she opens the kitchen door
after the rain,
the garden is fresh
the air is sweet and clean.
she smells the soil,
the berries are bright.
As the dead leaves are blown away
to leave a clear white sky.
she adjusts her energy
and wants to grow
grow
Trees
blossom
Seen from afar,
white dressed trees
Up close, delicate white
blossom with yellowpink centres
Earthy vanilla scents
the air, Spring is sprung
slender
Receding into the distance,
a silvery slenderness,
turning purple, then black in the dimming light.
I walk to this lady of the woods
who stands alone upon this moor.
She still claims the light,
as light is everything to her.
Her crimson catkins separate
like wings, to flutter
into the breeze,
a swarm of speckled flies.
Undressing her tissue skin
again and again, she endures
revealing her white graceful
beauty
Day 12 – NaPoWriMo – Triolet
Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo is to write a triolet. I love just saying the word, ‘triolet’, never mind writing one.
The triolet form involves a fixed rhyming and line scheme which is pretty simple once you get your head around it. The first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; there are only five original lines, and the rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB.
Triolet: shooting at blossom is a spectacle
Why isn’t one bullet too many times to shoot anybody?
It’s a crime for cherry blossom to fall too soon,
How much gratuitous violence is taken by a blackbody?
Why isn’t one bullet too many times to shoot anybody?
Translucent and tender like the flesh of a fledging chickadee,
we are all bone and blood and teeth under the white of the moon.
Why isn’t one bullet too many times to shoot anybody?
It’s a crime to see the cherry blossom fall too soon.
Day 11 – NaPoWriMo- Mount Cherry
And here, we begin our ascent.
Please be careful of your footing.
There are loose chippings.
Look up. See how the sun graces
her face. Depending on the time
of the day or time of the month,
she may greet you with her broadest
smile, inviting. Other times, shadowed
and closed. You have been warned.
As we advance, observe the lumpy,
bumpy terrain, discoloured in places
with distinct dark spots. She was born
with these. And here, stop, examine
the outcrop revealing her core. Layer
upon layer of flesh: emotions
and intuition and wisdom. Years
of neglect has made this particular part
almost impassable. Look away if you have to.
And here, finally, we reach her peak.
Or should we say, peaks. Sagging
too far into the clouds. Inexcusable.
But, we are blessed to witness her
during the fleeting blossom season.
Enjoy the cherry clusters lining the path.
Careful as slippery when wet. And we
wouldn’t want you to loose your chance
to prod and poke and objectify this
rare and formidable mountain.
Day 10 – nature has the right way of going about things
Listen.
Trees have
the whole story.
They
balance their
roots and canopy
So
every fibre
is provided for;
a
solid base
nourishes every thing.
I’m
going to
copy the trees.
I’m
going to
dig in deeper,
look
after my
foundations, to grow
tall
and wide
and bloom resplendent.
Day 9 – Concrete Poem – being in the moment
I sit on the bed, cross legged,
window open. Hearing a kid
scream, a car engine revving.
And there, just then, a seagull
flies by carrying bunch of leaf
and twine in its beak. Say you,
what you building? Stealing?
It’s now I’m aware of the trees
trees outside coming into leaf.
Buds unfurling like green ton-
gues with beard and feathery
flower clusters. What tree are
you? And why do you reach so
to the sky as if all that matters
is to grow and thrive? Zooming
traffic, loud, draw my attention
away from nature, from inside
But that’s usually the case with
modern life: a distancing from
our true nature with incentive
of moving faster, go anywhere,
produce anything of fake worth
as if our life depends upon it.
Day 2 – The Sycamore Gap Tree
Sycamore, sycamore.
Say your name our loud.
Sycamore, sycamore.
A whisper plays
upon the wind.
A spell to conjure
you to life before me.
Between Milecastle 13 and Crag Lough,
at the end of a cliff, on an outcrop of Whin Sill
sandwiched between the Roman Wall,
Sycamore, Sycamore
I come to you.
Once, one of many,
you stand alone
in your splendour.
I come carrying
Hollywood images
of bows and arrows
and thieves. Fake.
Sycamore, sycamore.
I touch your truck.
Reddy-grey fissured bark
and white tender lichen.
I stretch my neck back
to look up and up
onto your foliage.
Magnificent.
Every shade of green
spreads wide.
Shining out from your
everlasting soul.
Sycamore. Sycamore.
Hazel Catkins
Walk down by the falls, in winter, catch the scent of wet clay upon the breeze of indifference. Dullness is broken by golden catkins, with a hint of blush. Light and soft prickles flutter, hanging long, delicate and strong. Underneath, collect the hazelnuts but pay a mind to the grey squirrel with a rosy back, who probably needs them more than you. Share and connect as we are all kin. We are one.
Sheree Angela Matthews 