Under The Hanging Tree

I will stand and wait for you

disguised

in the covering dark

and in the simmering silence of the night.

Keep to the unmapped path,

listen for the restless song of the leaves

and of moon drugged bats and

they will lead you through the perils of this old and ever shifting forest.

I will be waiting at the bending

under the hanging tree.

Strange things may happen outside

but in the shade of the tree we can stay

and water the ground with tears of promise,

of borrowed passion,

and a moment stolen like a pearl button,

ripped off and clutched tightly

in a fist damp with desperation.

 

Who knows what may grow from such a spilling,

from ground that’s only used to blood?

Who knows what knowledge may be given to us

if we listen,

ears pressed against the bark,

and translate

 the wind speaking in the branches

sighing in the same pitch as the rope once did,

rubbing in rhythm against the living wood.

 

I will leave you at the bending

discarding the darkness harvested like black tulips.

I can wash away the sap and salt and pry the dirt from under my nails…

But the crying woodsong in my ears will linger

until I can’t ignore it any longer.

And the rope I weave inch by stealthy inch

 will tighten one day

and the wind will count the beat once more

as I twirl

under the hanging tree.

 

©jayetomas2016

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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7 Responses to Under The Hanging Tree

  1. I like this one. Eerie like the setting.

  2. Reblogged this on Jane Dougherty Writes and commented:
    It’s a while since I reblogged a poem from Jaye. Here’s a good one.

  3. ellenbest24 says:

    Beautifully woven ‘water the ground with tears of promise’ evocatively beautiful. This poem is sumptuously composed and read with the reverence it deserves.

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