"sapling" poems
Can you see it coming
Sprouting through the buried soil
From the seed you unknowingly sow
Can you catch it as it grow
Spreading tender leaves green
Feeding on your sinister thoughts
Can you nip it off, can you?
before the sapling gains ground
Jealousy... Spreading its roots
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
( Sonnet )
Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of quietude
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
When you tried to give me a compliment I always turn the cheek
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to me
That my hair is too frizzy for you to like it
My eyes too blue for your brown
My legs are elegant but they are marked with my disappointment
The purple and the blue will never go away
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal but by the time one problem is resolved another sapling and will slowly take root and show it's colors
You say my heart is made to heal
But I can't find it
It's buried so deep I can't hear it keeping time to my life song
It's crushed under all my self downs and worries
In that hollow it grows
Like a new bud
And one day it will turn into a flower
My response to your comment is lost on my tongue
It is somewhere tucked inside my conscience
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to give an oral report without turning red
And I'm the seeker
You tell me I'm beautiful
But I can't hear you
The voices taunting me inside my head are too loud for your soft voice
Arguing about which way right
When I find my answer it seems as if the time has already left
You are already heading off in the other direction
Leaving me stumbling over my daydreams and expectations
Trying to get a grasp on what's ethical
I always forget to say thank you
It's sort of a bad habit
I'm always too worried about what will happen if I say something wrong
If I'll turn you away
I want you to know that I want you to stay
Stay close and hug me when I need it
So I can help you through your hardships
And carry each other's hopes and dreams upon our shoulders
You will be the soldier of my heart
Guarding the gates for all of the knights in shining armor that aren't noble enough to be my Prince Charming
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
Our last connection with the mythic.
My mother remembers the day as a girl
she jumped across a little spruce
that now overtops the sandstone house
where still she lives; her face delights
at the thought of her years translated
into wood so tall, into so mighty
a peer of the birds and the wind.
Too, the old farmer still stout of step
treads through the orchard he has outlasted
but for some hollow-trunked much-lopped
apples and Bartlett pears. The dogwood
planted to mark my birth flowers each April,
a soundless explosion. We tell its story
time after time: the drizzling day,
the fragile sapling that had to be staked.
At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,
freshly moved in, freshly together,
transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door
gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.
One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.
The other lives on and some day will dominate
this view no longer mine, its great
lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,
its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.
Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,
and remember and marvel to see
our small deed, that hurried day,
so amplified, like a story through layers of air
told over and over, spreading.
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Amongst the raging tempest storms,
Dark clouds covered the world
When acorns fell;
Blown hither and thither,
Dented, battered, and broken,
Fields of acorns;
If just one could take root,
Nurtured by hopes and dreams of the many,
To grow from seed, to sapling, to mighty oak;
One acorn could shape the landscape forever,
Changing the views of many,
A memorial to fallen acorns.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
Seed
Sow
Shoot
Sapling
Tree
Chop
Sawn
Cut
Log
Fire
Embers
Ash!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
"Ma'm,
can you remember the name of that tree?
the one with the big leaves?"
He asks me, raising a withered hand
towards the young magnolia,
not yet blooming.
"Magnolia, I believe."
A light comes into his clouded eyes.
"Ah! Magnolia! Thank you."
he says, before shuffling away.
I pause for a moment.
Staring at the sapling.
Something stirs in memory.
Something deep, or shallow,
I cannot tell.
Memory, none the less.
I feel as though I should remember
a meaning behind the white flowers,
and broad leaves,
but I draw a blank.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Tear asunder
the hatred and disbelief
and you will find a sapling
crawling under your skin
digging deeper as you breathe
finding its way to your heart.
-------
Close your eyes
and feel your pulse
as it weakens every moment
finding light from deep within
as the blood
gush and wreathe
In your soul that has been rifted apart.
-------
Rest your mind
and think
of the carcasses that has once surrounded you
and how long the time has been
when you pulled the sword out of its sheathe
and the battle has yet to start.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
You are like a lion, are you not?
And I shall be the lamb, shall I not?
Our remains shall stay preserved, but in what?
In golden love and awe, am I correct?
So do not fell our affection like a sapling tree.
And do not bash the skull of our forever into the wall of never.
Please refrain from unnecessary doubt of the possibility of us.
For we are our own and our own is us.
And I can only hope for nothing less.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
A sapling restrained from its dirt prison
Wanting to sail across the vast seas
Yearning for liberation
Rain brew in the mighty sky
The little sapling endured valiantly
The sporadic growth of the sapling now on tie
Tempest devoured by the radiant sun
Absorbing nutrients from the sun’s jubilance
The days till maturity became none
The petals of the primrose began to blossom
A majestic scent pervaded the boundless air
The options veered from lean to awesome
Spain, Germany, Belgium, and France
Foreign mountains, towers, and customs
Now in sight from the blossom dance
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 7:28 AM UTC
A pear is a seed my darling dear
And if You, my sweet pear, was a sapling
it would take a thousands years
for You to be as wise as the young redwood tree
in the forest by the salty sea
You don't pick the buds off the rose bush
expecting them to blossom in Your possessive hand
You wait for the perfect moment for the bud to open
sharing her beauty with the sunlight
only then allowing You to gaze at her full glory
And a whole year has gone by for the tree
in which You call home to bloom,
The tree that provides a safe haven for You to ripen
in a burrow between her leaves
protecting You from harsh nights
My dear fruit, You are not ripen yet
You have a couple more months
bloom my sweet pear
if You are too hasty
and allow the nats to gorge on Your splendor
then You will no longer be of value to anyone
I will discard You
my lips will never kiss Your gorgeous skin
You will never be chosen at the market
tucked away in a basket
given as a precious gift.
You will be thrown
mixed into compost
to live the rest of Your days
rotting, unhappy, until You die;
A spoiled little fruit.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
I
__
i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.
i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
and toss
of its fabulous force
rippling
churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
so indistinct,
flapping,
furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
and i know
a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
and goes
out of its own control,
but,
i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.
II
__
when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
rolling
rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
driftwood
sailing
slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
rumbling,
rolling
away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.
III
__
these trees towering
above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
(in my lifetime)
blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
falling,
dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
again...
--and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
like a seed
beneath
the ground
never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
of being.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Ye who have passed Death’s haggard hills; and ye
Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know
And still stand silent:—is it all a show,
A wisp that laughs upon the wall?—decree
Of some inexorable supremacy
Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise
From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes,
Sphinx-faced with unabashed augury?
Nay, rather question the Earth’s self. Invoke
The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day
Whose roots are hillocks where the children play;
Or ask the silver sapling ’neath what yoke
Those stars, his spray-crown’s clustering gems, shall wage
Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age.
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Through the rejections and all the hate,
Just before your faith crosses the Pearly Gates,
Though allegedly claimed impossible by the Fates^,
taps you on your weary shoulder - "Hi,
could you help me, no one else is ...” -
the lonely voice of your soul-mate^^.
^Rumour has it those Greek hags have stock options
in the military-industrial complex, the cosmetics industry,
and favour Eris's 21st century avatar called Consumerism.
^^Your soul is not a super-market produce,
For feckless mass appreciation or consumption.
Your soul is a dauntless beautiful sapling, that
'the one' will rescue from its interminable fire,
and nurture it, till it blossoms and glows.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 1:11 PM UTC
The opening eyes of the infant flickered from here to there,
Taking in the world as it passed by,
The sapling grew into a tree in the blink of an eye,
People came and people went,
Memories of their ghosts with some others stayed behind,
The infant faintly recalled what the reflection he saw in the mirror looked like,
It saw the mirrors change with its reflection,
The people behind him grew older like it,
He began to forget things that had been,
But ghosts of his doings and things occurred haunting his mind,
And as came near the end of time,
It reflected upon who it had become.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
On the land of our family
Are the ashes of generations.
Each generation planted with the saplings of the trees
The Cedar, The Fir, The Larch, and The Mountain Ash
Standing regal in the sun's early light.
It is a new day
Standing under their boughs
Comforted by ancestral arms touching
In a circle of Love and Light.
What is emerging?
Sprouting up from under the Sphagnum
It's a seed! Raising its head
Peeking up, and stretching towards the sun.
Ever upward it expands
Though nights of rain and clouds.
Through days of heat and seeming drought.
Yet the seedling grows and endures
Bent by the late summer winds
The fiber of wisdom ever increasing within its core.
At the end of Indian Summer
The frost begins to unleash its chill
The young sapling freezes
As the blanket of white thickens across the land.
With the weight upon it's back
In humility the sapling bends low to kiss the earth.
Bravely holding this asana in the coldest of the winter days.
Today by my window
I am basking in the sunlight of a very early spring,
Bright are shimmering reflections of sunlight snow.
Squinting, with eyes half open and eyes half closed
The small rainbows begin to dance
Between each pair of lashes.
A delighted inner child
Chuckling with joy.
I can hear the sound of water running
And ice falling from the rooftops above.
The snow is finally melting!
The tall cedar boughs dance with the wind.
Up and down, releasing their winter coats
As Ice crystals floating on the air.
Gazing across the white wonder
To the very spot where I last saw our little tree
What of the little seedling?
Is it still alive?
Or broken and crush by the ice and snow?
My musing over the Cedar Sapling
Shifted with a gasping surprise
It sprung up!
Announcing "I am still alive!"
And my inner voice giggled with delight.
Hum, I wonder
Do trees have a heart?
Do they perceive beyond their bark?
Do they remember?
In this very moment the sapling's sudden appearance
During my musing seemed to express, "Yes!"
Is it just a deep enduring feeling
That the elders of this world
Are the 400+ year old Cedars
Keeping their long record of time?
My dear little sapling
may you continue to grow into magnificence.
I will only see your first 100 years.
For your last four hundred
Allow me to lie at your roots
Under the Sphagnum from which you sprung.
And my children will water flowers at your base
That you may grow as the guardian of the ancestor
Who planted your seed and watched you grow.
Yes, the very one who is now delighted that you
Have popped up from under your blanket of snow.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:46 AM UTC
The pen, they say, is mightier,
but is it keener than a knife?
This brittle blade of insolence,
unleashed to lash at life.
'Yeah, innit, Bruv, he got right up in my face,
cos my phone was out in lesson time
and he called me a disgrace.
Like, so, whatever, mate,
I told him where to go,
trying to tell me English,
while I'm textin' my new hoe.'
The pen is not mightier,
it is tarnished and obtuse,
a vision of a different age,
wrought blind from its misuse.
Its sapling song of innocence,
split south across the grain
and cast across the classroom,
yanked up and lobbed again.
'Do you get me, Blood?
He was pointing at a seat,
expectin' ME to sit there,
as if it were a treat.
I told him where to stick it
and called him out a clown,
I **** this one-way death pit
as I'm walkin' round and round.'
The pen should still be mighty
and not a strangled stream,
that's crawling up an incline,
like an M. C. Escher dream.
Its muddy banks lie dormant,
both acorn and an oak.
'Cut that **** you KEENO,
let's **** off for a smoke.'
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 4:47 PM UTC
With the ivy on my house, I had to reconsider what flowers I wanted to add to my garden. I never expected to be gifted a hydrangea sapling that I planted beneath the wall of ivy. I was much more beautiful than I had originally thought, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that the hydrangeas were able to grow and flourish on their own alongside the ivy. The scent of hydrangeas became comforting to me.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 4:09 PM UTC
In my yard stands a tree
tall and sturdy
lone like a hermit,
regal like an empress
her roots dug deep
her branches touching the heavens
peeking behind the skies veil
She has a coy dalliance with the Wind
Sometimes he comes tickling
her tender parts, whispering
sweet nothings in her ear
Overall she is still
Still....................
like waters without ripples
She stands upright
brooding over the saga of struggle
from a sapling to a towering giant
Indeed a tryst with destiny!
Under the summer sky
braving the smarting beams
she remained uncomplaining.
Below the thundering clouds
bearing a thousand needle ******
she stayed nonchalant.
When the wind swept across
bending her branches in all directions
she stood on firm feet unwavering.
She tells a tale of struggle and survival
She had stood there before I was born
Now she displays every scar and every stripe
on her knotted bark as a proud trophy
Sometimes I feel her pain
when wet and dripping in pouring rain
or scorched in the sun’s fiery rage
Yet she holds an umbrella over all
who come to her in sun and rain
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Little acorns, fallen by the tree
anchored into soil.
You had just begun to grow,
when mother wilted.
The comforting shade of her branches, gone.
The support of her vital roots, gone.
Yet you remained.
Little sapling, snatched at by a predator, tooth and claw. You held tight to the soil, setting shallow roots,
clinging to the earth,
rich with remnant memories,
ghosts.
You set your branches up, grew quickly, reached out with earnest energy,
to shade the acorn below you.
Gnashing teeth, fangs of a predator. Violence, a flash of red lust into your branches, pulling, ripping.
Yet, for your acorn, adopted, your remained.
Through the jealous filter of grief, you remained.
Through the threat to your own body, you remained.
And even though Mother is gone,
you have taken her place.
Your roots winding deep into fertile soil, finding your way through paths
she first dug,
you find your strength
as protector,
anchor,
life-giver,
to the little acorn beneath you.
The comforting shade of your branches, remain for her.
The support of your vital roots, remain for her.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
314
Nature—sometimes sears a Sapling—
Sometimes—scalps a Tree—
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die—
Fainter Leaves—to Further Seasons—
Dumbly testify—
We—who have the Souls—
Die oftener—Not so vitally—
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*Claw beneath your ribs
Hold down wild you
Just for a little while
Feel the anguished flutter
Begging these gruff hands . . .*
1.
Fear takes commotive hold
Makes wooden legs
Delayed dance…..so delayed
Causing silent attendance of synchrony
No use stepping out for flight just yet, if alone
Will meantime practise wing-span
iron out brittle energy
attempt to fortify links
..
2.
Careless snubs to fragile sapling
Did absolutely nothing
To the course set out
Only hypocrites squander even half-truths
and wallow in obsequious words
rendering paralysis and decay
I will continue to claw beneath your ribs
Covert trove awaits us
In the tormented form of
Crashing waves on a broken coast
Hacked to near-distraction by potent searching
3.
Loss is not wasted
unseen by its absence:
evocative presence felt …with penniless eyes
I challenge you to visualise our melting:
perched on fate’s right shoulder
re-sent to this basic arena as buoyant token
summoned by that primordial, blue light
..
*the sun may well baulk and melt
at the ruddy sight of
such intense clawing beneath your ribs
(like your customary digging into my bristling blades)
To find my foetal place
within the calling drumbeats
of imperative you . . .*
S T, sunsday . . . 21 July 2013
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
A plant outstretches its frame,
in steady growth and tenor;
A new leaf still wrapped unto itself,
must unfold to meet the world.
A universe appears,
and another dissipates;
Yet a leaf is born,
between the stars and dirt -
from the dust and decay.
A sapling reaches for sun and rain,
as I search for pen and paper.
After all,
We all do what we can.
Apr 8, 2021
Apr 8, 2021 at 5:49 PM UTC
When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.
From the earth’s loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold,
The drooping tree revives.
The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.
When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.
And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o’er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.
Inverted in the tide,
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April!—many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life’s golden fruit is shed.
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