The Lonely Falling Tree
Does the lonely falling tree
when no one’s there to hear
make no sound but silently
hush against the ground?
Do forgotten fallen brave
when war has come and gone
cease to cry and silently
lie still where they died?
Does the young and helpless one
whom some cruel fate now slays
have no choice since silently
she cries without a voice?
All the lonely falling trees
in heaven do make sound.
… Pausing now, so silently,
I hear them hit the ground.
My Tree
How sad that in the world there are
trees which children never see;
but sadder still by very far
are kids who never climb a tree:
Who trapped in walls of cities are
all buckled up in hurried cars
watching passing trees through glass
like a zoo trip with a class.
While in a backyard far away
I sense a tree does pine to play:
hoping wind will blow today
a flock of strapping kids his way.
I know that in the world there are
many many many trees.
And still, of these, the best by far
is this one simply called my tree.
His leaf can make a nation glad –
it’s painted red on Canada’s flag!
He’s called “Maple” in Grown-upese,
but has a name among the trees –
in his tongue with colored sounds,
his name means “Nests are Found.”
Lifting robins from the ground,
guards them so they’re safe and sound. His
bark scares foes, his branches sing
the melody of youthful springs;
his roots are toes, his seeds are wings
that pinch your nose without a sting.
Muscles for branches, arms so tough,
so swing, swing as long as you please!
He bends limbs down just low enough
that you can catch them with great ease.
His leaves provide a canopy,
a tent of heaven’s sweet supply
where you can play day after day
or sometimes go there just to cry.
But best of all, up in my tree
a kid can be a thousand things:
a princess in the land of dreams,
the maker of five magic rings,
a captain of a ship at sea,
a starling that can sweetly sing,
the hero who sets captives free,
… whatever imaginings bring.
So if you’re stuck in city homes
unable to climb up a tree,
hold tight the branches of this poem
and come and climb my tree with me.
Under the Poet Tree
Has it really been …
Can it actually be …
Might I be mistaken?
Nearly a year,
a course of the sun,
since this pen has met
the leaves of the poet tree.
A year till spring?
Why so long?
Has this year
dried the ink?
It still flows,
but how?
Has it any color?
Can it make a line?
Might I be dry?
Only the pages that
follow
can say.
The Treasure
There’s a treasure that’s worth more than gold.
that’s prized by young as well as by old.
Some call it silver, some call it flair –
it’s the ability to put words in the air,
and with them connect with others and God
and rise above rivers and mountains and sod.
Pennsylvania Heading East
Cross farm and hill and creek,
past woods at rest ’til spring,
the land gives way gently
as the Susquehanna spreads her crystal gown.
She begins the roll of mountains which
transport onward ’til the Delaware
waters cut a gap,
transforming the scape to cliffs and crags
with pines to sweep the snow.
The snow up north lies deeper still
and covers frozen ponds that
bring completion to barns
once red but now transfigured
into an ornament for the house a doctor bought
trying to return to a time that has passed.
The Call of Nature
Out of my window I saw nature
Looking, O, so pure and clean:
Endless blue with sterile cotton
Floating ‘bove a carpet green.
On the ‘tele’ watched a program
That said nature’s calling me;
So I ventured in my new jeep
Playing Bach on its CD.
Pitched my tent on rolling hillside
As the knats swarmed in my eyes;
With my blood I fed mosquitoes,
With my grub I fed the flies.
Out my mirror I watched nature
Wash my tent down in a stream:
Blue turned black, the white to lightning,
Green was now a mud-soaked dream.
Thunder roaring, rain down pouring —
Give me roof and four strong walls!
For the next time, I’ve decided,
I’m NOT home when nature calls!
An Acre of Open Land
If I had an acre of open land,
I’d build my home out in the sands
far from the glare of urban lights
so I can enjoy the stars at night.
But such a benefit would soon disappear
if others like me also build near!
So, I won’t include inside this poem
where I will build my desert home.
Because if I do, too many will come
and my dark sky will soon be done.
The Seed
Sometimes a seed is so large that it goes unnoticed.
It is thought of as a merely an object to milk or eat.
But stepping back, we can see
that the seed – the coconut – offers a secret promise:
“I am the seed of a tree of life that grows in mild and desperate climes:
From Brazil and the Philippines to the Maldives and the Middle East.”
Let’s see how the promise grows.
After the Fight
The soft words of this pen
cannot prevent the fight.
So I fold them within
the lines of this page
to emerge upon first light.
Eternity in Autumn’s Birch
The Birch, unmoved, has been right there
throughout the fleeting summer.
Tis only now I notice her
as she’s the first to color.
She marks the border of the wood
that veils the yon horizon;
but in her bark I see details
beyond what one lays eyes on.
The white peals back, the black bursts forth —
eternity’s now naked.
My eyes can see right through the dark
beyond the land that’s jaded
and see the heart of hearts that hopes
that we will pause and ponder
just why a human tear duct pumps
inside of its creator.
The eye-shaped slit on yonder Birch
now winks and sheds some tears;
her leaves, now rustled by the wind,
speak words I strain to hear …
“The secret silence of the one
who planted all the Birches
stay a mystery except for him
who through her branches searches.”
Spring
The winter’s sharp hold on body and soul
makes even youth’s limbs feel weak and old.
But green buds of April push up through May
and increase the warmth with the lengthening days.
What seemed impossible now is a lawn
of actions and dreams awaiting each dawn.
Words
Words, words, so many words!
They fly about like silly birds.
But with some rhythm and some rhyme
all those words will soon be mine
to dance upon the stage of life
to bring some peace where there is strife.
Yes, those lovely words!
These things are seen
If cars were balloons … our road’s the sky!
If houses were ships … our home’s the sea!
If problems were birds … they’d fly away!
When courage is known, these things are seen!