| Fall 2020/Winter 2021: Trees |
“The sanctity of trees and vines is older than the veneration of cereals and crops.” JM Paterson
Trees have always been essential and revered living things – from the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden to the current arguments of scientists about trees and their ability to communicate with each other. For the Fall 2020/Winter 2021 Muses' Gallery, we asked poets to share their love and understanding of trees.
Many thanks to all of the poets and artists who shared their work with us.
Enjoy!
Jennifer Dotson
Founder & Program Coordinator
www.HighlandParkPoetry.org
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| Alexander Monshaw, Photographer |
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Ash
By Diana Smith
Crystal Lake, Illinois
| I depend on you.
Steadfast, unyielding, strong,
resolute, rooted, uncompromised.
Barrenness exquisite with snowfall.
Buds begin in Spring.
Home to sparrows, robins, cardinals.
Summer seeks your shade.
Fall colors, carmine, nut brown,
ochre, heliotrope, magenta.
The cycle begins again.
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Sycamore Roots
By Joan Leotta
| Sycamore trees lined our street,
Planted so long before me
that their roots
were already making a crazy quilt
out of the city-laid cement sidewalks,
adding several degrees of difficulty
to my roller skating and hopscotch.
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| Betsy Dolgin Katz, Photographer |
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Guardians of Fort Sheridan
By Betsy Dolgin Katz
| We stand in a line firm and straight
Side by side, shoulder to shoulder,
With our arms reaching skyward
Guarding roads, gardens and homes.
Birds chirp and swoop around us;
Children’s voices shout and laugh;
Buggies and bicycles roll past
Roller blades and scooters whisk by.
We do not watch for trespassers;
We are not a checkpoint for invaders;
We welcome people to their homes
And invite strangers into our shade.
We are trees along a border
Proud to serve a higher cause.
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Vernacular of Trees
By Dennis Trujillo
South Korea
| Trees speak among themselves
in various dialects. Their voices
vibrate far outside the realm
of human ears, but wood ants sense
conversation in branches and bark.
Like people, they sometimes struggle
grasping accents from faraway places.
Giant kapok trees of the Amazon,
with sultry voices, can’t follow
the cold tongues of Canadian cedars.
Topics of discourse include the bliss
of photosynthesis, poetry of birds,
mathematics of stars. Every night
when the sun sets like a pink rose
over the Pacific, ancient redwoods
on the north coast of California
chant hymns of praise to the void
of creation. Bonsai trees in Japan
listen with joy and amazement
as the sun rises over the ocean.
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Sanctuary
By Judy Friedman
Highland Park, Illinois
You are my sanctuary,
blue skies my altar.
I look to your lessons
in life when I falter.
Standing firm, rooting deep
into wise, seasoned soil.
Tethered strong against hate,
unsettling turmoil.
Color coursing through your veins:
crimson, orange, umber, rust.
Soon your shivering leaves
fall to dust.
Then you muster movement anew,
on barren branches where leaves once grew.
From death, new life, the promise of youth.
Perhaps hope lies in this tree’s Truth.
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| Judy Friedman, Photographer |
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| Ann Lamas, Photographer |
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| Tree
By Ann Lamas
Chicago, Illinois
That winter when people lost
their balance and slipped, you kept
your eyes on the tree. Nothing special,
common as slush and the yellow
splotched snow lining sidewalks,
no birds visited. Only you, again and again.
From twenty steps, was it a lone sentinel
guarding who knows what
or a landmark for wanderers
vanishing in the night? Branches as cage
or leading to somewhere risen?
Didn't it depend on point of view?
Your eyes and the tree held,
that winter people lost their balance.
You didn't know what you were doing
and why you didn't fall.
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| Ann Lamas, Photographer |
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Bradford Pear Farewells
By Kathy Lohrum Cotton
Anna, Illinois
Harsh November winds
strip the woodlands,
leaving dark bodies posed
in naked silhouettes,
their shredded party dresses
brittle brown around root-bound feet.
But here along our landscaped edges—
the asphalt drives, neighborhood lanes,
slick city parking lots—
rows of lagging Bradford pear trees
lift skyward hands, mittened
in brilliant red, orange, maroon,
waving one last glorious goodbye
to the long-legged days of sun,
sprinting goose-fleshed into winter.
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| Emily Calvo, Artist |
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| Gert Knop, Artist |
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Into the Vast of Sky
By Mark G. Hammerschick
Hawthorn Woods, Illinois
| …on 9/11/16 for 9/11/01
In an old growth forest
the leaves begin to sing
and in the wooded loam
the worms begin to moan
for in the checkered sky
pregnant clouds begin to foam
winds will carry and winds will blow
owls, wrens, doves and does
scamber out and scramble down
and so it goes and so it does
as we grovel underground
from birth to earth
from dust to dusk
we trust those trees will carry us
into the vast of sky
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Dryads
By Adrian McRobb
Northumberland, UK
| in our ancient woods, they whisper
to each other creating breeze
they remember the Romans leaving
Naseby and Marston Moor
yesterday, in a ringed memory
5,000 years they have counted
the oldest genus on earth
Northumberland holds these
1,200 year old cousins
the names they give each other
more ancient than the age of man
Hathor, Anito, Kodama, Pyithat
Nang-Tani, Lauma, Meliae, Pi-Fang
roots gripping soil binding the planet…
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| Ann Privateer, Photographer |
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Road Trip
By Lori Wall-Holloway
Pasadena, California
| Driving down freeway
in Central California
I look at landscape dotted
with giant pines and oaks
Their roots dig deep in verdant
hillsides to create beauty sculpted
along the roadway
I see trees stretch and point
to the sun while others
are ready to receive light
and water from the sky
with bough like hands
As we whizz along I notice
some with lush green cotton
balls decorating their limbs
to create homes for wildlife
or become a natural jungle gym
for those daring to climb
Falling branches create a veil
gracing the field to offer
protection from the heat of the day
for lolling cows munching on grass
Amazed at the arbor’s magnificent
presence, little did I know
it would be my last trip
through the area before drought
and fires began to ravage the land
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Comparing Autumn Leaves to Gold is Cliché
by Agnes Vojta
Rolla, Missouri
From Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019)
| and feeble— when did gold ever shine
like this? Only
fire and passion flame
like the maples.
The trees dance a wild
celebration, shout in orange
exuberance, get drunk
on the last sunshine,
the fermented essence
of summer.
Ozark October
throws a crazy party at the edge
of darkness, and we are
invited.
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| Ed Kaufman, Photographer |
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Tree
By William Marr
Downers Grove, Illinois
Day and night
I hearthe annual rings
inside my heart
rumbling
and wheeling
on the rugged road
toward the sky
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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Weeping Willow Tree
By Idella Pearl Edwards
Marion, Illinois
The weeping willow tree, native to China,
Is quite a sight to behold.
It can grow as high as 50 feet,
Or so I have been told.
Native Americans once used the willow
To ease their headache pain.
The bark, when chewed, was the very best way
To treat a bad migraine.
When the willow tree blooms in all its glory,
In true magnificent splendor,
It gives us a vision to be remembered
Of grace and beauty and grandeur.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Gwynneth Green
Little Silver, New Jersey
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| Gwynneth Green, Artist & Poet |
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By Silvia Morgan
San Pedro, California
lovely, old pine tree
wishing to sail with the wind
impossible dream
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| Silvia Morgan, Photographer |
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| Peter Brinckerhoff, Artist |
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| Arbor Day
By Candace Armstrong
Murphysboro, Illinois
Sweet silent sentries
guard the higher realm
unheralded heroes of life
wilderness protectors
shelter providers
unpretentious givers
creators of beautiful scenes
emissaries of peace.
We celebrate you.
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| The Cycle of a Tree
By Jackie Chou
Pico Rivera, California
She changes with the seasons
like a fickle lover,
in the spring and summer
her giant, heart-shaped head
lush and green,
reaching for the bright blue sky,
full of naivete.
In the fall that same heart
becomes seasoned,
fiery red and gold foliage ablaze
under the autumn sun,
bursting with passion and desire.
Come winter,
she turns into a scandalous nude,
naked branches covered
only by a few leaves,
waiting for spring to clothe her
in new couture again.
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By Charlotte Digregorio
Winnetka, Illinois
deep in the old growth
a downy woodpecker drums
to the warbler's trill
On permanent display, Holmes County Open Air Art Museum in Millersburg, Ohio
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| Terry Loncaric, Photographer |
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| Gert Knop, Photographer |
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| Tree's Advice
By Miriam Sagan
Santa Fe, New Mexico
if roots were in the air
like tentacles
they’d dream
but photosynthesis
must turn
every leaf green
when I was a girl
copper beeches
told me to fly
now that I’m old
I don’t want to die
without blazing in color
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| Monica Cardestam, Artist |
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After Hiroshige's "Maple Trees at Mama, Tekona Shrine and Linked Bridge," 1857
By Cynthia Gallaher
Chicago, Illinois
It’s number 94 from 100 Views of Edo,
far enough from city center to be dream.
Japan’s autumn climbs cross-cross
to this mountain
Where forest’s burnished hands
wave and cheer as annual pilgrims parade.
They not merely link
bridge to shrine
But pass from summer to sublime,
To view momiji at their peak,
before such fiery tossings
Streak groundward,
dissolve under death celebrations of white.
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| Hiroshige, Artist |
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Roadside
By Gert Knop
Germany
The roadside linden trees
disperse their wilted blossoms
onto grey asphalt.
Abstract paintings in ochre and grey
changing vision of nature's great art
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| Gert Knop, Artist |
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| The Woodlot
by Court Williams
Highland Park, Illinois
The trees stand mute against man,
Conversing only with nature,
Guarding the land and animals,
Guarding all that dwell under their spreading branches,
Silently bearing witness to the inescapable,
Inflexible,
Undauntable,
Progress of time.
Time,
The ultimate enemy,
The inevitable winner,
Over man and animal.
The trees record its progress, it deeds, and its victims,
Holding counsel with only themselves,
Time after time,
Year after year,
Until claimed themselves by time,
And, nurturing their young,
Disappear from memory,
To be reborn,
Again.
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| Alexander Monshaw, Photographer |
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I Want to Write
By Tricia Knoll
Williston, Vermont
| how quaking aspen memorize
the end rhymes of creation myths
how dance classes for willow branches
warm up by sleeping beside the mother
what the frail crown
of a cedar senses when the crow grabs on
the sighs one maple in the sugarbush
shares with its neighbor
I want to write the prayer winds
that fan the ginkgo’s gold
the sonorous eulogies
of giant sequoias for each other
how the Bodhi tree knows
that when it dies another sprouts
how Joshua trees
smell the Santa Ana winds
I want to write a diary of the bristlecone pine
from the day humans invented script
I want to write my own life
one bent twig among many
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| Christine Swanberg, Photographer |
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Taking Down a Tree in the Age of Corona
By Christine Swanberg
Rockford, Illinois
| For years the tip of the old pine tree
in front of the electrical pole
bent slowly from 12 o’clock to 2.
Every year we let it be,
loving trees as we do,
cherishing them as friends.
Finally, and wouldn’t you know it,
during the corona season, it leaned
on wires that support an entire zip code,
moving to a 2 and a half position,
tilting more, with roots arching,
encroaching the lilacs,
misshaping them. Damn.
It was time to let it go:
the neighborly and only safe thing
to do, especially sheltering at home
so that it was never out of sight,
a worry on windy days, brushing wires,
swaying as it did too lavishly.
The night before, we blessed it,
thanked it for its old life,
and what a good one it had had.
It went down easier than expected,
as if to cooperate, resigned
as the rest of us to letting go,
or maybe giving up.
It gave the crew no trouble
as they stripped its branches,
then cut the tree in increments.
No power lines were scratched.
And just like that it was gone.
The next day we picked up pine cones,
placed them in a blue ceramic bowl,
set on the dining room table
between two candles, like an altar.
We tended the lopsided lilac,
pruned its dead stalks,
shaping it the best we could.
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Incineration
By Mantz Yorke
Manchester, UK
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The meadow grass is shriveling, turning black:
the fiery ring is spreading, its heat burning deep
into my skin. I step back from the blaze,
acrid smoke stinging my eyes, and weep.
The tree stood at the centre of the field
we flew our kites in its leafy cumulus
a shelter whenever it rained.
Nails in the trunk let us climb
beyond the hole my granddad showed me
(he said it was a woodpecker’s,
but we never found an egg,
nor even the beginnings of a nest)
and on into the high branches
caressing the blue of a summer sky.
Swaying in the wind, we'd spread our sails
and bear towards New England,
whose autumn hues and teeming seas
lived on beyond each nightfall
and descent to sleep.
A livid cloud is spreading above a pillar of smoke.
Log by rotten log, the tree is crumbling into ash.
Far to the east a cold dead moon is rising, huge,
shivering in the superheated air.
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| Carol L. Gloor, Photographer |
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Planting Willows
By Carol L. Gloor
Savanna, Illinois
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A bag arrives from Burpee's Nursery
labeled willows, sticks in shredded
dirt roots. They love water so
plant them by the spring.
Not much hope, but remember
the mustard seed.
Ten years later, enter
their quiet chapel of green curtains.
Lie down. Fifty feet up, sunlight
dapples a rose window on the grass.
No visible nests of many birds,
yet a dove mourns three stories up,
a cardinal picks the highest choir to sing.
No Messiah seated at the right hand,
but still this cathedral of leaves.
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| Lennart Lundh, Photographer |
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Roots
By Carla Barger
Oak Park, Illinois
| You say your life depends on it:
the synchronicity of spring,
your bare arms working in the field,
the brilliance of orange in autumn,
the promise of crops bursting green.
But look at the maples trembling in the rain.
Leaves flutter feverishly,
inefficient wings for
an escape made impossible
by roots as deep
as the skyward reach above them.
Look how each raindrop
smacks each leaf with intention,
a hand slapping a tambourine,
an unnecessary cacophony
as loud as your loneliness
that even on cloudless days
is an echo that just keeps going.
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First Aid for the Soul
By Alwyn Gornall
Sunniside, Newcastle upon Tyne, UK
The patience of a healer;
limbs out-stretched,
dispensing holistic medicine.
An island of peace;
a refuge in the storm.
I ran from the roar of life
like a frightened beast.
Away from the hard angled city,
to hide under your leaf-laced petticoat
and float in your stillness.
I took the paths that demanded walking
and fear and frustration and anger
fell away like autumn leaves.
Your silence wrapped me like a duvet,
spreading warmth over me like a log fire.
You filled me with renewed energy
to return to the roar... until the next time.
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| Ann Privateer, Photographer |
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| Undaunted
By Teresa Burleson
Coolidge, Texas
Well weathered, time-tested,
Live oak branches twist
In grotesque loveliness.
Leaves still lustrous,
The survivor stands.
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I Believe in Trees
By Joan McNerney
Ravena, New York
Those silent citadels
standing against long
nights of wind and cold.
Broken willow bramble
scratches a pale sky after
yesterday’s ice storm.
Each spring small buds
blossom as bugs and
butterflies orbit boughs.
Green new leaf fits
your hand so perfectly.
The future lies in your palm.
Birds reciting litany in woods.
Each rainfall the forest
grows taller, more verdant.
Summer afternoons…trees
sashay in sunshine showing
off their emerald gowns.
Winds sway maple branches.
Leaves drop like butterflies
falling to the warm earth.
Red yellow brown carpets
of crunchy foliage spread
over roads welcoming us.
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| Isadora Esson, Photographer |
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| Ivory Silk
By Michael Escoubas
Bloomington, Illinois
As June opens her arms
to the glitter of fireflies
to the deep thatch
of greening grass
to petunias and impatiens
dancing in rainbow gowns
a touch of Japan
graces the garden walk.
Shimmering white blossoms
rise tall and dignified
among pink and russet bushes.
I feel its calming overture
like a maiden’s whisper
as if to say
stand near me, enjoy
my outburst of color
and fragrance, let me waft
over you, let me wrap
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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Acknowledgments
By Wayne L. Miller
Ramsey, New Jersey
This poem was first published in The Red Wheelbarrow (#7, 2014)
"Many people, other than the authors, contribute to the making of a book… It is not customary to acknowledge the trees themselves, though their commitment is total." — Forsyth and Rada, Machine Learning, Ellis Horwood Ltd, 1986
| I would especially like to thank the one thousand trees
behind my parent’s house, the former state-protected forest,
which were leveled to become low-end condos for commuters,
who themselves would never thank any part of the former forest
for their new machine-dug, foundationed, wood framed abode,
nor would they be conscious that their signed offer papers,
derived from the sun and rain processed over many years
by the tree’s bodies with the support of many species
that maintained and adjusted an emergent ecology
for eons, comprise a warrant for the execution
of the real estate within
an agreed-upon
contractual
period.
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To Be a Tree
By Terry Loncaric
Hampshire, Illinois
| To have long,
strong arms
that shake and
and bob in the breeze,
to feel the brush stroke
of every season,
and still maintain
character in the
stark chill of winter,
to overlook forests,
mountains, and oceans,
to sprawl in the peace
of an everlasting landscape,
to feel grace & wisdom
in the multitude of my wrinkles,
to store the treasured
memories of all who ever
leaned i nto my body
to share promises of love
and their most intimate secrets.
Oh, to be a tree,
to remain permanently
tangled in the wild roots
of so many generations,
to outlast the foibles of humans,
who embraced my roughness
and admired my beauty.
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| Marie Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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Conversation
By Lavern Spencer McCarthy
Blair, Oklahoma
A conversation has begun
where woods comprise a scene.
The leaves are talking to the wind
in syllables of green.
The gossip flows from twig to twig,
and by the garden wall
I hear the burly oak relate
the wildest tale of all.
Why should I listen to the field
for what the grass might say,
when leafy tongues already tell
the story of the day?
This poem was originally published in the poet's collection, Images of Life (2018)
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| Peter Brinckerhoff, Artist |
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| Barbara Robinette, Artist |
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| By Barbara Robinette
Viola, Arkansas
Africa
in the heat
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| Ed Kaufman, Photographer |
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| bird feeders
By Marjorie Rissman
Highland Park, Illinois
for two weeks each summer my wild cherry trees
become bird feeders extraordinaire
putting on a show like firework
colorful and noisy until the last fruit drops
to the ground for squirrels or other scavengers to enjoy.
drunk from the sweet juice and overstuffed with fruit the birds are careless with
departures from their perches, often crashing
into glass picture windows and doors announcing their farewell from trees
situated too close to the house. on rare occasions a bird crashes so hard his final
resting place becomes my front steps necessitating a funeral of sorts, an aviary
reminder that gluttony often has a high price to pay. Nevertheless
these trees have a special place in my heart as they were dying over forty years ago but
with the care they have been kept alive for me and the cherry loving birds
that sing songs of gratitude, reminding me of my sons who have flown away
with love filling their hearts to build new nests.
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Tree
By Michael H. Brownstein
Jefferson City, Missouri
| My son who is a tree
knows the name of trees,
the shape of seed,
the poison within black walnut,
the strangle of death vines.
He greenhouses small seedlings,
woody stems, groupings of leaf—
studies the thickness of outer layers,
branches heavy with winter,
thick trunks cooling into hibernation—
builds himself safe places,
steadies his hand trough gravel,
spares a new growth before a hard freeze—
understands
hunger,
the hunger
of cold,
the hunger
of leaf,
a hunger in seed.
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| Julie Isaacson, Photographer |
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| Julie Isaacson, Photographer |
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| Gingko Biloba
By Julie Isaacson
Highland Park, Ilinois
You boast diaphanous leaves
Arched with their own
Story
History
Delicate veins
Unique green, the color of apples, Mutsu, perhaps,
Pure and seductive, invites us to
See and feel the variance of the sun shining through
You represent tales of nobility
Across all oceans,
Holding the wisdom of centuries
My father once held me high into your branches
I snipped a sample of your perfection
Still, I feel the edge of that fan-shaped leaf
Affixed into a notebook which I save
The foliage is a browned specimen,
with aged adhesive to match
The memories of your blessed shade
And his loving strength
Honor our cherished entwined pasts
To live forever strong
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Tribute
By Annie Jenkin
Plymouth, United Kingdom
With roots buried deep
into earth and water
an ancient beech
still stands firm.
Its once beautiful boughs
are few and bark-beetles
vacated long ago.
Yet, there's a ruggedness
a strength in this bare trunk,
its folklore wisdom on show.
As a sapling it felt
man's vibrations, foot-fall
shouts, explosive bangs
and rustic iron clangs.
Granite hauled on to carts,
the tram's rumble and stutter
echoed through the cutting.
Perhaps, a miner leant
against its trunk, smoking
his little clay pipe.
Out of the old one's roots
another sapling grows,
feeling the rivers flow
flush with heavy rainfall
eroding soft earth banks.
Swirling pools and rapids
breaking over dams
created by nature, the noise
at times, reminiscent
of what its ancestor heard.
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| Marie Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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Kay Thomas
Highland Park, Illinois
early morning breeze
whispers in the bamboo
promise of a cool day
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| Kay Thomas, Artist |
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By Lennart Lundh
Orland Hills, Illinois
wild winds have been cruel
old trees bleed dirt from their roots
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Emily Calvo, Artist |
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| Trees As Historians
By Linda Imbler
Wichita, Kansas
There are hidden souls
secreted in the trees,
chamberlains captured within the bark,
not for imprisonment
although they cannot escape,
they are inside for protection,
for their lot is to recall
the true memories of men.
When they wish to remember,
they call for the sky to bring Brother Sun,
the orb of remembrance,
and leaves blossom and spring forth
and they pull messages of men,
reflected from the sky unto themselves,
and they recall within the scope of the wood
those things worth remembering.
And when they tire
and choose to forget,
the leaves drop away with the memories
and fade in color and detail,
and they sleep
under Sister Moon, the sphere of forgetfulness
until the world turns yet once more.
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Mother Nature
By Barbara Boothe Loyd
Fredricksburg, Texas
The ice tsunami dealt a mean blow to our property and spirits.
Seeing 100-year old oaks, the epitome of strength and longevity
ripped and splintered by Mother Nature broke our hearts.
Not all trees can bear up under the stress of ice and wind.
Storms of nature and life tend to expose the best and worst.
Usually, it takes longer to restore something than it does
to wreck it, but Mother Nature is totally creative,
powerful, and the consummate agent of change.
Over eons of time she can raise up a mountain range,
cover valleys with lush forests and put wildflowers in
arctic fields then destroy things in mere moments.
She’s a cool combination of power and finesse.
When we replant trees to replace those lost in the storm,
we’ll try a new species better suited for this area,
training it up in the way it should grow so
when it is older it may not depart from us.
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| Kim Reed, Photographer |
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| Kim Reed, Photographer |
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| Montrose Beach Haibun
By Kim Reed
Chicago, Illinois
Montrose Beach trees. Barks torn like steamed crust dangle white roots. Sapwood is still damp. Dead solider oaks, maples, birch, down on the fields. The wider the canopy, the stronger the branches, the more uprooting torque in tornado winds. That oak started before the park was designed. One summer storm tangled its sheering branches. Split the mighty trunk casket open.
Rosy inner heartwood
Spoilt up to the canopy
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| From the poet's family photos |
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| The Family Tree
By Mary Beth Bretzlauf
Waukegan, Illinois
We are twenty-five grandchildren strong.
Our young years with Sundays spent
at Grandma and Grandpa’s house
for family dinners in the basement
with kiddie tables everywhere.
And every summer Sunday
the backyard filled with picnic tables –
the parents’ tables
the teens’ tables and
kiddie tables time two.
Holding court every year
through decades of Sundays was
Grandma’s pride and joy - her apple tree
but Grandpa called it our family tree.
In the spring with its pink and white blossoms
we were lined up under her arms
breathing in her sweet scent
in our Easter best
preserved for life in Kodachrome
In the fall when leaves were gone
we climbed her sturdy branches
to fill her with Grandpa’s blessings –
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Seasons of the Elms
By Chuck Kramer
Chicago, Illinois
Four ancient elms towered over my childhood home.
Sentinels of security, they fenced the summer street from the lip
of the lawn and transported me to a primitive past
of Black Hawks and eagles and wild deer at salt licks
where I was a buckskin boy stalking dreams, a pioneer son
probing mysteries in the soft quiet of the forest floor.
When the days grew short and fall’s sad colors
painted the sky, the elms warned of winter’s razor
breath and filled the yard with brittle leaves
before snow dazzled the street with arctic beauty.
The trees soared over the house with icy grandeur,
pillars of patience, awaiting the tulip touch of spring
to quilt the ground with shade as I shaved my face
and squinted into the sunlight, eager to explore
the shimmering world beyond the yard of my youth.
Lured by the siren song of money, I strode off
through the sun-spackled gauze of morning,
under a canopied aisle of arching branches,
and traveled to the concrete heart of the city
where the trees had been uprooted. There was
no shade in those market streets and no escape
from the fiery, ferocious sun of commerce.
Blistered and sore, I often returned
to the cool consolation of the yard where the trees,
rooted in the midwestern soil, whispered sacred songs
of ancient peoples who had sheltered beneath their branches.
The timeless music soothed my troubled heart
till the elms aged and died and the magic songs disappeared,
a childhood world ravaged by the malicious march
of cruel, deafening time.
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| Marie Samuel, Artist |
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Two Old Ones
By William Carey
Glencoe, Illinois
| At 65, he shrugged and told me, “We have maybe 10 good years left.”
Turned out he had 20, then startlingly slid down the scree in free fall,
very like the haggard hoary oak that had stood on the corner at Vernon
for untold eras like the many decades this dad-in-law hid from me
not from malice or intent but simple male omission.
I married into his life mid-life and gleaned real fragments
when I offhand noticed him or he me,
very like kids who set their lemonade stands in soothing shade and noticed cool,
or village crews who cut offending branches and cradled an egg nest.
Both oldsters stopped working like a phone flat battery,
drained mentally, felled physically, free to rest.
At 86, another dad’s still shadowing himself, treading water
in a last fade very like this tenuous oak at the southwest corner of my yard.
He may have asked his absent memory, “Why me?”
very like the tree feeling surely it’s a bad joke my bark peeling at bottom
like skirts shed in a creeping slow dance to degradation.
Oaks last forever, right? We’re learning, I guess,
that both they and brash, brilliant guys just don’t.
His bark really was something to see,
but now he thinks only gently.
A little green still sprouts, tree and he flashing some style now in spring,
fighting, flailing, dragging off the canvas to throw a few more swings.
Back in winter, though, both were down for the count, barren, halting.
They would probably flee but for final infirmity (that natural remedy),
rooted in place very like da Vinci’s Jesus locked in oil
awaiting that very last supper.
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| Pat St. Pierre, Photographer |
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Like My Older Sister
By Phil Flott
Omaha, Nebraska
| On the sides of the road
grew giant elms
and two-toned maples.
From the center of the street appeared skies
so blue our eyes ached
with an appreciation of that world up there,
though we could not have put that into words.
There I pedaled my red and chrome Schwinn Phantom
from P & M’s grocery store
to ride alongside
my older brother’s buddy’s sister
because she treated me with sunshine,
buckets of bright goodness
as if I, too, had been born of her mother
and deserved a place setting
inside the well-appointed walls of their home,
a sibling in that sanctuary
protected by their towering trees.
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| Photo from Jennifer Dotson's Family Album |
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| Christmas Tree
By Joris Soeding
Chicago Illinois
smiling in his trench coat
trying to uncover the best tree
wind and snowflakes
untouchable
my father
brisk in his walk and can bargain
we find a dense one
suitable height for a ranch
twined to the car
to be placed near the fireplace
nutcracker, advent wreath
and candle carousels
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Two Trees
By Alice Marcus Solovy
Highland Park, Illinois
| The apple tree
In my parent’s yard
Blossomed
And filled my
Upstairs room
With fragrance.
Years later,
The tree beyond
The window
Of my condo
Ailed and then
Faltered.
No time for
Removal when
Winter came quickly
That year,
But in Spring
It bloomed again.
Sometimes
Shattered Dreams
And Hopes
Do bloom again,
Just like the tree
Outside my window.
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Magical Creatures
By Pat St. Pierre
Wilton, Connecticut
Snow, snow, snow,
it’s everywhere.
Wind gusts like a sand storm
trees bend and stretch
corpse like.
Moaning wind deposits more snow
on branches
turning bony trees
into magical creatures.
Previously published in Westward Quarterly
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| David Dotson, Photographer |
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| Chuck Kramer, Photographer |
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| Reunion
By Matt McGee
Thousand Oaks, California
Half a day of airport culture always pays off
once I land in Philadelphia,
when sixty minutes of
air conditioned rental car later
the towering residents perched alongside I-76
all the way north fill my lungs
with what LA’s movie magic
still can't replicate.
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| Variations
By Janea D. Harris
Highland Park, Illinois
Fall is upon us, anticipation is building for the seasonal change and the beauty it brings,
We eagerly await the chance to drive the winding roads to admire the seasons’ gorgeous shades of orange, yellow and green.
The multitude of trees and their leaves, all variations of colors yet strikingly gorgeous when combined.
Imagine the vision we would see, if we looked upon each other with same adoration we bestow upon the fall foliage.
If we all viewed our differences, as an enhancement to our collective beauty.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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| Trees I Have Met
By Judith MK Kaufman
Highland Park, Illinois
In Curacao the coconut palm
has a scaly, yellow trunk,
complete with eyes that
resemble the rind of a pineapple.
The eucalyptus in Kenya's Masai Marais
nature's umbrella for the inhabitants of the plain,
except when the upper branches have served
as a noontime meal for an aggressive giraffe.
A now-dead redwood, for many years, formed
a tunnel through which a car could pass,
a huge attraction at the Mariposa Grove
not far from Yosemite.
And in Santa Barbara, there's a fig tree
twenty-seven feet wide, a beautiful,
sprawling tree that takes up a city block,
yet grows in an out-of-the-way part of town
that tourists won't find unless they ask.
Behind my house, two phlegmatic oaks,
tall and broad of trunk, in perfect apposition
to hold the ropes of a comfy double hammock;
they just sit there looking pretty, serving
no other purpose, except, of course,
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Back from the Dead
By R. M. Yager
Deerfield, Illinois
covered with
the gaping holes
you put in me
I stood as burned
out charred remains
of myself
you left me for dead
turned and walked away
forest animals
found refuge
inside of me
that winter
in the spring
a miracle occurred
new green shoots
sprung out
I stood up taller
sported healthy leaves
I grew into a healthy version
of my former self
and to think
you left me
for dead
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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| Aspen Leaves
By Tim Callahan
Altadena, California
When aspen leaves are caught in a breeze
they're turned and spun, now green, now white
as gentle winds blow through the trees
and make them shimmer, dark and light.
They're turned and spun, now green, now white
as winds cause their white trunks to sway
and make them shimmer, dark an light,
as fluttering leaves make shadows play.
As winds cause their white trunks to sway
the whole stand whispers a breathy song
as fluttering leaves make shadows play
and the trees sigh soft and long.
The whole stand whispers a breathy song
as gentle winds blow through the trees
and the trees sigh soft and long
when aspen leaves are caught in a breeze.
This poem first appeared in the Altadena Poetry Review, 2017.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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| Juniper
By Gail Denham
Sunriver, Oregon
Junipers, with rings long past
our years, guard our camp,
sturdy, gathering water where
they can, scarred with age.
Were we attacked by an enemy
coming on strong, instead
of shooting my horse and crouching
behind it for cover, I’d leap
behind one of these gnarled trees.
I’d kneel, pull my body
into a small ball, an inch less
than arrow or bullet target.
Farmers don’t like these scraggly
tough guards. It’s only folks like me
who honor their ancient strength,
love the glow when their bark
is blessed golden orange,
in sun’s late afternoon touch.
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Cottonwood Seed
By Dan Fitzgerald
Pontiac, Illinois
Feather light,
dusty white,
a snowflake out of season.
Fallen in the wind,
it rests, covering
a single blade of grass
in unneeded warmth.
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| Image from creative commons |
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| Sassafras albidum, opens a new window, opens a new window by Franz Eugen Köhler, Köhler's Medizinal-Pflanzen / Public domain |
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| Then and Now: The Sassafras Tree
By Lawrence Feder
Highland Park, Illinois
14 year old, treeless city kid, ya see
Goes to scout camp
Surrounded by all kinds of trees
Studying for forestry merit badge
Learning about different bark
Smooth like maple
Muscled like ironwood
Rough like oak
And the varied shapes of leaves
Round like Aspen
Pointed like Sycamore
Sawtoothed like Chestnut
But when it came to buddying up,
I chose the Sassafras tree
All parts are fragrant
Crush the leaves, get a citrus smell
Twigs, bark and roots are pleasant to chew
Boil them in water and you have root beer tea
But the unique shape of the leaves is what attracted me
On the same twig are three distinct leaf forms
An oval,
A mitten shape (left or right)
A three-lobed oval, like a hand, middle finger up
Is that cool? Or what!
Now 70 years later, the same Sassafras tree is under attack
FDA says the oil from the plant is Carcinogenic,
Oh woe is me
My favorite tree
My big fear
No more root beer.
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| Jen "Pen" Richards, Photographer |
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Free
By Caroline Johnson
Willow Springs, Illinois
| Out on a limb
where I can’t see your face
anymore
shimmerless leaves
silver no more
for me,
crimson sky turns darker still,
I lie.
Perched, like a homeless sparrow
drifting between two worlds
of gray
and grayless
of warmth
and I-don’t-careness.
Feeling the tree shake
like it wants to be free
of me.
Why can’t I let go of this branch, torn?
Face whatever is waiting,
be it feather, or thorn.
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The Trees Know
By Candace Armstrong
Murphysboro, Illinois
| Sun glinting through the trees
yet every leaf is still.
A distant rumble
in a still-blue sky
belies the peaceful clarity
abiding now.
Yet the trees know.
They stand like sentries
awaiting their fate,
perhaps a gentle cleansing shower
but maybe a thrashing torrent
of water dumped by the basin-full
to test their very resolve
to hold onto their leaves
and batten their branches.
Yet the trees know.
Silent and stoic, awaiting
the turning of the earth,
the recurrent heating and cooling
of their leafy heads.
Their whole existence—trust.
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| Jennifer Dotson, Photographer |
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| Ed Kaufman, Photographer |
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| Coorg
By Dr. Sneha Rooh
Hyderabad, India
I left the land but the land didn’t leave me
She resides in deep sighs
In memories etched in green
She resides in the remnants of the air
Still lodged in the bronchioles of my lungs
When they talk about ancestral homes
Drums play in my heart
I left the land but the land didn’t leave me
The sacred waters and clean air
Still reside on my skin
The purple herb's medicinal taste
Came back to my tongue
And the Coorg honey travels in my blue bag
I left the land but the land didn’t leave me
The jackfruit and the oranges
The fragrant trees with the raisin for incense
All have spectacularly vivid life
A place that captivates senses
And grows to engulf all
The welcome aftertaste of a place
I left the land but the land didn’t leave me
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Edges
By Victoria Crawford
Written in Fibonacci Sequence
Green
wood
edges
wilderness
sacrament
woman on the trail less taken
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| Marie Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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| Ed Kaufman, Photographer |
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| Faces in the Swirls
By Michael Minassian
Flower Mound, Texas
Although you said
you knew a lot about trees,
every time we walked
through the woods,
I had to explain
the difference between
oaks and maples,
birch and beech.
You were content
to look for swirls
on the trunks
some looked like faces,
you said;I saw only bark.
The next day,
you complained about
how many leaves were falling
as if that was the reason
you were leaving
or why I wouldn’t
ask you to stay.
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Tree Goddess
By Lakshmy Nair
Vernon Hills, Illinois
She sits on a strangler fig
tied to earth's umbilical code,
her green silhouette moves
on chiaroscuro swing
kiss of the morning sun
on her emerald eyes
her scented breath brings
robins back home.
In her breath, we breathe
in her tears, we bathe
upon her bosom, we feed
She is ma, Vana Devi.*
*Vana Devi is the goddess of tree in Hindu Culture.
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| Lakshmy Nair, Photographer |
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Grounded
By Lynn West
Highland Park, Illinois
| Fingers reach to touch green promises
As branches divided tangle
Birds of a feather make nests
Voices blend into symphony of new season
Breezes lift rainbows of color
An old oak holds onto past tales
Indian princess rests under open arms
And giggles while babbling brook
Laughs and lingers on memories
Lovers kiss in shaded pools
Warms hearts bleed cool intentions
As broken hearts mend broken promises
And the tree reaches embracing seasons
Colors turn and keep time like a fine clock
She stands firm when cold nights
Give birth to blankets of snow
Her arms, heavy still reach up in prayer
A robe of crystal clothes her as she plays in heaven’s breath
Snow melts and cold fingers reach to touch the earth
Springtime’s fertile face smiles
As she drinks morning dew
Old Oak once again tells a new story
As rings round her sturdy trunk
Sing of pockets full of posies
Squirrels chase and children race
They all fall down
I sit under you and sip a cool drink
As summer heat drains dreams
Heavy with doubt my head bows to you
Grateful to share space with deep roots
As your tresses continue to play in the breeze.
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| Highland Park's Bicentennial Oak is supposed to have begun when the United States of America was in its infancy. Photographed by Jennifer Dotson |
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The Tree That Stood In The Field
By Geoffrey Heptonstall
Cambridge, England
| The season made no difference:
in heat haze, mist or cloudiness
the tree that stood in the field was stark.
Its texture had the look of charcoal.
There were no leaves to green the year.
Speechless, it issued an invitation
to stare at the spectral agony
torn out of nature,
a life taken, by lightning struck.
Like a rare bird hovering
on the parish bounds,
evading loyalties.
It knew its otherness
to be the way of survival.
Certain of one thing only,
the fear we have of dying.
And to a child the strange scene
compelled our dark imaginings:
by moonlight it moved, of course,
dancing to the midnight music.
Something could be heard,
a rumour whispered as we watched.
touching the tree turned you to stone.
No-one was tempted to try.
This was where the wild men roamed.
Their shadows passed the windows of sleep.
‘It’s only the swaying of trees.’
The wind that moved the branches
brought the storms that changed our world.
A rain of fire had burnt the soul.
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| Marie Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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| Tree's Light
By C. J. Wilkens
I went to the tree to ask
Seek help amidst the toil
I lay my sorrows down
Tears watering the soil
She rustled branches kindly
Her roots dug deep below
Come whisper in my trunk here
I hold stories from long ago
Tell us of your heartbreak
Tell me about your pain
Her leaves tickled my cheek
As clouds sent down the rain
Reflecting on the sorrows
Of losses and life plight
I handed tree my backpack
Nestling softly under her light
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| Tina Cole, Photographer |
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Maple
By Tina Cole
If I had to choose
just one, it would be you Maple
whose citrine branches conduct
an opera of green.
No soft focus
or photo-shopping necessary,
no need for cropping,
to tame or frame your dazzling locus.
Olive skinned in Spring,
with thin wrinkle faced promises,
wily grimaces turn
to citrus smiles.
Later, pink-brown wheat freckled leaves,
like straw hats of childhood days
when plaits and ribbons
skipped a countdown to the August blaze.
A chameleon tree of shifting shades,
zingy lemon limes, chartreuse,
sage laced veins
that outshine dusty pines.
You know the trick of alchemy,
that yearly turn of green to gold,
while glittering Gods play flicker games,
skitter shady repetitions.
I want a long song, an aria
to celebrate your great beauty,
to grow comfortable in sisterly earth,
keep the anchor of our words.
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| Pat St. Pierre, Photographer |
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| Miranda Dotson, Photographer |
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| Green Cathedrals
By R.S. Rocha
Los Angeles, California
When ungodly beautiful forests reigned,
huge belts of green, pilgrims came,
Indians roamed and waned. Now only
primeval remnants, verdant, lush remain.
Once emerald cathedrals for a thousand miles,
plundered for their wood and men’s greenback smiles.
They laid the rails. Groves disappeared
like sails on horizons, wiped out
like the great herds of bison
Centuries go by, 100 million indigenous
die realizing their worst fears, then came
the trail of Tears, a thousand-mile death walk
for the Seminole, Cherokee, Chickasaw,
some Blacks, some Creeks, and the Choctaw.
Now—the hawk and sparrow fly
the skies in peril over trash littered
woodlands pierced by towns rotting,
red barns faded, paint peeling,
ancient building’s wood splintering,
pointing heavenward, their white rusting
spires mock--the sellers and the buyers.
Time and god forgot them. Forgot them all.
Go across the Pecos, Red River, Missouri, the great
Mississippi (some rivers burning), the Wabash and Ohio,
the mighty Mohawk twisting like a ribbon.
Cross the Hudson on the Tappan Zee, passing
over barges and metal bridges oxidizing,
leaving living jade umbrellas and their shade.
From jeweled canopies we zoom
to concrete cities barren as the moon.
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| Don Gehant, Photographer |
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The Cathedral
By Marilyn Gehant
San Jose, California
| Cellular excess courses through the redwoods—
a gathering of giants with great girth
and towering skyward height.
Seekers join a procession through mystery
lit by narrow windows, under shadowed arches.
Pilgrims grow still, quieting their voices,
touched by the sprinkling of ocean mist;
prayers rising among smoky wisps of scorched bark—
a thurible mixed with the resin of spent needles.
Silent souls tread where the smallest cones
lie gnawed by resident red squirrels
and the downy feathers of barred owls
carpet the path to awe.
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Before Graduation
By Diane Funston
Marysville, California
| Before the procession,
before the pomp,
certainly before the circumstance,
we will lose ourselves in the forest.
Rented cabin in deep Redwoods.
Just the two of us, four days alone.
Before the congregation of congratulations,
husband, sons, former in-laws, ex-husband.
Celebrating, each of us contributing in some way,
to the young man in cap and gown,
accomplishment, pride, transformation.
But, before the loud chatter,
the cheers, hugs, gift-giving,and surely,
Mom's tears....
Just the two of us and ancient silent trees,
meandering trails to the ocean,
tender green fronds dripping with wetness,
your capable fingers gripping mine.
Miles from anyone we recognize.
Before his celebration,
our very own.
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| Marie Louise Buteri, Photographer |
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| The Life of Trees
By Jennifer Dotson
Highland Park, Illinois
Swallow sunlight.
Share resources.
Speak through scents
and systems of roots.
Touch and tingle.
Store and release
water, the life source.
Cellular structures
survive in seeds.
Defend from
devourers and
disease.
Trees keep secrets.
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| Miranda Dotson, Photographer |
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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