Poet Tree

I wrote this short story in rhyming poetry form several years ago. It isn’t in any traditional poetry form, and it’s based on the picture.

Poet Tree

In a field of Forget-Me-Nots,
planted by hands from a woman of Scots.
Delicate and nurturing—a gentle soul,
whose only fault was marrying an old troll.
For when I grew a few feet taller,
my spine had favored one side to the other.
I had no way of straightening out,
because that year we had a horrible drought.

It wasn’t until I reached my greatest height,
when some young boy pulled me upright.
I thanked him with a bloom from my limb,
with the help of the wind we sang a hymn.
A year passed before my branches were spruced,
rejuvenating me with a confidence boost.
Now tall and steady, my limbs moved free,
like a light breeze, wouldn’t you agree?

By surprise a goose flew by,
and dropped a feather from the sky.
It instantly caught in my bough,
such a thoughtless creature,
I did think so.
Dangling from within,
it floated with a little spin.
The tip stuck into a patch of mud,
which had been caused by a river flood.

In the morning, a woman strolled near my shaft,
picked up the feather, started to create and craft.
With a piece of paper she stood and wrote,
before hanging up the fragile note.
It twirled in the air without a care.
That’s when I saw,
emotions written raw.

 i had a dream of
Dancing on stage
an endless dream
which shows no age.
 
the Dance that only
dreamers can see
held captive by
a desperate plea
 
if i could stand strong
like the trunk of a tree
i’d demand to Dance
down by the sea.

This pitiful dream she had to say,
whether it be jazz, or ballet.
I watched as she walked away,
a heavy heart, on display.
I let the poem tangle around the leaves,
that kept falling from autumn thieves.


Time had passed with a show of rings,
a little more moss after several springs.
My arms hung lower than before,
a glorious tree, where birds perch then soar.

Another script was written
by a loud man from Great Britain.
A scraggly wanker who took a leak
over by me, instead of the creek.
He stumbled and swayed down the grassy trail,
how I wished he would have laid off the ale.
Out of sight, I read his drunken words,
to music from the mocking birds.

 alcohol drives the
madness inside
while day after day
I work to hide
 
all the stupid things
i’ve said and done
the things I’ve stole
and the lies I’ve spun
 
i pray in time that the
voices grow still
but that will happen when
i’ve reached my fill
 
until it comes
i shall drink and spend
hopefully before
death, I can mend

A poor soul anchored to the bottle,
intelligence nowhere near Aristotle,
but his words expressed internal imprisonment,
compassion rising was obviously imminent.


My leaves grew larger, veins thickened and nourished,
the stems steadier, and branches flourished.
Roots anchoring to soil like an arthritic finger,
my trunk sturdier, more people linger.

A half-witted woman bawled as she strode,
swatted the dangling messages, and then slowed.
She wrote a note against my bark,
angry words, but never left a mark.

 corroded words tarnished
my character, my soul!
parts of me garnished
deepening the black hole.
 
trusted you with my every being,
but it didn’t stop you from fleeing.
 
i can’t go on much more,
bruised from the inside out,
life has become a chore
and I’m full of doubt.
 
you won your game,
i’m the broken one,
who will walk with shame
knowing that I’m done.

I wiggled my branches to get her attention,
so I could learn about her intention.
She ignored the twigs that caught in her hair,
pushed away from me and wiped a tear.
What damage words do to humanity, understandable when they lose sanity.

And so each year, grew rings and poems,
my limbs had become their collective homes.
Each morning I recited every verse,
madness in these words was such a curse.
I cracked and broke over time,
but I still live for the rhyme.
I am the lost soul’s notary,
that’s why I’m called the Poet Tree.




Would love to hear what you think of this story/poem? Any and all criticism is appreciated.

Snapshot Stories,
Denise

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