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s Oct 2016
We used to swing under the big willow tree
We lived 3 doors down from each other
We were princesses who fought dragons
We could save the kingdom and find our prince by lunch time
Our moms laughed and talked about how cute we were
Four years old was a cute age

Fast forward a bit
We went into elementary school innocent and young
Boys had cooties
Girls had cooties
Kickball always ended with someone getting hit in the face
We would always sit out field and pick grass and shape it into a little birds nest
Life was good
Until your parents started fighting and I mean really fighting.
It scared me and I would have to go home
I would make you come with me
three doors down
Our moms didn’t laugh anymore
By Christmas break your parents were broken up and divorced
Eight years old was a confusing age

Junior high was mean.
Girls would rip you to shreds and then hang pieces of you on everyone’s lockers
Boys just wanted to make out
A whirlwind of uncontrolled hormones
We were the quiet ones
Always flew under the radar
Just trying to make it out alive
We found a little spot to eat lunch under the stairs where no one would go
We giggled and talked about boys who didn’t even know that we existed
I remember crying in the bathroom with you because people were brutal and we weren’t good enough
Our moms worried about us and how distant we were becoming
Thirteen years old was a sad age

Highschool is another story
You were put in the hospital for a month
I was left at school alone
I had to find more friends
I found most of them were fake
So I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall
Reading all the swear words that were carved in the wall
You were really sick and we grew apart
We were always close
We will always love each other
You tried to save me from myself
But I didn’t let you
Seventeen was an important age

Now we are at different colleges
I tried to **** myself while you were getting an A on your anatomy test
It’s sad
We don’t swing under the big willow tree or fight dragons anymore
Our moms hardly talk
You are a success
and I am a failure
We don’t really mesh
I miss you every day
I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you
We were princesses who lived three doors down, we saved the kingdom.
I love you
I’m sorry this has faded
Just like everything else
Nineteen years old is a dying age.
Really just a story
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.)
jonni inferno Jul 2018
i met her    
in a waking dream    
as i walked beside    
the sylvar stream    
whose chattering laughter    
shifted suddenly    
into a sylvar pool    
of enchanted silence    
a mirrored glaze    
in muted    
dawning rays    
her cascading mane    
a crimson flare    
sea-green eyes    
alluring stare    
my heart stopped    
to see her there    
'pon a verdant garden lee 
the misting sylvar mere    
the weeping willow trees    
dahlia lips    
whispering desire    
vermilion plunder splayed    
by her charms    
heart pounding    
i stay    
an' wi' faire
lithesome beauty lay    
'pon a lush an' vibrant field    
the misting sylvar mere    
the weeping willow trees    
we lay there    
lost in time    
in the silence 
of kindred minds    
an' i knew her name    
tho she spoke it not    
sipped i then
the misty morning dew    
from precious lips
that from me drew    
all that i    
ever thought    
or felt    
or knew
'pon the grasses lush and green    
the softly glowing mere    
the weeping willow trees    
soft sings    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
their voices weaving spells    
for lover's yearning hearts    
in the meadow    
by the way    
where my love an' i    
do lay    
'pon the gleaming sylvan shore    
the shining crystal lake    
the weeping willow trees    
the dawning days    
were passing
when came malevolence    
a thund'ring tempest    
lightnings flashed
in ragged gashes
'cross the heaven's    
stygian passes
an' from those
gnawing caverns
a raging
demon's brood
an' down flew they
by the sylvar stream
where my love
and i
did lay
the mystic sylvar lake
the weeping willow trees
then from my arms    
vile creatures tore    
my lifesong    
my heart's blood    
my one    
and only love
her scintillating form    
they ripped    
her silent
piercing cries    
thru my soul
an' took her they  
far from this    
desert shore    
as her soundless    
chorus fades    
an' leaves me
here alone    
to lay    
'pon these shifting lifeless sands    
this sylvar lake of tears    
the weeping willow trees    
the meadowlark    
her spellsong sings    
thru ebon winter's    
the silver stream    
her laughter froze    
this heart    
once fire    
a soulless stone    
so now this raven
doth fly
to scour the bruised    
an' shadowed skies    
to find my dove    
an' bring her home    
to lay
'pon these frozen brittle stones
the darkened sylvar tarn
the weeping willow trees    
thru timeless age    
an' dangerous realms    
i followed    
her silent    
as her grisly    
mewling pleas    
hollowed out my soul    
'til at last    
i found her    
chained an' bound    
deep within    
peculiar planes    
an' baneful realms    
far from    
the laughing sylvar stream    
far from    
the weeping willow trees    
her lament    
of bitter tears    
an' fear    
thru my defenses    
a doomed    
pernicious heart    
she was    
thru deepest depths    
where madness reigns    
all hope destroyed    
hell's minions    
my dove    
called i    
my love    
'tis i    
once more    
thrice more  
and time again    
till finally    
she hearkened    
to my voice    
true love    
recall us    
you and i    
thru ageless realms    
consider us    
under heaven's wings    
at my fingertips

an' i  
drew her then    
into my arms    
ambrosia lips    
her sweet alms    
from her dark pain    
i did drink    
of her    
malignant sorrow    
i did partake  
my questing    
thirsting hunger    
did i sate  
gathering all    
her shattered pieces    
from those altered    
now broken    
i carried her
'pon wings    
of true love's    
sylvar light    
far from    
these darksworn legions    
the dawning night's    
farthest regions    
an' there    
close by    
the laughing    
sylvar stream    
lay her gently    
'pon the verdant flowing shore    
our gleaming slyvar mere    
our weeping willow trees    
under glimmering    
starlit heavens    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
whose soulful songs    
for yearning lovers    
charms of hope    
where pools    
the laughing    
sylvar stream    
whose mirrored gaze    
draws us deep within    
as the wind    
thru our hearts  
as we lay entwined    
'pon a verdant garden lee    
our misting sylvar mere    
our silent    
willow trees    
p j upchurch
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
Promise me, my flesh you'll place
'neath a fledgling willow tree.
And as it grows toward blue sky,
It's in its grace you'll hear me cry.
Laden with the heaviest fears,
resembling, reflecting
my darkest years.

A fragile bone was once my arm,
so likened to the willows charm.
It's branches delicate,
could ne'er do harm.
It's soft and fluffy hand like bud,
encased in skin, the willow's wood.

Hold its hand at branches end.
My message, a vibration,
to you I'll send.
Until the death of said willow tree,
reminding you . . . . .
. . . . . . always of me.

Poetry by Kaydee.
The tired and deathly willow tree with stories to tell of debutantes, swinging
before entering hell.
Elena Jan 2019
Her branches hung low
to the ground
They brushed the dirt
that they sat upon
How beautiful is pain
when it grows
It has a way to hang
those gentle woes.

See that tree all alone
yet so full?

Her shadows weep
in the bristles of doom
Then the sun comes to play
in the cold bushy monsoon.
As gusty sighs sway her eyes
to greet the galloping moon.
Terry O'Leary Jun 2015
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,

before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,

and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,

and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),

and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).

And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,

the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."


Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.

But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:

“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”


        ”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Olivia V Aug 2017
softly, she weeps
warm tears caressing,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.

tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and she floats
and she moves with this wind.

she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and it moves,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep
across mountains and valleys.

she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all
yet seen by none.

the willow above
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.

and so her body fades
into mere particles.
she stays silent throughout,
until she too
an ethereal gale.

and in her place,
there is now emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom ,
in despair that she's gone.
not meant to rhyme.
Persephone Jul 2019
Her wings fell away
And she descended into the willow
Screaming for her laughter
And wishing for her hope
She warped into a free fall
Crashing into heartless branches
Grasping for a helpful hand
Engulfed in wordless fear
Forgetting to believe in herself
In a place by the lake stood a tall willow tree
It's roots stretching down far beyond where I could see
At first glance I admire its elegant beauty
But there's more than meets the eye, I learned fool-heartedly
Its melancholy dance in the cool summer breeze
Mesmerizes my senses and is enough to please
Then the reflection in the lake made it all too clear
The willow is my love but there's no need to fear
Behind her dark eyes is a cloudy sky
A girl living in fear who's dying to cry
I can see you hiding behind that brave face
Exhausted from a journey you thought was going no place
The tears I see fall are like rain from the sky
Or the branches of the willow that keep this place dry
The leaves that drape down are protecting you so
Concealing the emotions that you don't want to show
The path you traveled is something you thought you'd never surpass
Like walking down a road of rusty nails and broken glass
Like a broken heart, your feet have been torn
Yet you go on beaten and continue to mourn
But the road you walk knows another poor soul
I've been down it too, and I've paid my toll
And the secrets you kept hidden from plain sight
Are now exposed to me in the mystic moonlight
And when you weep like the willow, please know this to be true
I'll love you forever, even when the skies ahead aren't blue

Skaidrum Jun 2015
I am fluent in
the tongues of
    my lost willow language.

No one can remember
what patience has done
to my

So let me be your kindred scribe,
let me endure the ******* eternal wrath of taming a demon such as the one that runs like the Volga river in your honeysuckle veins,
I'll die trying,---  
  for you.

“Ahkira, I'll set this mirror up for you--"

"Lycan, it'll skew my beauty."

Quote on quote you howled the December
lyrics & spun my name in the elements of the atmosphere &
Aurora borealis.
"I promised, didn't I?"
Etching your voice in the hollow
drums I call my
mind & skai.

It's always been there.

Eyes catching the coals of
foam and lust
driving your
shadow-bitten sanity.

Hostile under the wax of the moon,
burning like matches you stumble
in my constellation.

   "i spy
lovely sleeves of poetry
raindrops slipping into weeping veins
lungs of january
& silver bucket eyes."

You tattooed this on your arm,

“It’s the moon that pulls our waters,
distance doesn’t count.”

I tattooed this on mine.

Arching up the sky ladder
I'll climb it to show you
I'm worthy.
Movement No. 3.
Written on June 8th, 2015.

I'm struck by the
beast staring back at me
Let me stargaze,
It's always been you.

© Copywrited.
The uniVerse Oct 2017
The silence it deafens me
with violence they threaten me
to carry me off to an asylum
unless I can provide them
with an ulterior motive
till I hand in my notice
relinquish the chains upon my bed
the fiendish brain inside my head
deviously plotting my own demise
take leave from this place to warmer tides
bathe my body beneath calmer skies
naked like the day I drew breath
naked as I stare upon death
one hand holding a crooked scythe
the other beckoning to me, my life
did you forget to count the die?
or forgo the countless lies
that made the Countess cry
neither man nor mystery could change her path
so it's left to me to rearrange the past
jigsaw pieces scattered upon my pillow
connecting dots to draw the willow
who could forget the weeping widow
that cried herself to sleep.
BlindClandestine Oct 2018
“Beneath the willow
She’s singing
Beneath the willow
She’s waiting.

Beneath the willow
Under the willow
Her body
Is now laid to rest”

A simple rhythm
I follow
A simple tune
I hum

A simple song
I used to sing
In those days,
When I was young

But I’m not a kid
Not like the other kids

They form a circle.
Hands held together.
Dance around;
Enjoy singing

On the other hand,
Kept thinking
And thinking.

Why is there a willow?
Why is the woman there?

“Laid to rest”.
Shot, eaten,

May have died of old age.
May have not.

I wanted to know…
Already 18;
I went into the woods.
Looked for the willow I know

Two before, now three.
To the center willow;
“What was she singing?
Why was she here?”

There was nothing.
Just dead silence.

Asked again,
Yet no response.
Maybe, just maybe
I’m already losing my mind

I needed rest.
Something startled me.
A stone,
Not any kind of stone.

A graveyard stone
So old;
Dirt covered the entirety,
Although I have read these words.

“My beloved Willow,
For whoever finds your grave
Will be your eternal companion”

Is it just me?
Or is my mind on it again?
Doing its tricks,
Because of a graveyard stone?

Wind blew for a moment
As if someone passed by

Then I heard it,
I heard the song.
I saw a woman,
Heard her singing.

I stood there,

In a long white gown
Hair dangling,
Towards me,
She walked.

Screaming in my head.

But I couldn’t
She got hold of me

Her hands,
Gripping tightly my arms.
I could not escape,
I could not run

Gripping me,
Still singing

“Beneath the willows
You’re singing
Beneath the willows
You’re waiting

Beneath the willows
Under the willows
Your body
Will be laid to rest”

Her head is up.
Her eyes,
Bloodshot red.
Gazing into my very soul.

“Let go of me
Please let go.”
Remains in my head
No word can I speak.

Feeling heavy

As I try,
Making an inch move,
I am slowly devoured.
Not by her.

A willow.
Not two
Not three
Just one ****** willow

Crushing me

Can’t get out
Nowhere to escape
Trying to catch my breath

Agonized, screaming

Fully consuming me.

Awakened by my mother.
Embrace, she whispers,
“It was all just a dream.
My only beloved Willow”.
This is a first to publish on a website a poem of mine. I want to improve myself in writing poems.. Please do tell me if you have any suggestions or comments cause it will be a great help :) :) :)
Gina Old Oct 2015
Go see the misty place, deep in the woods,
That's where the willow tree's spreading her roots.
Long gentle branches are modestly bowing,
Above the shoot where a river is flowing.
It's been like that for centuries now,
The tree and the river, living in a vow.
The branches are caressing the hair on the surface,
The gesture, however, can't fulfill its purpouse.
Although their bond is strong, love never ending,
All alone, Willow and River are standing.
They're guarding each other, and each other only.
How come they, despite that, always feel lonely?
Every night, the willow tree woefully shivers,
Looking down upon her dark, lonesome river.
More beautiful than this is impossible, I hear you say to me,
when the piano song leaves for afar from my ears.
I too cry, don't you see, it is not only you crying,
the silvery-green rain weaves for me a dress and the unskilled sun
seams it with untrodden grass.

My fingertips are only a shadow, I don't want
to die as long as I am alive,
there is a delta for everything,
for all the crying of those who have souls,
a sunrise for the wings of thin and long water birds,
who take flight below
closer to the river's reflection of the sky.

Today I love myself
and I am lonelier than yesterday and maybe
I am in love with all the lovers in this world,
I value their full moments after they take a share of everything,
form every mirror of this world
where they see themselves,
I can't, I simply cannot breathe any longer, because I am happy.

I am fifteen years old and my name is woman or maybe willow.
writerReader Jan 2015
When I'm gone
will my name be
pressed against
my tears grow
a willow tree filled with
twinkling lights?
Alysia Marie Oct 2018
“..And just like that,
Emotions shifted faster than the changing seasons-
Undoubtedly as the leaves did on my favorite tree,
I seemed to be falling-
Falling a little bit more in love with you during each passing day,
But unlike the trees and the seasons-
I don’t see an end to this decent...”

                                  Alysia Marie 2018 ©
It wasn’t until him- that I was able to write about the joys of love
Dylan McFadden Aug 2019
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:


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

Hisham Alshaikh Jul 2018
Was it love? or was it an arrow?
My heart, you took, left me in sorrow
Your heart, may I borrow?
Till death, I will keep, not returned by tomorrow
My fortune is narrow
That what left my heart hollow
And my face sallow
Your secret, I revealed, left me feeling shallow
Running in agony in the furrow
Towards the nearest tree, willow
With no one fellow
Sitting on the branch lonely with my shadow
What a blue life! Thought it would be yellow!
Memories of you are my softest pillow
Such emotions, I shall not allow
Your fingerprints, your footprints, your trail I will follow
With all of my might, we become the lovers of the morrow
The pill of hope, I will swallow

--Hisham Alshaikh
Was it Love? Or Was it an Arrow?
Astrid Jul 2019
A willow tree hides
at the edge of the orchard,
Streams of withered leaves
veiling its stooping trunk.

Struggling to survive,
Its roots are sparse and fractured,
And its brittle branches snap -
At the lightest gust.

All will for life,
Seemingly ******
Into the soil.

But within the crumbling walls of bark,
Its rings of wisdom lie.
Tales of brutal storms surpassed,
Etched between the lines.

They are not scars,
but stories.
Of ancient solitude, distress,
Yet the labyrinth of spirals
guides the way to peacefulness.

As the days grow shorter and
the dew begins to run,
The branches are stripped
of their facade.

No leaf will ever live to see
All corners of the sun,
But the dusty inner halos
will still glow beneath the bark,


Eternal beauty;
always found
at the heart
of a willow tree.
Megan Jones Apr 2019
"Can I take you home?" Home-
"The place where one lives
Permanently, especially as a member
Of a family or household"

It was August of 1993,
Summers were always humid down there
We would sit by the lake and watch the boats
With their bright lights and distant laughter
We would swing under the branches of the weeping willow
Catching fireflies in jars, just to let them go moments later

He would only come 'round when it was warm again
He would take the boat out with us, teach us how to fish
We ran to the end of the driveway-
Where he would pick us up to go get ice cream
I would stare at his hands, shifting gears, ***** and shaking

She would get angry with him and smash the dinner plates
We would sit outside and hum our favorite songs
Falling asleep under the willow, just beside the motionless water-
Shaken awake by the sound of yelling turning to screams-
Then, the sound of a hammer snapping against thick steel- again-
Muffled cracks stuck in our eardrums, repeating

Under the willow lay a fresh mound of soil
Next to it, a small cross we had woven out of sticks and twine
He left as suddenly as summer days, never found
The fireflies didn't come 'round anymore, people in boats didn't laugh anymore
Soon after, it was abandoned- that home -and never spoken of again
em Feb 2018
I had never liked my name until i heard you say it.
Watching the syllables roll off your lips while they slip into a smile is equivalent to watching our hometown pass away through an open window,
the serene sensation of the wind blowing through my hair,
and blowing away the person i used to be.
You found the words to erase the self-portrait my brush always seemed to repaint,
no matter how hard i tried to change the ending.

When i asked you what your favourite food was, you said it was just dinner-
home cooked chicken and potatoes.
You said it reminded you of the easier days when a sunburn after a day at the beach was the worst thing that could ever happen to you.

On the night that was the very beginning of the rest of our lives,
In that moonlit cabin,
I realized i would be happy passing my days just listening to you talk.
Knit Personality Dec 2014
If love is as soft
   As the wisp of a willow,
Then, here: take this over-stuffed
   Holly-leaf pillow!

* .
zumee Mar 2019
"Your Shadow
How tall it stands today."
SassyJ Aug 2018
He is like those grains in the sand
those that disperse and get blown away
in unsteady stances, unfair hunches
and the point is.... "you don't turn my mind"
in the caskets of your stored emotional
where a connection is jarred and jammed
such a physical distaste and stirred responses
and besides that, the gods must be in the know
ohh...may be the wind that turn into the spring
will turn me on to a mountain of dreams
then the rains will wash and touch me deep
until my feelings tickle me to the flow
that’s the time I would be free to make love
holding hands by the dimmed candle lights
kissing under the bloom of the weeping willow tree
beside other lovers who will be mesmerized
by the flight of the need, the fight as agreed
and the season will capture the realness of love
De una
La Fàbula
King Panda Jul 2016
rest, girl
rest, mother
rest, red disco queen

rest, white willow singing
rest, wind chimes
rest, redbone dog

rest, black sky
rest, yellow moon
rest, opaque stars

rest, *** on stovetop
rest, toes cracking
rest, boy typing

rest, sister
rest, child
rest, soul


the sun machine
is coming down


the children are
watching fire


the thunder is born
with the night


you too will know me,
you will catch my wind
it smells of

tea tree oil
King Panda Oct 2015
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn

it’s lovely.
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