"taproot" poems
I tripped on a forest of roots & lost my clothes.
When this happened, I felt less a lady
in shame of uncovering from pink, frilly things
the shelter like feathers on a peacock or
ribbons track-marking a braid –
I was enclosed in such a house that I must have
become it myself. **** I saw tiger-stripes
eating their way from my hips to bottom
and made a big taproot, a radix to the physical
me, as rosy as a flower in the dead of spring
even billowing as petals will for wedding vows –
the single, womanly cavity I concealed
how together we became such a dollhouse
for nature and its ***** hair:
I, taught to play with my own frilly, pink thing.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Seeds of the Dandelion
appear intertwined;
Tightly woven tendrils
weave and hold
in close bond;
Stretched fingers
offer anchor for each other,
though hesitant.
When the time is right
and the slightest wind blows,
seeds of the dandelion
go.
Parachutes of white snow.
A moment in time
stalk stands naked in the wind,
having lost everything;
Though the taproot runs deep
and in reality,
millions more will seek
a new birth.
We may think it a waste,
unwanted seeds being placed
hither and yon.
But what about the Dandelion?
Some call this **** a ruderal
this “lion’s tooth” with the long taproot
feeding bees and butterflies.
With detoxifying properties,
this plant has seen atrocities
of prejudice, bigotry and intolerance;
But it just goes on to do it’s job
holding on as long as it can
til the parachutes of snow
go
and the cycle of life repeats.
© Marlene Dunham 2010
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook
And the rope of the Black Election,
'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule
Can never achieve perfection:
So 'It's O, for the time of the new Sublime
And the better than human way,
When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own
And the Wolf shall have his day!'
For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam
And the power of provocation,
You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit
Till your fruit is mere stupration:
And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise,
And how can we choose but fall,
So long as the Hangman makes us dread,
And the Noose floats free for all?'
So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign
And the trick there's no recalling,
They will haggle and hew till they hack you through
And at last they lay you sprawling:
When 'Hey! for the hour of the race in flower
And the long good-bye to sin!'
And for the lack the fires of Hell gone out
Of the fuel to keep them in!'
But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough
And the ghastly Dreams that tend you,
Your growth began with the life of Man,
And only his death can end you.
They may tug in line at your hempen twine,
They may flourish with axe and saw;
But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs
In the living rock of Law.
And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork,
When the spent sun reels and blunders
Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit
As it seethes in spate and thunders,
Stern on the glare of the tortured air
Your lines august shall gloom,
And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed
In the ruining roar of Doom.
1.5k
As if
the taproot of my spine.
And you grew roots from your feet
as we both tried to run,
but the earth turns,
so we are anchored,
but each heart carries.
So our wanderlust
leaves us spread the world
but you say it isn't enough
to fly with sparrows,
and die with another.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
A curling green tendril climbs from its’ birthing nest of rotting bird ****
The creeper wends its’ way up round and around the stalk of its’ slender tree host. Leading vigorously ever upward, it climbs toward the light of day. Upon bursting through to the sunshine, it explodes into a huge and suffocating dominance. Wrapping its’ leaders tightly together, writhing skyward, smothering all else. Blotting out the sun. Inhibiting its’ host tree, ultimately killing it ...and every other living plant located below it.
In late summer the creeper produces bunched, masses of frothy, green, seeded florets. Clouds of green plumed waxeyes flock en mass, to flutter, competing ravenously to feast on the banks of seed heads.
Once replete, with full crops, the tiny birds fly off to distant shaded woods there to indiscriminately drop their **** unknowingly further spreading the insidious creeper pestilence.
I trudge through my wooded glades,
Indignantly I sever taproot after taproot with my trusty sharp blade
….and watch that creeper limply sag and die
With a glint of satisfaction in my grim and vengeful eye.
M.
6 February 2016
Foxglove farm, Taranaki, NZ
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
He's a streamlined man,
now on the road to return.
The spirit farmer,
taking breakfast in the fields,
found his sister soul
and his woman of the world.
He was running blind
with no aerial boundaries.
To communicate
he would watch his life go by
because it was there,
the taproot, the naked stalk.
Free swinging soul, with
silent anticipations.
A Phoenix fire
torched, is once again spring buds.
And ready or not,
the Gospel, the Oracle.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Sing a song of sadness,joy not behold,
fighting for righteousness in three fold thought,
the heart is acheing,the truth is so cold
mind not for life is only a taproot
spreading the sweetness of pain in the foot
sing then,for this fate shall birth another
we live only just for awhile in time,
and fate trap on us like a wet feather.
All right reserved
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 11:57 AM UTC
I am hopeful.
That is all I can be,
hopeful
for redemption
from whatever pain that has been caused,
redemption for those
still plagued by demons.
I do not know
when
your pain will cease,
I do not know
when he will return to you
as the baby
that was always yours.
I am hopeful
that he will return,
and that you will return with him,
not to me,
but to him
and that he will be
with wet wings
for you to lick
dry,
to the hope
that once made you whole,
to the goodness
deep inside of you
like a taproot
that still reaches out,
I am hopeful
for the sun
and the hunger
for
radiation
and so much
heat; heat
you wouldn't believe;
heat that makes humans,
human again.
I know that you will eventually
be all right,
I know this.
Do you know what?
I've changed my mind.
Maybe hope is stupid,
maybe hope is just something
people use to get out of bed
and not **** everyone,
I will commit a homicide right now,
with the gun of my tongue
and say,
"I am no longer hopeful,
I am sure."
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
See that Smile
Like Diamond
Among the Dust of the Stars.
I don't know you
But your smile
reflex your Heart
It shines like
A Thousand Suns
In Collision.
It's Light, Gives Life
It's Ray, Gives Hope
It's Contagious, Gives Riches
It's Core, his Love
It's Word, Gives Creation
.
.
.
Time with it's Season Came
After the collision
She leaves
Thoughtless
Emotionless
Motionless
Tearless
Lightless
Bold
Loveless
Livelessnessly Like a Tree
without a taproot
To Hold,
To Feed.
It's So cold
Why can't you
come back to Us.?.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
The acorn is threatened and desired
A delightsome delicacy for predators- big and small.
The lucky ones emerge as oak seedlings.
As each taproot burrows to the heart of the earth,
the sapling doth heavenward shoot.
At the mercy of the elements,
The tender sapling’s survival seems
like a fanciful daydream,
one that slumbers in the womb of time.
In the acorn is hidden immense energy
to sustain the sapling until self-sufficiency it attains.
But will the sapling survive the forces of nature-
The floods, fires, and fall foes?
The Tender steps forth to prune in hope
with fired imagination and starry eyes,
He beholds, not a sapling, but a majestic oak.
From sunrise, He draws from his creative aliveness
as He nurtures and nourishes it
to pave the way for a coveted dream.
He is ever lost in ruminations
about the strength of the future Ancient
to provide soccur and solace
to generations yet unborn,
long after his final bow.
He is comforted that
underneath its soothing shade,
Youngsters will find
private escape from the drudgery of life.
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 9:46 PM UTC
no one who feels the changing seasons' bite
can be assured that growth is purely good
since each tall tree each ancient of the wood
that waits there leafless through the winter night
with chilly taproot is in the same plight
as you might be and has for long withstood
the final pain in ways you wish you could
but it wont matter there'll be a last rite
spring is too short and one day sap won't rise
to renew bud and energise new leaf
but for the moment all we have is time
and universes open to our eyes
the products none of them of our belief
while every limb towards the sun must climb
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 3:49 PM UTC
“Monarchy can easily be ‘debunked’, but watch the faces, mark well the accents of the debunkers. These are the men whose taproot in Eden has been cut -- whom no rumor of the polyphony, the dance, can reach – men to whom pebbles laid in a row are more beautiful than an arch. Yet even if they desire mere equality they cannot reach it. Where men are forbidden to honor a king they honor millionaires, athletes, or film-stars instead -- even famous prostitutes or gangsters. For spiritual nature, like ****** nature, will be served -- deny it food and it will gobble poison.”
Quote by C.S. Lewis: “Monarchy can easily be "debunked", but watch th...” (goodreads.com)
Sep 8, 2022
Sep 8, 2022 at 11:22 AM UTC