The Fate of the Tree

[Lads of E3]

1.

I perch in a fork of withering boughs,
On an oak of which time only knows.
How it holds such beauty only God can tell,
For he was there when the seed fell.
But now,
We see the rise of other trees,
Saplings laying sheltered, begging from their knees.
I briefly rested my eyes,
As the stars caressed the skies.
The air grew thin, the ground sucked dry.
A single tear, laughed in my eye,
As they tore down the fruits of that old tree,
All I could say is that it wasn’t me.
So what for beauty does the old tree have,
While its branches tumble, broken from their path?
My eyes roamed far and wide,
But the land did not confide.
So, we turned our backs and gazed at the sun,
But the sphere is flat and meaning won‘t come.
And so through the fog we cannot see,
What our lives, will ever be.
Yet, the fire is dwindling, and winter is near,
So down I look, my conscience now clear,
But, the branches are gone, and I cannot reach,
If only the tree were capable of speech.
For, silently, eternity calls,
And takes me down its darkened falls.
Delivering me to the roots,
Where death shall reap eternal loots.
So pray that God can’t hear,
The axe, so fatefully near.

2.

I perch in a fork of withering boughs,
On an oak of which time only knows.
How it holds such beauty only God can tell,
For he was there when the seed fell.
So I briefly rested my eyes,
And the stars caressed the skies.
But now,
I hear the sounds of splintering screams,
I see a cavalcade of cascading crystal.
Shadows draw across my tearful eyes,
As the saplings grow ragged,
Rearing from their knees.
The sweet embrace of toughened wood,
On the pathetic beauty of knotted glass.
So, we turn our backs and gaze at gold,
But through the morning mist we cannot see,
And, I wonder if we ever could.
Yet winter is abreast,
And the axe is lazy against the trunk.
Looking to descend those steepened stairs,
I reach my foot for past times aid,
But shattered branches leave me stranded.
If only this faithful tree could speak,
I wouldn’t try to extend this reach.
For eternity clambers up my dangling leg,
And chokes the heart of my every essence.
Weighing its darkness upon my soul,
And itching its blackened blood,
Among my innocent flow.
Placing me at the roots,
Where he shall reap eternal loots.
The love of death shows in my eye,
Above the boy who I despise,
And I look up, towards divine,
Not knowing if the choice was his or mine,
But I rent my lungs apart with rage,
Confined within this immortal cage.

[tailor STATELY]

I loved this part:

"If only the tree were capable of speech.
For, silently, eternity calls,
And takes me down its darkened falls.
Delivering me to the roots,
Where death shall reap eternal loots.
So pray that God can’t hear,
The axe, so fatefully near."

That pretty much summed up the entire poem for me.

[Buh4Bee]

This poem I particularly liked, because we need more environmental poetry. It has a slight hint of a religious tone as well. The ending reminds us that you never know when the ax will fall...

[Lads of E3]

Thanks for the generous comments.

[Holden C.]

You truly are a Lad of E3.

[MorpheusSandman]

The imagery and language is quite beautiful but I'd offer the same advice I do to you that I do to all new poets on here and that's NOT to use end-rhymes unless you're working in a form or have a definite meter planned for the piece. The reason is because end-rhymes create an expectation in the audience and if you aren't following some kind of meter while using them the mental dissonance created in the reader from the rhythmic variations and expectation distracts their attention from the rest of the piece. For instance, it gets really messy here:

"So what for beauty does the old tree have,
While its branches tumble, broken from their path?
My eyes roamed far and wide,
But the land did not confide."

The first line is in tetrameter with a spondee on "old tree" (which slows down the rhythm) while the second line opens with a flowing "while its branches tumble" which is then broken up by the the rest of the line which can be read as three beats; making it a pentameter instead of a tetrameter like the preceding line. Then with the next two being in trimeter the change just doesn't work because it's too abrupt.

Luckily, these formal things can be learned easy while poetic inspiration is the hard part. But definitely keep writing because the language and imagery shows a real talent.

[Lads of E3]

Thanks I'll work on it.

[Lads of E3]

I re-wrote the poem because I wasn't too happy with it. Just want to know what anyone thinks.