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John Niederbuhl Oct 2017
Nature's own inkblots,
By time and wind shaped
Each with a story to tell,
Fantasy stirring, recollection as well,
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.  
Some have stooping shoulders,
Like old men after a funeral
Talking quietly on the lawn.
Some have boughs that slant down,
Like eyebrows
On teachers that frown--
Worried and skeptical.
Some stand at varied intervals
Along hilltops above a town
Watching like sentinels.
Some have branches that curve up,
Short, like fancy mustaches,
Or long branches, like eager arms outstretched
To greet a loved one.  
Some stand very close, boughs touching,
Like families saying grace;
On some, the branches intertwine,
Like lovers who embrace,
And on some, the lowest limbs
Fly upwards,
Like a skirt raised by the wind.  
Young ones crowd together,
Some taller than the rest,
Trunks thin,
Like kids choosing sides for baseball.
On some, the branches rise like smoke,
Billowing silently, curling,
Drifting to the sky
Like prayers from a little church
Where all the woman wear hats,
And every man wears a tie.  
Like inkblots spreading they capture the eye--
Each with a story to tell.
Silently standing,
By time and wind shaped
Knowing us better than we know ourselves.
I grew up among these trees--I know them and they know me
Maya Lednevsky Oct 2018
Green light beam shines upon the web of streets,
The messenger from strange and distant worlds.
You're far away, for me it all repeats -
My town is empty, shadows roam the walls.

No Savior comes, I run into the void.
And when the masts of pines come into view,
I stop and fall on salty sand, destroyed.
It does not matter if I cry for you -

It's not the wind that rustles sleepy trees,
It's not the chirps of sparrows or jays,
It's Moira, saddened by the Fate she sees,
Unknits the lace of my remaining days...
L B Jul 2018
An early evening gust
broke the back of the day's blaze
Still 90 degrees at eight
in orange haze
Sweat runs down my neck
Through the gorge between my *******
The wind lifts my linen shirt
runs its hands along my sides
reviving memory
of Forest Park
of a blanket in the grass

Where the pines trace
so many faces
Crackling popping kids
stolen matches, running
screaming victorious!
Blowing tin cans up with fire crackers
Bicycles, sparklers, fireworks at dusk
That whole afternoon
I spent hammering caps

Noise really makes us kids
really
especially
annoying

Mom wants us out!
Gone! All of us!
No needs. No excuses!
No cookies! No slices of bologna!
“No more Kool Aid!
Out now!
Out!”

That evening I tried
to dismiss the itchy sweat
of ******-sister-Suzy-matching-sun-suits
at Gino's family picnic
When some kid
(I don't know?)
between the rigatoni and the sweet corn
Some kid
tosses a sparkler
into box of fireworks
I don't know?
whether to cry or laugh
I was pretty scared
Rockets going off across the lawn
and onto porch
Craze of colors through the trees
Some at eye-level horror!
But the sight of Aunt Nedda
diving under picnic table
Stockings, garter belt upended
Capsized beyond her caring
of uplifted dress

Some images just stay with you, ya know?

July 4th always lands for me
on a firework's ***
"Caps"  are little red rolls of gunpowder dots, originally made to give a snap to toy guns of the 1950s.  We figured out that by layering them and using a hammer, you could get a bigger *****.
Kevin J Taylor Dec 2016
The road that lies below rests deep and still.
No moon to light the snow. The sky is clear.
Heads back and arm in arm—eyes wide!
This winter night—This holiness we feel!

So spill the lights of Heaven into sight
Illumined, rising, falling—Shifting grace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways

Above the shepherd pines and hemlock choirs.
There— This night! The sky! The lights!
The stars! The fire!
Above! Across! Dear God—
.
Vines can reacheth up to the sky
Supp'rt'd by the sturdy pine
Given the chance to groweth and thrive
Curl and twist'd up rough skinn'd oaks
To seeth the w'rld through eyes up high
Unreachable but f'r those deep, stout roots
Anon finally able to floweth'r and fruit
Climbing up by the crackling bark
On the backs of the pines and belly of the oaks
@LadyRavenhill
2018 rewrite of 2016 poem
Starting a collection of just my Shakespearean poetry called
W'rds of a Nimble-Footed Mistress. check it out on my profile as I add more, I have so many still to post. Who knows, maybe I will finally publish something?
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The warmth of life has come at last
to me along this spring time path.
Sweet fragrance floats on morning breeze,
while colors dance on plants and trees.
As orchids peek from under pines
I float off to past years and find
myself recalling days gone by
and always you who’ve said goodbye.

But while this past now flirts with me,
I take the time to let it be
and make a choice along my way
to seek out love another way.
I still recall what’s left behind
and in this heart will always find
a life that took a crooked path,
but now has found it’s own way back.

Time’s given me a second chance
to see life at a backward glace.
To learn at last from my mistakes,
so with this choice a chance I take.
To find another soul like mine,
and with that soul my life I’ll find.
My heart has come full circle now,
from life through death a blessed whole.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Under the pines
I am a new man.
Smelling pine needles
above,
rubbing soil
between my toes,
counting pine cones
as they fall,
and feeling insects
crawl all over everything.  
I am not quite myself  
under the pines,
I am fully
alive.
Ms Langtree's Lament
Arthur Habsburg Jul 2018
Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous *****
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.
Going to Prangli island.
Juhlhaus Jan 17
On a misty city morning
still resolved to early rising
I came upon a heap of corpses

They were child sacrifices
made to satisfy the fancy
of Christian capitalist and pagan
and a jolly old fat man
who lives at the North Pole

They might have been

growing tall
in a field or on a hill
drinking sunlight
breathing love songs
in answer to caress of wind

But the silent pines
didn't seem to mind
their broken bodies one last gift
filling my chest with fragrant air
and longings
for fields and hills
on a misty city morning
King Panda Jul 2017
I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.

I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.

I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.

I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

I have forgotten green.

now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.

now
love washes out
in seasons.

now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.

And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
Caroline Jan 29
You are sitting alone by the tallest trees of the forest,
Perched quietly on that stone that was turned over by the erosion of silted banks;
The wild river, a little ways off,
But still the roar of it fills the air.
Your hands are clasped in front of you
And your backpack is slung to the side.
Above your quiet form,
The mountains rise like citadels
And their alpine slopes abound with pines
Like sentinels, watching,
Hiding the yellow eyed wolves
That dart within.
But they will not approach you.
They also attend the dusk,
And the secrets it brings.
The singing of the coyotes
Calls the stars out
One by one,
Emerging in a deepening blue,
While the fire of the sun’s descent
Subsides too,
Into blackness.

The night birds call.

I am here, my love.
Can you see my silhouette against the moon?
The darkness between us thickens
Like blood from a wound.

Reach for me

High above you, a white owl alights,
Beating its ragged wings against the thickness
Of the wilderness;
This coniferous witness to the excruciating ache
Between us.
The dark shadows of the pines, motionless,
Yet, I shake.

Reach for me

You shift your weight and turn to face
The space where I stand.
You lift your hand as if
To gently place my hair
Behind my ear,

Remember how you always loved to do that
When I was here?

You touch me, almost!
We are so **** close!

You are crying now, alone.

The night birds sing to a ghost.
This deals with the pain of loss, of any kind. The struggling in the darkness to remember a face, a body, a sound, a smell. To bring him, her, it back to life, or back into your life, and the constant failure to do so. What if the lost ones who are ever present in our minds are watching us too?
Traveler Jul 2018
White and woolly
Cotton clouds
Fluently floating by
I take my time
I take a ****
Smoke rings
In the pines

In laughter free
Among the trees
Where echos begin to rhyme
Come and play
Long in the day
The Oak is in his's prime
.........
Traveler Tim

I love the Man and the band!
One gorgeous Spring day
we gathered on my deck,
a few friends and I,
to sing and play
some beautiful music
loved by us all.

My home, on a remote ridge top
of the Sierra mountains,
offered a panoramic view.
Not a single house
could be seen--
only the vast forest
surrounded us.

We accompanied our voices
with two guitars,
a flute, and a
small harp.

As we sang,
the air grew still,
and the tall, fragrant pines
encircling the house
seemed to lean in,
listening.

After awhile we paused,
to savor in silence
the sublime feeling
created by the music.
The harpist stood her harp
on the table.

Just then,
a gentle breeze came up
and the harp began to sing
as the wind's fingers
caressed the strings,
enchanting us all
with a heavenly music
unlike anything
we had ever heard.

Would that my heart
were as that harp,
responsive to
Your lightest touch--
singing endlessly
of love.
Copyright 2010, by Michael S. Simpson.  All rights reserved.
Nico Julleza Dec 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Every year to me, now and then
Families and hollies filled with merriment
Only steps away of the outside snow
Sprawling emotions underneath the mistletoe

Glisten, the pavement covered in hue
Journey of a thousand crystals falling anew
The icicle dew at the gutter lines in row
Constellation tales upon the sky-light glow

Enchant pines adored by ornaments
Treasured memories flew like a firmament
Wreaths to every door, signs of triumph & joy
Bringing glad tidings from God's little boy

Trains in and out of the winter-night
Gifts and glory offered with endless blithe
Hymns from a choir trailing every post
Greetings to an old friend even to the unknown
#Christmas #Holidays #ChristOurLord #Joy # Glory

Merry Christmas Poets and Have A Glorious new Year. Hope I'm not late..
The inspiration just came to me, and this is to be my very first Holiday poem. Inspired with many traditions and observation all around during holidays.

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
v V v Aug 2014
These are the days
when my heart can’t speak
and my days pass by in a fog.

At night I look to the sky for her flame
and she shows me, up through the pines,
she’s the burning harvest moon tonight.

Do you see how she shines like the sun?
She shines in the night just for me.
              
She leads me to the edge and
whispers like a lover in the dark,
she wants me to burn just for her.

My harvest moon she seems so close
I reach up to touch her but she’s
too far away,  she’s so far away but

Oh, how she burns so bright!

          Naivety’s gotten the better of me
          she’s not the burner she’s the “burnee”

          and if we met we’d burn white hot
          we’d melt like a ******* supernova

          but then we’d die

          My beautiful white harvest moon
          and I, we know what to do to get by

          We know what needs to be done

          Shall we close the buckle in the door?

          Shall we swallow the white gold and pearls?

          No, not likely, instead
          run to her at midnight
          in the bright white light,
          climb upon the rail between
          ocher beams on Golden Gate
          and look up.

          She seems so close.
          Look up!
          I reach for her slowly
          Look up!
          I reach for her softly
          Look up!

          slowly

          softly

          I step to the edge and fly home.
Brody Blue Aug 2017
High on the mountain,
I’m all alone,
Sittin’ by the river,
Water splashin’ on the stones;
As mornin’ fills the valley
Where before, the night was hung,
I wake up from the wine
But the pines block-out the sun

And the rain ain’t pleasin’,
And the cold is on the ground,
And strung-out on the byways
All the highwaymen stand round;
And above the crooked timber,
All the whippoorwills fly blue,
And they sing a song so lonesome,
Can’t you hear it comin’ thru?

Or did you decide
That you’ve gone deaf and blind
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, by and by,
As I wonder why I keep on
Tryin’ to get to you;
it’s no use…

There at your window,
Leanin’ on the ledge,
Y’got ‘em tryin’ to beat the blade
With a nine-pound sledge;
Y’got ‘em workin’ on a building,
Ev’ry carpenter in town;
Well if I had it my way
I would tear that building down

But it won’t get done
All I could ever win’s been won;
And I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive, you won’t cry,
But will you try, if I die
While tryin’ to get to you, to
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you

After all that I’ve been had
You’d think that I’d go mad,
But my anticipation
Outweighs my lack of patience;
‘Cause I’ve been on the job so long
Who knows if I’ll survive this time, so
Bury Me in Georgia
Next to you
A song about peaches
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