Ten points to best tree poem?

I Found A Tree Beside the Clear Brook

I found a tree beside the clear brook

The flows by the pasture-- a kindly nook

It seemed to be.

So, I sat myself at it's oaken trunk,

And, weaving the leaves I rested among,

I sang a sad, sweet song for thee.

No other sound, but water running

Over stones and branches; coming

Down from somewhere;

And my quiet song of someone distant.

O! It really was quite pleasant,

And I am glad I chanced by there.

I just wrote this just now--enjoy!

The Weeping Tree

Kathleen Lohr

When the wild mouths

of first love promise

the willow listens.

The earth tastes of silence

and grey swings creak

on butter-soft porches

phrases sway

then fall like feathers

and the willow listens.

While babies smell of jazz

their cries like small mice

in the jasmine silvered nights

and the lights surrounded by moths

whose wings flutter

uncertain on the edges of black

the willow listens.

Inside bricked rooms

when grampa lays

aside his coffee spoon

because the moon is made

of blue cheese

not green

the willow listens.

Sides are chosen

no matter which

it's the spirit of the thing

and still the willow

with its branches bent

the tips brushing the grass

like loving brooms

listens, listens.

As time is laid aside

like pine cones

that roll on empty roofs

over evening shutters

or morning lace

when the children say

see, see the willow tree

the willow still listens

and weeps.

The Christmas Tree Ponders

By Me (I know its not very good)

Many Christmases come and go

And still, the Christmas Tree Stands

It watches silently every year

And sees the family fall.

The baby crying in its crib

Soaked up by the needles

And it ponders the little one

Pulling ornaments and laughing

As they shatter on the ground.

As he grows older and dumber

The needles soak up

His complaining and crying

This ungrateful child throwing

Ornaments in his anger.

The boy and his father alone

Now, his mother's had enough

The tree's needles listen

To the ever present silence

As he's bare, no ornaments left.

Then the boy goes off to school

And the father's all alone

He grows weaker every day

And the needles sit alone

Listening to the silence

Soaking up the silence

Wondering if Christmas is gone.

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake

not what you are looking for, I'm sure, but I love this poem, anyway.

I wrote a nature poem, about our mother earth. Not about trees. Would you still wanna read it? It's about mother earth, you can think of it as an environmental/global warming poem too... =) Hope you like it. Here it is:

Round and round...(a prose poem)

People say the earth is round. But is it really round? How round? They said life is like a rollercoaster. Why rollercoaster? Why not marry go round? But what happens if the world is no longer round? and life is no longer like a rollercoaster? What happens when the clock stops ticking? Will our hearts stop beating? Will our pulse keeps on beeping? Stop! Thy thread is on empire's dust! Will the life of the earth ends tragically as Napoleon's? What would be mother earth's tragic flaw then? To provide mankind excessively? To spoil men with countless necessities? Or is the earth round because of its infinite life? Round beings don't have an end nor an angle. Not possible to be cornered. Doesn't she feel tired of being so round? Does it symbolize the roundness of her heart? Tirelessly giving and giving. All around the clock. Non-stop. Round and round. Round. Balloons are round. But balloons are fragile. Mother earth is a tough figure. Like Erin Brockovich. Catering to the insatiable needs of citizens of the earth. Feeding hungry mouths. Forgiving ungrateful children of her own breed.

How about a HAIKU ?

Weeping Willow Tree

It's vines blowing in the breeze

Shelter from the storm

Joyce Kilmer wrote the best tree poem I have ever come across. It's called TREE, and goes like this if memory serves me.

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed

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.

Give her the 10 points.

Dondi

Or maybe to longfellow who immortalized a chestnut tree in THE VILLAGE SMITHY

It's by Longfellow:

The Village Smithy

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

It isn't about the tree, but the tree is important to the poetry.

i just give u a single verse:

Never i have seen a poetry

More beautiful than a tree

The Family Tree

Where did the family tree start? Was it the one that was planted years ago in the backyard and with each limb

a new leaf appeared?

Branches break and others grow,

healthy ones just get more dear.

Life is pretty much the same,

wind comes to blow them around,

but they are tough, they never give a frown

trees that are rooted are there to be admired

strong and mighty, housing many a lil' bird that flies by

one branch connected to another, nearly reaching to the sky.

The tree is our idiol, grow strong,and grow and be of beauty

with nature our leaves will multiply.with the picture of strength our soul will never die.

There was an Old Man in a tree,

Who was horribly bored by a Bee;

When they said, "Does it buzz?"

He replied, "Yes, it does!

"It's a regular brute of a Bee!"