The Crab Apple Tree

Out of season considering it’s October (at least as I type). Just some more dreaming of childhood.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
Pink petals burst from their dormant state
The sun calls their name with each rotation
Without fail, they answer, never late.

Every year the pink petals call the bees.
They stir from their winter slumber
With jet engine like wings buzzing
An army of pollinators, ready to encumber.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
For fifty weeks the bees wait for this show.
For two weeks they work sun up, sun down.
Thankful for the death of the white snow.

For two weeks the crab apple is the queen.
After two weeks, the blossoms drop,
The greenish brown leaves start to show,
The curtain falls, the show will slowly stop.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
It has only one moment to show its beauty.
Once the blossoms are gone, the bees leave
Onto new prospects, as is their duty.

What remains of the crab apple tree?
Branches close to ground, easy to grab.
A new creature approaches, that of a child,
Who will play an old game, called king of the crab.

Hold up a minute.

I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack

Dirt Roads. Frogs. Hospital. + Announcements

What do dirt roads, frogs, and hospitals have in common? Nostalgia of some sort. These three quick poems were supposed to be posted Monday, but I lost track of my days. Things have been busy lately. Let me know what you think. There’s also an announcement at the end of this post if you’re interested.

Dirt Roads

Dirt roads wind
Down the outskirts
Of my mind

The scent of rain.
The scent of dirt.
Brings me to childhood.

Frogs

The chirp of tree frogs
Resting on an old window
Puts me to sleep
As they begin their feast.

Hospital

Heart rate: one-fifty
Dropped to sixty
Ten nurses enter
Running us down hallways
Commotion. Chaos. Then-
Silence. Restricted doors close.

View this post on Instagram

Announcement

I’ve been less active on WordPress. Partly to spend more time with my family. This takes a lot of time, you know. Another part of that is trying to figure out where to spend time wisely to foster the best result. I’ve found that many of you are actually more present and active on Substack.

For those of you who are, I’ve started to release poems over there. I’ve also started to include dissections of those poems there also. I want to keep Primitive Poetry strictly poetry with the occasional announcement. Substack allows me to go beyond that a little and have some more fun.

If you’re interested in reading the background of some of my poems, find me on Substack. I just released yesterday’s poem “What is Real?” With a dissection. We can even get a little political over there. Link on the button below.

There’s no pressure to hop over there. I’m not sure it will benefit many of you, but I’ve enjoyed engaging with a few of you on Substack anyway. I find it easier to find your poetry in the format that Substack promotes posts.

Anyway, I hope to see you on Substack. If not, then we can still chat in the comments.

“What Is Real” on Substack

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack

Hemingway Runs In My Blood

“Hemingway Runs In My Blood” is a reflection on creativity.

I’ve often said that one of my favorite parts of poetry is the opportunity it presents to create small worlds and move on from them quickly. As if that world exists one moment, and then is gone the next. This poem is kind of part of a series that I am just now realizing I’ve written about a space I call “The INBETWEEN”.

Links to the other two poems in this series can be found at the bottom of this page.

You can read a “behind the scenes” of this poem here.

Hemingway runs in my blood
Like interrogative thick mud
Which pumps through heart
And flushes my pale skin.

The want, no, the need to create
To inflate and then deflate
An id which has ravenous
Appetite for The INBETWEEN.

Creating worlds with words
Which are born of three chords
Then destroyed within the next breath
To make room for the next body.

This harmony, this Imago Dei,
Is seen in all who look intro the fray.
Though all people have it in them,
Not all observe that cliff.

For it is a terribly long drop
And those who look over the top
Will find themselves shaken,
For they are not truly prepared,
For what they will see,
Looking into the abyss,
Looking into The INBETWEEN.

Other poems about The INBETWEEN.

The INBETWEEN

My Pillow Acts As A Light Switch

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack

Burning Fuel (Spoken Word Poem)

Have you ever put your own value in being accepted by others? This poem is about that. Maybe it’s a friend, a family member, someone you want to be either of those things. I wrote this one years ago. While I don’t remember the specific event that led to writing this, I do remember how this “fella” would make plans, only to cancel them last minute. Usually timed perfectly where you would arrive to your selected meeting spot then get the call or text.

“I’m not coming.”
The famous words,
Whispered over the phone,
Making a man’s value drop, two-thirds.

It was expected,
It was not wanted,
Nonetheless it was expected.
The cold silence on the line haunted.

I sat silent,
My car immobile,
Yet fuel was burning quickly.
Abandoned once more by a man who’s “Noble.”

Click to see Poem Breakdown

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack

The Pine Tree

I know it’s not winter yet, but let’s just imagine a pine tree with snow on it for a moment.

Tall and prickly, it gains weight
Slowly as white dust lands on it.
The strong trunk supports,
While the small branches sag.

It has no legs, but those underground.
It has no arms, but those which absorb.
Never moving, but always pushed.
Never changing color, except for branches hushed.

I have legs, always moving.
I have arms, always grabbing.
Always moving, but never pushed.
Always changing, but never hushed.