April Poetry – As the Sun Goes Down

Tree art
As the Sun goes down
There is a connection that
began
When I looked out the window
at the top of the stairs
And saw two boys playing, 
climbing a small tree.
I used to do that
When I was their age and
size. 
I loved every minute of it.
Becoming tall enough to get
in the tree by myself.
Brave enough to climb
higher.
Daring enough to go up
further.
And then, sensible enough to
be safe.
To know when the tree was
calling.
To know that sometimes I was
the one who called to that tree.
I hid there a lot when there
were leaves.
It was an apricot tree, but
not much fruit grew on it.
Maybe because grandma had
moved a few blocks away
And the tree missed
her.  She loved apricots.
I was sad when that tree had
to be cut down,
As I am when any tree has to
be cut.
I can imagine the tree
feeling pain at being severed from its roots.
So when I looked out that
window and saw the sun
Going down like a ball of
orange fire
And the little boys were
climbing that tree,
I journeyed back to
childhood
Which seems to look better
from this vantage point…
As though I’m looking at my
own tree, 
through the window of time,

Through the glass that lets
me see the good,
The joyful,
The carefree childhood play.
When the sun goes down
The sky changes so quickly
to
Shades of gold and pink,
Purple, and deep midnight blue.
The fiery orb slips into
night,
Drawing a blanket of dark
and quiet,
Peacefulness, and love, up
over us.
I am warmed by those
memories,
Lulled to sleep
Under an apricot sky.
— Deborah L. Tisch, April 5, 2014

April Poetry – Wind

wind and clouds

Wind
The wind howls outside as I
sit
in the comfort of a warm
home.
The trees, bare except for
the buds of spring,
bend and sway and flex their
massive limbs
and small branches,
and I am awed by their
strength.
Does the wind come first and
then the swaying branches
and leaves that fan the air
and make that wind stronger?
Or is it the other way
around
And the wind, the eternal
wind, wrapping its way around the earth
Coming and setting the trees
in motion?
And does it matter?
Why would I want to think on
such things?
It could be that the mystery
of wind, of air, of currents and
That howling sound
Stir something deep within
that makes me ask.
Does that wind ever sleep?
Is it the breath of God
Moving around this rock
Keeping us alive
As we take it in and let it
out?
This mystery
That I can only feel upon my
skin
And breathe into my chest,
That I only see with my eyes
When the clouds skate across
that night or day sky
Or when trees bend without
breaking as it
Runs around the land.
I only hear it when it is
strong
When it has something to
say,
Something to make me aware
of,
That it is here and will
return.
The wind still howls outside
these walls
As I sit in my warm house
A blanket on my lap
And warm clothes on my body.
Darkness covers the sky now
And only where city lights
reflect am I
Able to see the clouds.
I will go and lay down and
rest
And breathe
And dream
As the wind circles this
rock.

(by Deborah L. Tisch, April 2014)

For the month of April I am joining other writers at Camp NaNoWriMo (www.campnanowrimo.org). My goal is to write a poem every day.

Six Word Fridays – Color

Whispering Green
 
At first
I hear what seems to be
the sound of sweet laughter
childlike and free,
and turning
I find that to my distress
there’s no child or other, no one to confess.
So on about living my life, I go,
the daily grind,
and well worn roads,
taking for granted those oft seen things
that seem to be constant, and never change.
Then
once the snow has melted away,
the cold wet ground, uncovered, but gray,
that sweet quiet laughter 
haunts me again,
that brief little whisper of earlier, the same.
I open my eyes
and my heart
as I go
along those habitual pathways I’ve known.
As the raindrops are falling and soaking the ground,
as I travel that path 
where the grass has been brown,
though I’ve seen it before, 
this season of life,
I often forget all its beauty and light.
My eyes quickly notice a faint tinge of green
where the brown grass of winter 
is yielding to spring.
That whisper of laughter returns, loud and clear,
while the earth comes to life,
as it does every year. 
 Deborah L. Tisch, April 2014.
spring flowers in the rain

For the month of April I am joining other writers at Camp NaNoWriMo (campnanowrimo.org). My goal is to write a poem every day.  I asked my Facebook friends for some “prompts” and a photographer friend offered the words “whispering green”.  This poem was inspired by those words. If you have other prompts you would like to offer please leave them in a comment!