Tall Trees In The Mist
A Sonnet Of Possible Sentience
Introduction
This is a vaguely mystical sonnet inspired by a line I heard, but I can't remember where, about the arms of trees reaching into the fog.
The music is "Them Big Oak Trees" by The Wonder Stuff
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See The Tall Trees In The Grey Mist
Branches Like Arms, Twigs Like Fingers
Spreading Arboreal Limbs Twist
With A Frosted Fog That Lingers
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Branches Covered With Spider Webs
Reaching To Weave A Cloth Of Cloud
Twig Fingers Grab Wisps Of Wet Threads
The Silence Of The Wood, So Loud
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The Trees Are Stood, Weaving A Story
From Mist And Low Cloud, Skillfully
The Trees Arms Reach, But Can They See
The Art They Are Making For All To See
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The Trees Are Quiet, With Mist They Weave
But If You See, Will You Believe?
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About the Creator
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More stories from Mike Singleton ๐ Mikeydred and writers in Poets and other communities.
Good Used One
You never thought you were worthy of a new one, as much as you admire the new ones, commitment and high maintenance were always paramount in your mind. You always found the new ones to be intimidating, good used on the other hand are hard to find, that is what your mom always said. Hopeful mother always hoped you would take a leap into a new one. Today you think maybe itโs time to get a new one, but then you walk past the new ones because across the street you see what might be a good used one. Scratched, a few small dents with a scuff on the front bumper. Not looking too bad for its age, you take it for a test drive. Immediately you notice it has its own characteristics. A stubborn personality of its own with the occasional twitch to the left, a couple of spare tires, leftover baggage in the trunk, a twenty-footer that smokes, a little raspy grunt as it starts up. You wonder, can that be fixed? Maybe it's the smoke, the years of cheap gasoline causing that sound when the engine starts up. Maybe a good oil change will help it out. Once warm it settles to a not so raspy toon. A crack in the windshield is to be expected. It's easily been around the block and you think it looks a little odd with two larger tires in the back. The smell of old man wafts up into your face as you slam your ass between the lumbar of the driver's seat and again when you corner a bit too hard. Silent, the salesperson sits and appears to be a bit nervous. You can see this nervousness with your peripheral vision. The focus is stiffly straight ahead and you wonder, maybe I drive a bit too fast, but you do not slow down, because you always liked the fast ones that handle well in the corners and maybe the salesperson was just pretending not to notice the smell or hoping you were not thinking it was coming from their side just as the window cracked open a bit. After the test drive you stand in the parking lot with your hands in your pockets surrounded by all the other good used ones. You're focused on the new ones across the street. The oneโs mom wishes for. That is when the salesperson starts with the story, it is just like mom said, Every good used one has a story. Donโt be fooled by it. You are polite, you listen and hope it is not the story about the old lady. This was my son's used one, after it had been owned by an old lady since new. Immediately you think here we go with the old lady story. I never intended to sell it, after my son's tragic accident that left him bedridden. Always hoped he would get well. My spouse died a year ago. Couldn't bear it, fell face first onto the floor. Died of a broken heartโthat is what the doctors said. You listen patiently through a pause. I'm going through some hard times, and it must go. The salesperson lit a smoke. One puff, then a raspy cough. Over-and-over the cough and you thought a lung might fall out. Name your price. The salesperson says, turns briefly to gob, Itโs the best one of the used ones. You stand silent, your hands in your pockets looking at the new ones across the street, easily within reach, all you need to do is walk away.
By Gerry Thibeault7 days ago in Poets
'Till Death We Do Art
There would be nothing divine in this world without art. Nature may surpass the divine to all intents and purposes, but like everything it absorbs and is absorbed by, it remains here, stuck on the surface of this world, ever-present, physically bound to the universe.
By Avocado Nunzella BSc (Psych) -- M.A.P 3 days ago in Art
Comments (8)
Living close to s wooded rural area, I can definitely relate to the "loud silence" the stillness is sometimes the sign that something is amiss. Awesome sonnett...
I love that line โthe silence of the wood, so loudโ. Itโs so true that when you are out there you become aware of everything.
Oooo, so dark yet so beautifully written. I loved it!
A poem to remember.
This would work with any fantasy story so well. So hauntingly beautiful
You write beautiful sonnets!
I was able to read this through your Bluesky profile. I just fallow you.
Spectacular sonnet!!! Love it!!!โค๏ธโค๏ธ๐