Old Man Oak

A poem snatched from my sad attempt at a novel.

Old Man Oak, not quite dead, lingering by the river.

 

Low hang his brittle branches,

Low to scrape the ground

Beaten down by the weight of centuries

Beaten down, he waits for time.

 

Hundreds of summers’ growth, he knows

Rich with leaves and flowing sap

Hundreds of autumns’ chill, he knows

And hundreds of tiny deaths

 

Hundreds of deepest winter snows,

Through which the old oak slept

And hundreds of shining springs, he knows

And breathes another years’ breath

Old Man Oak, not quite dead, lingering by the river.

Author's Note

I'm not much of a poet, so be gentle...

Reviews

[Sasha]

There isn't much need to be gentle...
Hehe. Now that I've retrieved my mind, I can tell you that I did genuinely like the second stanza in particular. I liked the "Hundreds of..." repitition and the tiny deaths bit. It's interesting how trees "die" but don't over and over. (Eloquent, I know.) The inclusion of all seasons was a nice touch and I liked the rhyme in spring. Nicely done.

[Day's-eye]

This poem has a sort of sleepy feel to it - I'm not calling it boring, that's different! - that goes with the slow passage of time that the oak knows. The repeating words add a sense of every year being much like the last.

[piggy]

this poem is really chipper

loved it greatly

[Tommy]

I like this piece, "Beaten down, he waits for time," what a wonderful, but saddening expression. I get the image of an old man at a nursing home, who has seen and experienced so much only to be left forgotten as he enters the twilight of his life.
Great Work!
RLG,
Tommy

[SoulofManyFaces]

This is a good poem...bringing the tree to life with your
words, along with it's characteristics that so many of us miss.
Poor trees, they can take a beating, but yet see the beauty
that surrounds them. So many uses a tree can actually
give. Good write!

[Honeypot]

I love this. Trees have a certain presence and life of their own that's for sure. When my daughter was little she wanted to know what God sounded like, so I took her outside and told her to be quiet and listen to the wind blow through the leaves. I said, "That's the voice of God". Your poem made me think of that. Great job on it.

[imawriter]

...and if trees could speak human... what stories we could share! I love this poem. It's wonderful! It reminds me of the old oak tree that used to stand in my parents front yard. Of course, the tree was already hundreds of years old when we moved there. But I grew up with that tree. When a big wind blew it down, a piece of me went with it. Keep writing and I will keep reading!

[artaqstar]

I'd love to read the novel that this poem was snatched from.
Once again your imagery wins out..
I have a question though when you say Hundreds of tiny deaths... are you meaning llike the hibernation that it must go through? I just wondered. :)
There is nothing I would change about this piece.