedly convey my prayers to whoever lost someone there. I wish there's something more I could offer but since there's naught, I pray this ink from a quill of mine might soothe a soul of thine. May God bless ye and strengthen ye all.

#Gun shooting #Death #Thousand Oaks
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned

a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance

soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;  
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor

as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale

s i l e n t l y

an acorn fallen  — became a mighty Oak

a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow

a neglected child — became mother nature's son

the Silence became
        a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope

the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
    befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace


... the unabated sounds of silence
become


Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Thank you or reading —
King Panda Nov 2017
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
pollination
susurration
be gone…

you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
Kristo Frost Mar 2013
Parallel tremors follow your heavy footsteps through the moss that carpets a maze of tired oak. Solemn warnings calcify soft thoughts and point you at the coal on the horizon. Its splinterglow peeks hot squints through the arboreal tangle. Topaz streams convene and braid themselves around your spine. The stones in the riverbed grow smoother and each becomes a grain of sand. You let the sand console your roots as you curl your toes and fall asleep.
karin naude Oct 2013
gliding over the piano keys
hitting all the right combinations
the receiver drifting off helped by smoke circles
wiping the face
settling in
sitting deeper
circle the glass edge
soaked in oak mixed water
burning wood crackles
fire a visual trap
slowly sifting trough the past
regret and pride equally rememberd
the ghost visit one by one all before midnight
ding **** the old clock answers the tears
the journey been long
Obadiah Grey May 2010
The comely *****

a comely ***** o' twenty three, from yonder village banburee,
alight her sight on poor auld me, a poorly man wi' one bad knee,
she buxom be enough fer three, her legs be thick as big oak tree,
but contrary to crippled me, she sprightly be wi' two good knee.

as I took flight on that fateful night from rutting comely *****,
I felt a pain, a twist, a strain, and a gutting  rumley wrench!
yon knee was spent, wi’ geat lament, she's upon me in a jiffy
she made it clear, she said, “m’dear I want yer little ******”

now twenty three ‘tis not in years, but sire, tis stones in weight,
and 'er on me wi one good knee, be too dire to contemplate,
but to my surprise, she got a rise outa my little wrinkled pecker,
wi’ her big thighs and **** the size o’ bleedin double decker!!
Jesse stillwater Sep 2018
feel the wind whistle
down the tenebrous sky
come to carry away
my silenced heart

hold dear the love
you see through
    my dried  tears —
before  the  glint
doth  fade

lay me down alone,
my dearest friend,
eyes  to  the  sky
   neath the lone oak tree —
atop the meadow hill

where a lonely child
climbed gnarled rungs
in hope to sail away
on fleeting cotton clouds;
dreaming of a place
in the distant sky
to  call  home


Jesse Stillwater ... September 21, 2018
Thanks for reading — Jesse
shamamama May 27
Pull the weeds, plant the seeds
this is what the garden said

choose what stays
choose what goes

be mindful when you do

the silver oaks darken the sun in the mind
trim the trunks, so light may you find

the bindweed traps the heart
clip the vine, free the art

the poison oak stings your delicate hand
let the goats eat these weeds right off the land

the pompous grass clouds the soul in your eyes
pluck these weeds before they set and rise

the deadweed piles darken your spirit
compost the weeds, lighten your merit

plant the seeds of love, hope and color
water with nourishment, fertilize with wonder
and you will warm the heart of another

and then,

begin again,

pull the weeds
plant the seeds
I feel like my garden has been talking to my soul and I want to share the conversation.
Antino Art Apr 2018
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows

cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over Nash Square at daybreak
We grow here

with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation

seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march

downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They sprint toward their cars on work week mornings in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing
On the shoulders of this giant collective, we hold our heads high

to see that this is home now.
We cross into the unfamiliar
at the walk signal's cue,
breaking new ground, gazes meeting one another
as their counter-culture
coffee kicks in
to add this defiant bounce to each step
this rhythm to hop over puddles as they appear

We don't mind the way rain lands here
and its baptismal effect
We like how its capable of reinventing itself mid-fall into weightless snowflakes, then taking flight
We walk without umbrellas to see it

wearing the greyest pieces of their winter sky the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, mumbling last-mimute prayers for our salvation under our breath
We'll wear their dreams

at night, the moment the streetlights flicker on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking

and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders

under the shadow of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
vanessa ann Feb 2018
brown-eyed boy,
you haunt my dream
with your golden gleam

brown-eyed boy,
i wonder if your touch is as soft
as the way you lay your eyes upon me
       [like i was fragile glass,
        and a simple whisper
        is enough to shatter me]


brown-eyed boy,
you’re neither the blues
of the deep abyss
or the viridescence
of oak leaves

brown-eyed boy,
you’re the soil nourishing me
all the riches of this earth
the oxygen i breathe

and brown-eyed boy?
loving you is like
overindulging in
honey
       [for you're so sweet
        and who am i to resist?]


-
because there aren't enough poems in this world about brown-eyed boys, whose honey sweet eyes bore into your soul
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