Tree — A Poem

Tree,
they say you’d have a story to tell;
the things you must have seen
unrecorded by Man,
his story not being the same.
But why should you tell me?
If Odin was nailed to you
for days and nights,
his self imposed agony
for insight and divination,
then why should I find those runes
among this moss and muck?
I’d have to stay here a lifetime,
my back to the bark
to hear the whole tale,
whispered softly on the wind
around your mangled roots,
through these open spaces,
your gentle spirit’s presence —
amid the silence of seasons,
of years.

Copyright Francis 2021

Poem: Anonymous Lines

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

*If you would like personal astrology report, please contact me at: leoftanner@gmail.com for details.

A Poem – ‘Doing it for Free’

Doing it for Free

A recession bites it makes long winter nights
even less tolerable than they already are
Look – I’ve been very good! Done everything I should
but years of saving hasn’t got me very far
They bail out the banks and we get no thanks
in a reckless bid to get us out of a hole
They ask for ideas confirming our worst fears
by putting millions of us on the dole
As for me, I keep schtum head down, looking glum
I’m like an iceberg there’s so little to see
No government shall take my life or my stake
I won’t bow down or do anything for free

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Downstairs any morning; sunlight and smoke in slow swirling clouds. The cat wanders in, cries and wanders out, flopping down the step toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door through which I follow into a past, or no time at all. Gooseberries hairy in the mouth, that sour shock at the crunch. Raspberries sweet on the tongue; peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green. His shadow blots out the sun, a tall silhouette, cap pushed back as a match is struck. I follow to runner beans and strawberry rows, where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried, where it all opens up, when I cling to his leg looking down on the dyke where the moorhen struts. Out onto prairie fields, anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

Rate this:

Share this:

Like this:

Rate this:

Share this:

Like this:

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads