Old Poetry Resurfaced

The Tree of Wasted Life

I. Who Questions the Trees

It was the season of Light,

it was the season of Darkness,

it was the spring of hope,

it was the winter of despair.

Yet as night always brings darkness,

there was a sense of prayer

that light would soon return with

the trees.

Who questions the trees?

No one then doubted their flow of life

and roots that gave way to leaves

of life, of water and shade

on a hot summer day where small

children gazed up into their branches

of guidance and shelter.

Shepherds would coo softly to their

sheep of the brilliance of the height

and strength hidden halfway under

the earth, in dirt that supported

the growth of the grass the sheep

so lazily enjoyed.

Who questions the trees?

No one. Until they are gone.

Connected to heaven and Earth

and hell and all its mysteries,

the Tree of Life now stopped in

breathing its breath into fruit,

the fruit that never fails and

leaves that would never wither

along the river. Gazing admiringly

at its companion of knowledge,

knowing the truth between

good and evil and holding the

truth to be self-evident.

As Adam and Eve disobeyed and

were cast out, so now were the

people of the Tree of Wasted life.

Serpent, say so, but a fog that covered

The plains and hid the mountains from

View and smoke that drifted like

Evil into home with children breathing

In the night, sheltered in the cribs made

Of wood of the Tree.

While mothers softly sing to smother their tears.

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree.

Merry, merry king of the bush is he.

Laugh, Kookaburra,

Laugh, Kookaburra,

Gay your life must be.

Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree.

Eating all the gumdrops he can see.

Stop, Kookaburra,

Stop, Kookaburra,

Leave some there for me.

II. The Woman of Reason and Light

“Accipere quam facere praestat injuriam,

Accipere quam facere praestat injuriam,”

She repeated to herself, over and over

in the darkness of the forest. Like a

fairytale, it was enchanted, the only

tree untouched by the darkness of

the days of evil but in a way, forbidden.

She could not say why, she could just sense

It was not to be touched, not to be

gazed up greedily, but lightly skimmed

with humility. But it was good. It was good.

Drip, drip, drip, drip

Ahhh, drip, drip, drip

Tears and breath fell to her.

To the old rugged cross I will ever be true;

Its shame and reproach gladly bear;

Then he’ll call me some day to my home far away,

Where his glory forever I’ll share,” she softly sang.

But the cross was made of the wood of the Tree.

And as light seemed welcome to the people

Of the Tree of Wasted life, the woman reasoned

and knew the Angel of Light himself was Satan.

And she knew she had found God here in the darkness.

So what was Light? And what was Darkness?

III. Light, No. Darkness, No. Nothing.

Fruit. No fruit. No trees. But no one

questions them, for this is true of the fruit:

love, joy, peace, longsuffering, gentleness,

goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance.

Yet in the light of knowledge of good and evil

they saw the truth of Revelation, the time of seven.

First, four horses, of white, red, black, and pale green.

But no horses had been seen in years, for no

grass was growing to sustain their life.

But no one questioned the trees.

Fifth seal of promise, those martyred for their faith.

Earthquake, shaking, tearing the trees from the earth

Only to show the sixth of seven.

Seven trumpets, of hail and fire, meteor of the sea,

Meteor of the rivers, a dark moon and sun, locusts,

Demonic army, and finally seven angels.

Angels? But the only angel known to the

People of the Tree of Wasted Life, is the

Angel of Light himself.


And God Said, “Let there be light,”

And there was light.

Copyright © 2016 Pearl Bayou

(This was a poetry assignment from my sophomore year of college. It was based on a collage theme where certain qualifications had to be met: a quote from a famous piece of literature, onomatopoeia, etc. This is just an example of the things I was writing at 19 years old. It’s crazy how much we change and yet stay the same. We love what we love.) 


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