David McLansky

Rookie - 716 Points (5/24/1944 / New York City)

Laurel's Song

Oh sweetly heard calling songstress
Who nightly wanders in her long dress
Singing sadly 'till the dawn
Who calls as one as all forlorn;

I saw you perched upon a log
In morning mist, the silken fog,
With your breasts all scratched by thorns,
Your dress in ribbons trailed and torn;

Why do you cry so in the dark
Your haunting trill throughout the park
A melody beneath the moon,
So mournful you out do the loon.

You sing as if to discover
The whereabouts of some lost lover
Who lived with you for such long date
That you won’t seek another mate.

You sing as one so long distressed
As if by memories long oppressed,
Calling out to him who’s lost
In the forest tempest tossed.

The wind and rain unloose your hair
Which whips your shoulders cut and bare
There is such terror in your eyes
Without your lover you will not die;

Oh sweet beauty amend thy ways
Love another on this day,
You waste the powers of your lungs
To sing to him who is long gone.

Then sing to me who long has waited
To return your song and sing elated;
And we will blend in such harmony
That the forest will rise in symphony.

Submitted: Monday, October 21, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, October 22, 2013

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Comments about this poem (Laurel's Song by David McLansky )

  • Rookie - 716 Points David Mclansky (2/1/2014 5:44:00 AM)

    I love a tree’s
    Rich canopy
    It’s leaves and branches
    Shelter me
    The rain comes down
    It makes me shiver
    And then the bowman
    Draws from his quiver
    A hardened arrow
    Of sanded ash
    To pierce my heart,
    I see it flash;
    It’s understood
    He knows his craft.
    He quick takes aim
    Let’s fly his arrow
    Which punches deep
    Into my marrow,
    Crushing feathers
    Now flight in vain
    My blood is
    With the rain

    I topple from my sacred limb
    The light turns grey
    I start to spin
    To the earth
    I fall, I thud,
    My scarlet feathers begrimed with mud (Report) Reply

  • Veteran Poet - 3,070 Points Diane Hine (10/22/2013 6:41:00 PM)

    To love a tree, I’d never thought
    would be my fate until I sought
    her shelter in a fickle clime
    and Eros shot us both this time;
    Apollo’s son and Daphne’s daughter.

    Sweetly she affirms my court
    with pretty sighs while I cavort
    on dappled thyme – oh how sublime!
    to love a tree.

    The birds are charmed by my disport;
    I freely fertilize and water
    hidden roots before I climb
    to squeeze her purple fruits and I’m
    relieved it breaks no civil law
    to love a tree. (Report) Reply

Read all 2 comments »

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