



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)
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!
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
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
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
What a wonderful site. I really enjoyed looking through it. A small smorgasbord of art!