Poems 🌳🌲🪻🌷🌹🌻

YEW

A branch fell from the yew,

The wind that shook the tree,

It swished, 

It swooped,

It bent,

It broke,

And fell on top of me,

Now I watch,

I wonder,

I marvel,

I reached out to touch,

And passed right through you,

A shade,

A ghost,

A spectre, a ghoul,

I waited and watched,

As seasons pass,

Beneath the yew tree,

You sat beside me,

I watched you as you cried,

Beneath the tree,

Where I died,

Now I sit,

And I wait,

The yew boughs creak overhead,

And I shudder,

Though I am dead. 

STRANGE NURSERY 

Hey diddle diddle hey ho,

Brown cow, brown cow,

What do you know? 

Is the moon still shining,

Do the waters still flow,

What is the wind,

And where did the fork and spoon go? 

Away, away,

Who really knows,

Maybe the brown cow,

Maybe brown shoe,

But you cannot talk,

And I cannot hear,

So sing hey diddle diddle,

Let the cat play the fiddle, 

Count black crows,

And watch the moon,

As down it goes. 

PERFECT NIGHT 

Perfect is this night,

The stars shining bright,

The gentle flowing breeze,

And the rustling of the trees,

The grass as soft as a feather bed,

And dew drops cooling your head,

Hosts of crickets croon,

Neath the rose hued moon,

On the morn the sun will rise,

And with it will come the muck and flies,

But tonight there nothing but the beauty,

That lies before you and me. 

LAST TONIGHT 

Tomorrow in the ground I will lie 

But tonight I am alive

As alive as the starlight above 

And the breeze of the summer evening 

The cricket chirps and the owl cries

Or the ripples on the mirror pond

And the new moon 

Very soon I will behold it no more 

But that will be alright 

For I lived tonight.

LILY GROVE

All men one day will die,

And will fertilize the lily grove,

What lives today,

Will rot tomorrow,

So live this day,

Reach forth and grasp it,

For the day is short,

And the sleep is long. 

LOTUS

I could put paper unto feather,

Even in the bleakest of weather,

And give life unto the lotus fair,

Give it beauty without compare,

To craft within in life,

And give it passion sharp as the knife,

Let it make love to my soul,

Or paint it with my woe,

And the heartbeat of my very own,

With all the knowledge I have ever known,

I could make the swan take wing,

And the bluebird swoon and sing,

Upon the golden winds,

And the winding river bends,

Reflecting in the blushing cloud,

With all my imagination endowed,

Or I could write of moss,

And loves found and lost,

And lichens green and bold,

Upon the granite dark and old,

High cliffs stately upon the sea,

Burning in the salty breeze,

Beating against like a drum,

With harsh and melodic hum,

The drums of the deep,

In the places where dark things creep,

And the thunder on high,

Across the endless sky,

I could write of tombs,

And man's countless dooms,

Of loss and life,

Of country living and city strife,

And all that lies in between,

All that is perceived and unseen,

But the great conundrum,

Is what to do with this vast sum,

The question of the penholder,

The feather beholder,

Is not how to avoid the worst,

But what to write first,

For it may be the last,

The final entry passed,

The last penstroke to fall,

Before the grave does call,

And the last flowering,

Of the lotus.