Another Look at Trees

LIFE & DEATH & ART

FOUR TREE PAINTINGS by Jamie Townsend

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I used to be a tree
With roots burrowing into the Earth
Branches stretching up to the Sun
Standing among my family and friends
Dancing with the elements

I used to be a tree, until I was cut down
Stripped of my bark, branches and leaves
Sliced and beaten into a boiling pulp
Squeezed and dried into sheets of paper
Which were used and then recycled

Now I am a book, but still alive, still conscious
My cover longs to be held
My pages yearn to feel daylight
My ink eager to be reflected within scanning retinas

I used to be a tree
But I had sacrificed myself to become paper
In prayer that someday
I would be able to invite you
To open me up

And experience
How it feels

To be me

To be you

To be us

From: How Does It Feel to Be You? An Introduction to Animism by Oshri

To Buy the Book: Oshri: 9789659002306: Amazon.com: Books

(Printed on 100% post consumer waste paper)

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TALKING TREES

My friend Sonja Butenuth who lives in Germany is taking an Articulate Storyline course on how to create learning content. This was one of her projects. When she shared it with me, I told her that it was very timely and could I add it to my posting. Enjoy!

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Afterworld

It’s here in the forest
shimmering.
I feel the way
and suddenly whisper through.
The trees are greener and taller here.
The wind sifts through my brain
and in the ripple-blue water of my heart
I see a woman who is everything

From:  Scyllastrangefire

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Oh Sad—Life Continues

sad oh sad they cried
the dark limbs
the hanging
how could they know
the innocent
the men the women
the small babies
hanging in the trees
the stench the flies
the rotten carcasses
falling to the ground
the tree
the falling of the leaves
the rotting acorns taking root

From:  Scyllastrangefire

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Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

From: Poetry 2 no. 5 (August 1915): 153 by Joyce Kilmer

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