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Literature Text
They speak of a tree, deep in the forest, where the sunlight barely filters to the moss-covered ground and the birds flock to the sky. They whisper of a silence, a stillness and shyness and of the blooming of flowers long forgotten in the mists of time. They shout of power, of the seed and growth, the potential to reach the skies, to challenge heaven itself in the lofty reaches of vine-encircled limbs. They chant of chaos, lost in the far-flung reaches of the twisting rivers
and they dare to believe.
There is a tree.
A tree that sings of the joys of the earth. A knotted cedar, a towering oak, a silvery maple, she has long since faded from sight. But she sings of triumphs, of beauty and love, the powers of creation alive in the world. They say that this tree exists in unknown solitude, the piercing eagle’s cry echoes in her hollows, the burning sun trails its fingers on her bark. She sings of the spirit, the living and the dead,
the forgetting and the forgotten.
They say her song is beautiful, an unchallenged portrayal of the world, bewitching, entrancing. They say that her song is so beguiling that no one fails to fall victim to her tales of warmth and intimacy, of sighs in the morning light, the reflection of the setting sun in her lover’s eye. She is just a tree and she sings, she sings of life.
And I found this tree, alone on my journeys. I found her standing, unremembered, in the uproar of the forest, in the disorder they call life. The sun kissed the leaves and the wind rustled her hair. I found this tree.
She was screaming.
and they dare to believe.
There is a tree.
A tree that sings of the joys of the earth. A knotted cedar, a towering oak, a silvery maple, she has long since faded from sight. But she sings of triumphs, of beauty and love, the powers of creation alive in the world. They say that this tree exists in unknown solitude, the piercing eagle’s cry echoes in her hollows, the burning sun trails its fingers on her bark. She sings of the spirit, the living and the dead,
the forgetting and the forgotten.
They say her song is beautiful, an unchallenged portrayal of the world, bewitching, entrancing. They say that her song is so beguiling that no one fails to fall victim to her tales of warmth and intimacy, of sighs in the morning light, the reflection of the setting sun in her lover’s eye. She is just a tree and she sings, she sings of life.
And I found this tree, alone on my journeys. I found her standing, unremembered, in the uproar of the forest, in the disorder they call life. The sun kissed the leaves and the wind rustled her hair. I found this tree.
She was screaming.
Literature
You and I,
we're a stunted little paragraph blowing in the wind,
full of maybes and we could have beens.
We're winter nights dancing through the sky,
dreaming of warmth and summer, burntskin sunscreen.
We're fruits hanging from a tree,
ripe with promise and fearing bitter seeds.
We're dripping photographs in darkrooms waiting to become something beautiful.
You and I, we're not fancy like fireworks. Sparks
are the little lights that dance between us when we smile.
Sparks are private things and they shine more prettily
when no one else can see them except you and me.
So when I write poetry about us,
it won't be about mountains and kisses
and
Literature
Tumbling Wishes, Falling Stars
Rising stars and smooth trains of wishes
Glistening sparkles of time
Sunshine flowers and leaping fishes
None but I could rhyme
A lady in rose red blinding dress
Dancing through a derelict of dust
The once magnificant printing press
Now gray, hinges of rust
Monsieur with your dark timber walking stick
Care to take your lady tonight?
Where the moon shimmers on the rose red bricks
Where rust obscures your sight
And take her down to the fountain of rubble
Stone too cold to touch
Yet the fountain shoots out rusty old bubbles
Of the wisdom stones, they know too much
So jump into the cold stone fountain now,
Into its waters of deep
Literature
The Scent of Morning
To have smelled the scent
Of morning elegance
Lying by your side
That time before
When angels sung
In crystal caves
And owls lay
In parted fields
Of light
To have seen the rain
In your eyes
Tasting your lighting tongue
Kissing watermelon lips
Resting hands on
Pencil thin hips
To have felt strength
In peaceful yearning
On honey scented lazy days
The regret in your eyes
Stinging gracefully while
Crinkled hands hid dirty tears
Feeding my soul
With bits of chewed
Hope
Dreaming pleasant dreams
In desperate fields
Of gray and cold
The morning came
With no warmth
The sun rose
With no light
So elegance died
With no
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Inspiration
Before you faint from my brilliant creativity
, I’d like to note that I did not come up with this idea at all. My friend ~SafetyXPinXSurgery had a dream similar to this, and he told me about it. I was flabbergasted and insisted that he write it down as a poem or short story. But he wouldn’t. And I just couldn’t let such a beautiful artistic idea go to waste. So I hope he’ll forgive me for “stealing” his idea. He’s a brilliant artist, but for some reason he just wouldn’t use this dream of his. 
I think it was amazing.
That was my only inspiration for this; I just wrote what I imagined.
Technique
My favourite part, of course, is “She was screaming.” Powerful line, no? When ~SafetyXPinXSurgery said that to me I nearly fell over, seriously. I tried to expand the idea to be a reflection of life, not just the environment. Do you think my portrayal of the tree as a girl is okay?
Speaking of which, what did you think?
I’d like some comments, this is just me trying to improve my writing skills and any sort of feedback would be great.
Special Mentions
~SafetyXPinXSurgery inspired me to write this.
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
Before you faint from my brilliant creativity
, I’d like to note that I did not come up with this idea at all. My friend ~SafetyXPinXSurgery had a dream similar to this, and he told me about it. I was flabbergasted and insisted that he write it down as a poem or short story. But he wouldn’t. And I just couldn’t let such a beautiful artistic idea go to waste. So I hope he’ll forgive me for “stealing” his idea. He’s a brilliant artist, but for some reason he just wouldn’t use this dream of his. I think it was amazing.That was my only inspiration for this; I just wrote what I imagined.
Technique
My favourite part, of course, is “She was screaming.” Powerful line, no? When ~SafetyXPinXSurgery said that to me I nearly fell over, seriously. I tried to expand the idea to be a reflection of life, not just the environment. Do you think my portrayal of the tree as a girl is okay?
Speaking of which, what did you think?
I’d like some comments, this is just me trying to improve my writing skills and any sort of feedback would be great.Special Mentions
~SafetyXPinXSurgery inspired me to write this.
© 2009 Jonathon Reed
deviantART | Society6 | Tumblr
portfolio.jonathonreed.com
Comments52
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One word, wow! 