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
Three of them, there were;
armed with cheery banter,
and a thermos of coffee a piece.
Down came the tree,
“Craaaaaaash!!”
⁃ the end of an Ash.
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.
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.
Posted in Poetry
Tagged #CoffeeForever, #poetry. #poem, #TeaForNever, #TeaPot, #Tree
Three little thirds
flew into a tree,
as one.
edhen
yn
an wedhen.
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?
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.
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
last
leaf on the tree.
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Graeme Sandford 