Tag Archives: #Tree

A Penguin (up a tree) – revisited

I saw a penguin up a tree

it was, I think, an Emporee;

it’s hard to tell quite what you’ve found

when looking up so high

from the viewpoint of the ground.

I could have been mistaken,

I often always am;

but, I’m fairly pretty certain that a penguin,

up a tree,

is a penguin in a jam.

Tree Fellers

Tree Fellers

Three of them, there were;

armed with cheery banter,

and a thermos of coffee a piece.

Down came the tree,


⁃ the end of an Ash.

Dec. 9th – Bird Song – #PoemADayForDecember

High upon the branch

of a leafless tree

perches a tiny song bird,

chirruping free;

calling out welcomes, or Winter warnings,

or just singing a tune;

he throstles and thristles, and whistles,

about the heat of the Sun,

or the light of the Moon;

who has poked her face

through a cloudy day;

and the song bird comments

upon this, and that,

and has lots to say.

High upon the branch

of a neighbouring tree,

perches another tiny song bird,

who listens, happily.

The race to be

Is it you,

or is it me,

who’s going to be

the last leaf on the tree?

Every other leaf has fallen,

we’ve been left behind;

and when one more leaf

has heard its calling;

there will only be

one last solitary leaf

upon the tree to find.


There was,

some might say,

a necessity

for a Teapotupatree;

me, I can’t even see

the point in tea.

Three Little Thirds

Three little thirds

flew into a tree,

as one.

An Wedhen (The tree)



an wedhen.

When the Poet climbed up the Poet Tree.

The Poet climbed the Poet Tree,

he had to,

because it was there;

he wrote a word,

climbed up with it,

taking care

not to reach too high,

too soon,

as the Poet Tree

can reach to the Moon,

and even beyond –

on Mars there’s a pond.

The Poet,

reaching the top

of the Poet Tree,

pinned the word

to a high, thin twig,

then climbed back down

for another word,

that from the ground he’d lovingly dig.

A warning heard,

but ignored,

didn’t stop his next attempt

at reaching the heights –

see the Poet

with his hair unkempt,

and his simile trailing

like a kite tailing in the breeze;

a poet loves the ascent of trees.

Carrying words from the Earth

to the heights,

at anytime of all those innumerable days,

unaccountable nights,

is what a Poet must do;

for what is a word

if left buried in soil,

if it’s not to be heralded

by a Poet Tree toil?

Crows in a tree

Two crows, sat in a tree’;

I counted them twice,

and, the second time,

I counted three.

Three crows sat in a tree

I shouted loud

and, so, they did flee,

because congregating is not allowed,

and three is a crowd.

No crows sat in a tree;

I counted them twice.

“I am the last leaf on the tree.”

“I am the last leaf on the tree”

The last leaf on the tree,

that’s me;

the others left home,

forgot about me;

never write, never call –

once the tree was family,

once the tree was all.

I am the


leaf on the tree.