Is It Poetry

(1958 - / Bus-Boys And Poets, Washington D.C.)

Sap Is

Like the clouds or sky, white, yellow or grey sap these fluids.
When by she to he comes from they,
he or she and or one being difference's can come of.
Coming out of the inner roots of the tallest or shortest of trees,
during the shedding of the greenest of leaves.
Then hanging down from the branches beards called moss.
The sap depending on the health of the tree should be cloudy.
The majority of the liquid of the sap switched has consisted.
Secretion from the hidden glands of the bushes and trees.
Climbs higher up comes man usability followed up by a woman.
Healthy the sap should be comprised when made up of.
Epididymes citric acid, free amino acid, fructose, the enzyme, phosphorylcholine and the professional star Glan gin.
In smaller amounts but optimal include kalium and zinc.
As for the sap from each broken twig that leaks.
The capacity of sappy each leak and the time since the last leak determines the amount of the sap.
Good high quality thus being and bringing forth more trees.
And tadpoles from climbing tree frogs it includes,
While deep are some depressions between the trees.

Submitted: Saturday, June 04, 2011

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Sap Is by Is It Poetry )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Top Poems

  1. Phenomenal Woman
    Maya Angelou
  2. The Road Not Taken
    Robert Frost
  3. If You Forget Me
    Pablo Neruda
  4. Still I Rise
    Maya Angelou
  5. Dreams
    Langston Hughes
  6. Annabel Lee
    Edgar Allan Poe
  7. If
    Rudyard Kipling
  8. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
    Maya Angelou
  9. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
    Robert Frost
  10. Invictus
    William Ernest Henley Updates

Poem of the Day

poet Edmund Spenser

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay,
My love like the spectator ydly sits
Beholding me that all the pageants play,
Disguysing diversly my troubled wits.
...... Read complete »

[Hata Bildir]