BENEATH AN APPLE TREE

Fall has come to visit once again, watch the leaves float down,

The air changes here in this place, this place of change over years.

One thing that stands still here among change is an older apple tree,

What stories it would tell if only it could speak the words of man.

Beneath this old apple tree rests in a grave a man who once lived,

Let’s say his name was Ben, who was he, so many years before he was,

Ben was a family man with a wife and children on a small farm.

A good life as he along with his family did age just as the apple tree did,

Ben one day went away, the apple tree stayed, it has aged until this day.

Beneath an apple tree lies the body, the remains of a man, a memory,

Watched over and time spent, always, a man and a tree together they be.

Keith Garrett

3 thoughts on “BENEATH AN APPLE TREE

  1. The apple tree in the yard where I grew up, never produced decent apples. It tried. But I climbed up into the trees branches to hide among the leaves. With a book in hand, I would hide from the bad things in my life. Was a good tree!

  2. Hi Keith, Peter “TheCelt58” G here in Cape Town South Africa. Thanks for posting a poem (what seems like?) every day. You make me work hard keeping up 😉 For me, the greatest compliment anyone can pay me is to take the time to read my stuff. I know that you do and I say “Thank you, thank you, thank you” Much like the divorce of a wife in Islamic culture . . . Once you’ve said it three times, uninterrupted, it ‘becomes’! I welcome criticism from other writers as well as from avid readers, musicians and anyone else of a creative bent. I’m going to do do just that for you about your “Beneath An Apple Tree” . . . . . . . . If you think I’ve got a cheek to do so please rest assured that I taketh not offence in slighte.

    I really believe that you’re talented. And brave. It takes guts to bare your soul. But that’s the point of poetry. Unless you want to write Hallmark greetings . . . and that brings me to my point. IMHO, for what that’s worth; I feel that if you did a literary Coco Chanel you work would be more satisfying to you. And a lot easier to read, for me 😉 . . . . here are some examples.

    line 1.) Fall has come; the leaves float free
    line 3.) Still standing the gnarled apple tree
    line 4.) Listen! What stories tells the tree!

    The old story of “less is more”. Poetry is about imagery, not descriptive prose. I mean, “Beneath this old apple tree rests in a grave a man who once lived” . . . Graves are for the dead. It’s obvious that Ben lived. Because he died. Day follows night. I really really, really (?) hope that I’ve been of some small help to you. If you disagree or think that I’m a pretentious prat then, okay . . . sobeit But I trust not. Write to me. You can reply on my blog. If you like. Or don’t.

    Just for heavens’ sake, KEEP ON writing. Doggerel becomes prose, becomes verse, becomes . . .

    Good luck

    I write with a pencil and a notebook. LOTS of notebooks. Every once in a while, the spirit moves me and I start to collate, edit, rewrite, scratch out, etc and it all flows from the heart by direct passage to the pencil. Sometimes I don’t know what I’ve written. Nor do I care. I write because I am. I am because I write. I’m truly blessed

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