Gedichte zum Thema: moss

Gedichte zum Thema „moss“ auf Poets.by.

NachdenklichDave Bonta

Suchness

Organs play for the moss in the garden, the great beauty walks to cook: my Zen.
FröhlichDave Bonta

The Muffin Man

I rose early to barber the moss of the wood, took a house in Drury Lane and ate toasted cakes which were very crisp.
NachdenklichDave Bonta

In the Sticks

everything forks and branches you can’t get there from here unless you go sideways first like a knight in chess or a long-tailed weasel hunting in the stiltgrass you must run out of luck or lumber get saved by a discount preacher behind the barbecue shack lose an argument with the moss wonder what horrors lie hidden beneath your feet wrapped in duct tape sealed in mason jars
NachdenklichDave Bonta

Quarantine Walk

quarantine walk stopping at the sound of a jet I can’t stop marveling at how quiet it’s become under lockdown. In normal times I find the close horizons of this narrow hollow in the hills a bit claustrophobic, but now that there’s so much less noise echoing around in it from adjacent highways, the nearby quarry, and factories and businesses in town, it feels more spacious. A pair of local Canada geese fly over at dusk and I hold my breath, listening to their wingbeats. I no longer envy animals that live underground their superior soundproofing. last week’s rain that hush in the moss
TraurigDave Bonta

The Hollow (44)

tall hemlock nearly dead from adelgids unfeathered every year more rain railroad noise burrows into the ferns that ice avalanche my brother’s mark on a tree lost to moss two faces on the side of a beech one has no mouth
NachdenklichDave Bonta

The Hollow (42)

whispering against the road from both sides endless water backhoe toothmarks our complicated relationship with the mountain gabion wall the quarried stones softening with moss at last a beech log’s pale skin beginning to rupture that rich ferment
VerträumtDave Bonta

The Hollow (9)

den holes I knock on the tree to see if a head pokes out a breeze shakes acorns loose their muffled thumps into rain- softened moss how great it felt not to be afraid of falling in last night’s dream perched aristocratically among the toadstools a cranefly
NachdenklichDave Bonta

The Hollow (7)

the descent beckons in three directions old charcoal haul roads crossroads deep in moss a ladder of fungi climbs a nearby snag namaste means I bow to the divine in you lightning-struck oak it’s not true that lightning never strikes twice spears of heartwood
NachdenklichDave Bonta

Terminology

Earth tones—a term no recent migrant from the tropics would understand, how a dormant earth can come in moss-green, bark-gray and a thousand browns— umber, ochre, sienna— and spring still a hollow gurgling somewhere below.
NachdenklichDave Bonta

In good light

On a maple’s pale bark, a zigzag ladder—old tooth-marks from a wandering snail? Green islands of moss beckon across a fluttering sea of brown leaves. This cloud-filtered sunlight is perfect, says the photographer as her cheeks slowly turn red.
TraurigEdward Shanks

The Empty House II

The door was gone, the jambs aslant, awry, The roof grown over with the mosses slow, The windows stared with blank and empty eye, Half the panes gone. The flagstones grinned below In gaping cracks. The foolish cattle came About the orchard, where the unpruned trees Held to the sky white boughs of trembling flame, And long wild grasses brushed about our knees. The dumb house called to us, the black, wide door Stood open for us long and stood in vain : Sighing we guessed those old walls held a store Of rest for us when we should come again Into the hollow, long and green and still — Then turned away to cross the further hill.