#52weeksofnaturepoetry, Poetry

#52weeksofnaturepoetry Week 1: Log House

These open wounds fill over time.

Spongy umbrellas held high, prospective tenants

look upon the cracked stump, climb it, reach inside

and settle.

Shelved cities spill out.                 

Sometimes

a family ā€“ two parents, one child ā€“

stand ready at the mulchy base

while cousins look on

in rain caps.

Mummers

to treasure seekers, wanderers.

Those who scuttle, flit, crawl.

Proud of the dead bark

and the breath it still holds.

This poem is part of my #52weeksofnaturepoetry project to raise funds for UK wildlife charity RSPB and to encourage an appreciation for nature. If you enjoyed it, please consider sharing it and/or donating to the RSPB via my Just Giving page here.

Help keep wildlife wild.

Poetry

Sycamore

I remember those seeds that used to spin as they fell

catching them in my open palm

and throwing them up again, enchanted by kinetics.

I would liken myself to those seeds, hold out my arms

and spin until the world came to match

the rush of input driving through my synapses.

Because rarely did those sounds, those scents

those constantly moving bodies jostling, jeering,

crashing against me

make sense until my speed matched them.

And if I fell, it didn’t matter.

The ground was always there to catch me,

soft grass cupping my cheek.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Rooted escape

beads in my pocket, enchanted

as I steal away from the shouting, the swearing

down the road and into

the roots of the tower

that seals shut behind me

none of their spits follow me, nor

the scent of beer and sweat and piss and vomit

that has come to haunt

my waking hours

Poetry

The Dragon Tree

On a rock

far out in the ocean, sits

a tree.

Its trunk is

sturdy, like the

very rock itself.

And for good reason.

Instead of lush, flowing leaves adorning delicate branches that drift

to and fro

in the wind,

there are dragons.

Small, scaled balls of energy

with wings.

Their span is but a foot,

but the underside of those mighty beaters

shimmers like a plate of

mother-of-pearl.

Gripping the branches with

wrinkled, long-clawed toes,

the dragons feast on

tangy sap, ready to

take to the evening sky

for their task of catching the smokey, iridescent tears

of the moon

to fertilize the tree’s hungry roots.