the tree

for Martin Richard, killed by a bomb in the spring sunshine.

 

 

 

 

Word is, he liked to climb trees

in his neighborhood.

Which I found a coincidence

since a single poet

can dither, way more than

eight years, on a single tree.

 

Of how the branches can sway

in the photographed breezes

like the arms of a boy,

or a kite,

or a laurel with it's small

umbellate feet as flower

clusters.

(those poets ?)

 

And thru his gapped tooth smile,

the one you could push a gentle

jelly-bean thru, you could see

the universe from the high perch/

 

And the knowledge you could

cultivate before you're decent.

The stories you could tell to the

squirrels and to the hawks that

eat the squirrels, about land

 

and leaves, and warm branches.

About how springtime takes

permanent possession of color.

About humanity.

About how to begin.

About how to be,

a kid.

Reviews

[Cool Handless Luke]

Word is, he liked to climb trees
in his neighborhood.
Which I found a coincidence
since a single poet
can dither, way more than
eight years, on a single tree.

beautiful words that inspire a poets introspection. vivid imagery that reminds me of the simplicity of my days of youth without all the video games, ipods and computers. just climbing trees. we could all benefit from such a recollection of the innocence within this troubled humanity we clothe ourselves in.

[Tree]

Maybe it's just me, but sorrow is no longer enough. The streets of America should be teeming with Americans demanding a more righteous, safer society for our children. But what do I know. As the poet James Wright wrote in his poem The Flying Eagles of Troop 62 to explain his love hate relationship with the America of the tumultuous sixties: "The very name of America often makes me sick, and yet Ralph Neal was an American. The country is enough to drive you crazy."

The Ralph Neal's, the good decent people of this country, need to step forward all at once.

Thought provoking piece.

[Frieda P]

This brought a chill up my spine, such a tragedy. Poignantly written, there is great power in this piece, humanity needs to pick up the pace. Thank you for sharing this...

[Steven]

Brilliant. Loved this piece. From title to period. Some fav's:

'a single poet
can dither, way more than
eight years, on a single tree.'

This says so much about the introspective experience. The almost doting with which the artist enslaves themselves--slowly reaching and rooted in it, like a tree. 'It' is what? It is the missing component, the beauty slipped between fingers; it is the regret and joy mixed over opening the hand and letting fly away.

'And thru his gapped tooth smile,
the one you could push a gentle
jelly-bean thru, you could see
the universe from the high perch/'

Beautiful concept. I really like your brain.

[Corset]

We can choose many a thing in life, we can choose our car, who we date, where we go , what we believe, but there is one thing and only one, you can not choose who you fall in love with, no not the kind of love where you say oh she's cute i'll love her, she's worthy , or sexy, or smart, or glamorous...but real love , real knock me off my feet ,i'll lay by the roadside till your return kind of love, that you can't choose. If you disagree with me, then you have never been in it. To be that boy and that tree and to die in the sunshine...ohhh the travesty. This world has become in danger of the nothing-ness, a fate worse than death, perhaps God gathers angels for the fight..:P