A little girl, like the bending tree
Whose only pleasure lies in watching trees
And who only finds the god-soul in the climbing of the trees
(mine, hers, and what of hers that once was)
Whose play things but the twigs and the leaves and trees
And the jeweled sun, that plays upon her by the hours
Wind shaking her knees,
you found her crouching on a toadstool by the tree-ditch
and that is all bark bone and mud and moss
you picked me up and shook me
and tasted the question “who are you?”
all I said was “Tree, Tree” not tasting anything remotely sweet.
He said “Tara”. Tara, for Tree.
I am Tara, He says, now Tara.
Oh, how long since I have counted, I think? The day goes on much further
without knowing how to count. But I remeber lessons…
I count on my fingers and again. Fourteen. I do not know how to make
three more quarters,
so I do not.
Little girl, who only finds the God-soul finds love in trees
and takes home with her
of dark leather and metal
Love and the jewled memento of the sun
that plays apon the trees
that I see from the glass window,
(and what a
I fog up it’s mirror, and
when I finish my gazing, with it’s white shining dazing
he calls down for his inferior.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
The city cut down the tree from my backyard
and saved the sawed bits to recycle
into money, what with the linnen so scarse, they say
with what else they can convey to me
it “died of a desiese”, they say
like the sick old man
on the limbs of the branches
and as he hangs
when the sun’s gold reflects on his bruised cheek
I notice, and then the spirit of the tree says
it wants me to come away,and
show me an older time
the oldest it had been
as shade for two lovers
to share a kiss.
I take the rest of it’s memory
and bind it
carefully, and blistering my painted fingers,
I wrap up it’s contents
with my tears
and it’s own paper.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry
This is the first poem I have written in this meter, and it is primarily based on the poem “sympathy” by Phillip Dunbar. We were instructed to read it during English class, and then “unpack” it, or essentially annotate the poem with little lines and dots showing rhyme, meter, metaphor imagery, etc. I believe I was the first to finish, and my paper was readily filled up with little dots, lines, and dashes of my own. In a word, I was bored. I thought to myself; hey! what a nice little opportunity to take a boring school period and turn it into a smart usage of time by writing a poem!
this was what was borne from my muse of creativity!
What the Eye of War Sees
The spikes of the battle beat, my son
and they beat with the vigor of ten drums
and their black swords come quickly, on the run
when the tides of the war are here and done
and the waiting bees with awaiting hums
there the grasses fire-inflamed, and the trees
these things the eye of war sees!
The whips of the horseman lash, my boy
and they fall with a simple, fleeting, flash
where a cut with the dagger they employ
you scream with anguish, yet they scream with joy
and they run off, laughing, in a dash
you scream with each red bead of pain that comes
he cut your hands and your thumbs
The rays of the sunlight fall, my child
and of your tears, aye, there may be many
when you struggled from my grasp, you were wild
and all of the rules that I made, you defiled
I kissed your face, it cost not a penny
now your feet trod on, to war and burnt trees
that’s what the eye of war sees.
copyright © 2013,GoldenStarPoetry. All rights reserved.
This is the large tome I have been reading lately!
I found it, newly ordered, from my friend the school librarian! the book consists of magic, Austen-style writing, and (very lengthy) footnotes, for which the credits are not mentioned in a bibliography and thus probably all fictionalized. The book is a whopping 782 pages in small print, and I am quite surprised to have gotten 155 pages in during the first week! quite a good piece of literature if you scoff at horribly written books like “divergent” or “Twilight”