Tree Poems 1

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Ash trees, on the hills, by fields and lakes and streams

Tall and strong, once growing thick, within the forest green

Now leafless, all those once-proud trees, that silently still stand

With bark that's bleached and peeled away, all across the land

Others, fallen, gray and silent, scattered far and wide

Bones of trees, all victims of a cruel arboricide

By tiny emerald insects, not notable at all

Except for giants lying prone, which used to stand so tall

Baskets once were made from ash, and baseball bats were, too

Furniture, and flooring from this wood so clear and true

Those days are gone, those markets too, as ash trees disappear

Joining chestnuts, elms, and hemlocks, trees we once held dear

Sadly, for the well-loved ash, the end is drawing near

And as it does, I, for one, will shed a mournful tear...

By the trail, on a hike, a lovely tree scar beckoned

A twisted mark, formed within a fraction of a second,

As lightning crashed, exploding down from somewhere in the sky

Followed by a steady healing, as the years went by

Much like river undulations, etched upon a plain

Curves and oxbow lakes, joined into a living chain

Reforming constantly, within the decades' steady crawl

Landscape scarred like tree bark, a mark of nature's call

Our bodies, full of twisting tubes, design more than a scar 

Each one unique, and lovelier than tree bark is, by far 

Mysteriously, all arising from a single cell

How is it that a brand new baby comes to grow so well?

I guess I'll never cease to be amazed by all of these

Body networks, river curves, and lightning scars in trees

Such symmetry, amazing, when our eye sees from afar

Just how lovely, nature's curves and networks really are

A funny, laughing tree-gnome

Stands buried, in the ground

Smiling in his forest home

But making not a sound

Buried right up to his chin

Mouth opened rather wide

Great big nose, long and thin

And beady eye, beside

His hair is straight, and long, and brown

Made of ancient bark

I wonder, when the sun goes down

What happens in the dark?

Perhaps he rises to his feet

Then standing, on his roots

Lets loose his booming voice to greet

The moon with howls and hoots

Then, once he's let the laughter out,

Sinks back into the ground

To wait once more, for sun, no doubt

Making not a sound...

A different tree, a sentinel, hovers close around

The tree-gnome, keeping tree-nose closely held against the ground

To sniff for scent of strangers who are hoping they can see

The tree-gnome rise up from the ground in midnight revelry

And should an interloper's scent waft, unsuspecting, by

The guardian will let a silent tree-gnome warning fly

Coursing through its hidden roots beneath the forest floor

Right to the tree-gnome's secret, sandy, leaf-strewn night-time door

Vigilance is how we live when we go out at night

The forest, even more so, with an ancient kind of rite

That is why you'll never see, no matter how you try

The tree-gnome rise, and dance beneath a darkened starry sky!

A map of mossy continents, all wrapped around a tree

Surrounded by some dark brown bark, to represent the sea

No pole atop, no pole below, no arctic zones at all

Spinning in the forest, winter, summer, spring, and fall

Winter brings a snowfall here, which covers all the green

As it strikes, north and south, and all lands in between

Summer time then melts the snow, on all this strange world's ground

Trace of snow, and trace of ice, is nowhere to be found

Tree-world shares each season, turn by turn, and year by year

A geographic cylinder, and not a ball-like sphere

All imagined, just a dream, a good one nonetheless

If you asked me "Could it be"? I just might answer “Yes!"

Taller once, she used to be

Until the wind snapped off her crown

And yet she still stands strong, that tree

Along the field, outside of town

She proudly stands, and points the way

Into the woods, up rolling trail

For hikers, who gaze up each day

At her while crossing hill and dale

A row of artists' chalk, lying sorted, in a tray

Just waiting for the artist to pick them up to draw

An image of the leafy colors, on an autumn day

Trees lined up, along a lane, a scene the artist saw

Maybe just a sunny dream, a lazy, late day doze

Imagined chalk and trees, seen in sleeping mind's eye

Peaceful artist's vision, while lying in repose,

Mindless of the daily cares, as afternoon rolls by