PoemTree Leaves   Under The Poem Tree With Ron Purtlebaugh   GOD BLESS AMERICA  ST.AUGUSTINE NATURE  LOVE & BEAUTY  MEANDERINGS MEANDERINGS TOO NONSENSE & HUMOR WANDERING WORDS BRANCHES AND TWIGSCOMMENTS & LINKS   INDEXTABLE OF CONTENTS   "Then I heard a young girl whisper, thought I heard a small boy say, "Who will read to me today," Yes, I'm sure that's what he said, fearing that he'll never see, a king nor pirate, ever be, sitting 'neath his poem tree"   Ron Purtlebaugh         BENEATH A ZILLION POEM TREES   Ten thousand ships of laughter were anchored for the night. In the gloom a roundhouse loomed, and near the tracks and rails on the convoluted site a locomotive, giant, black, smokestack cold and silent now, sat it's place with load in tow, flatbeds without number,  on their backs, wood pallets sat, lined and full to nearly toppling, side to end and row on row. Barrels full, in stacks and stacks of smiles and grins and larger laughs beneath the streaks, still visible, in daylight's dying bloom, sat the boxcars, stocked up, locked up, storing boxes long and wide, holding crates of every size, chocked with humor, funny stories, crammed in massive rolling rooms.  Tankers tarried, set to carry, full to brimming liquid fare, snickers, chuckles, jokes unspoken, mostly still unwrote. Unsightly dripping anecdotes, one liners seeping from the cracks, and funny endings, one by one, leaking on the tracks. Enjoined in place, the sitting line, close to a fence, electrified,  there behind a fence it's own, across a runway overgrown, close beside a huge airline, with hangars full and overflowing, comedies with all it's props, of days gone by and older times.  Lonely by an office there, a paper box where headlines stared:   WAR IS HERE!      Quiet were the ships afloat, silent in their ringing moat,  tucked inside their bulging holds, hilarity and dreams and hopes, encircling the rail head cold, with it's treasures, taken measures to affirm no one would know, the lighter side of life and leisure, to assure no children witnessed, fun and laughter, simple pleasures,  But, small against the gray outline, past the runway's other side, in a field as if to hide, from the hateful industry and the greasy grime of war, there today as yesterday, stood a lonely poem tree. Huddled low beneath it's limbs, reading in the dusky dim, with a flashlight in his hand, sat a boy of only ten. If, perchance, the world could see a magic mirror on a wall, or the future be foretold with the mystic's crystal ball, or a genie from a lamp, came to tell the truth to all, it might be said, it might be told, this young boy now sitting there, with his books, would be so bold, find a way to end it all. Find a way for peace to reign, find a way to loose the laughter,  joy and peace and harmony, to the world once again. Cut the bands and bonds of hate, erase the word retaliate, see it for all time replaced with words like free and sympathy, gone forever bigotry, starving, fright, and kill and hate. In their place put contemplate, forgiveness, love and meditate. The bullets in his books that flew, were tough and lean, nine tenths sinew, harder still than cold hard lead, more penetrating, infiltrating, tearing, burning, rip serrating, than the meanest platinum tipped, smart bomb, cold primed, guide by wire bomb, ammunition man had made. His were cartridges of knowledge, wisdom, strength, made to demolish, ignorance and smallish views, like in rubber halls of justice,  made to stretch and fit whomever, holds, controls the mighty dollar, and the kind in unsat pews, not the pews of wood and steel  but pews within the heart of man, pews wherein he takes the time to bow his head and look above, pews where man does nurture love. His armor was the hard bound type. made of cloth and colored thread, cardboard fiber, not of lead. Full jacket, yes, but not of metal,  mettle of the soul and head, encompassing the insides which were stronger than the nickel lead made to rip the flesh of man. His reserves were without number, housed in buildings world wide, edifices of great libraries, books of every shape and size, housing words with strengths of millions, billions, trillions, quad septillions, held in hands like you and me, beneath a zillion poem trees.     Epilogue   This, the thing that's known as knowledge, This the thing that sets man free, This the thing, where banners, headlines, War Is Here, shall be no more. Read, young children, read for life, read and grow your glorious minds, read for peace and understanding,  read beneath your poem trees. Time will come you'll reap the world wind, time will come the world will see, time will come for winds to change it, time will come, you'll set us free.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Gived and Leaved The Mission and the Promise   Starting as a summer breeze, whispered quiet, soft to me, Upon the wind, a single name, a word, a thought, That sought me out, spoke so free, I wondered could no other hear, The sound so near, floated sweetly to my ear, That spoke of love, spoke of peace, in diminished voice decreed, The time is here, the time is now, knowledge as the saving seed, The need to read and meld into, the poetry, and in a place So surely seems was meant to be, just audible it it breathed to me, Come and rest within my shade, come place your head beneath my leaves, Come rest and read, and learn to be, a patron of the Poem Tree. This the thing I know it said, this the thought was gived to me, This the saving grace, I know, the one spoke out, and with me leaved, A hope and deep for all mankind, could there finally be a rest, Might there really come a time, when upon this wind soft blows, A gentle sweet and pleasing rhyme, the finest part of poetry That speaking words, draws to itself, all the children of the world, Teaches those who can't, to read, those that can, it lifts to rise Above the clouds and to a place where they can see, all the problems Man has managed to unleash, all the ones beset this world Save of us from this downward path, break this spiraled swirling dirge,  Bring to us, sweet  sing to us, a lighter tune, eternally, For all time, all mankind. the mission gived, the promise leaved, A Prayer of Hope, the poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh         BUT FOR THE TREES   Last but for the aftermath, this man made hell, explosion, trees and dreams, the limbs and schemes where heretofore the plight of man, those as best I understand, something 'bout the whales and snails, tuna nets and hill erosion, some dictator just deposed, and terrorist implosions, brought about this tragic thing, Now as fingers reaching heaven orchards on their sides lay sprawling, nearby twisted highway beams reverberating from the screams, pleas from Mothers, dying, calling, for their children as they stood and watched them falling. Then, I heard a young girl whisper, thought I heard a small boy say, "Who will read to me today?" Yes, I'm sure that's what he said, fearing I, he'll never see, a king nor pirate, ever be sitting 'neath his poem tree. That's a shameful thing to me, shame on us that children be, not enough they're cold and hungry, not enough, unclothed, unfed, not enough they stand alone, now they live and die unread. But for trees we all should plant, might the children have a shield, but for trees that might supplant, might the children carve a sword, but for trees and trunks of words, limbs of knowledge, cut their lance. Dear reader look upon the ground the time is now, dismount your steed for now I throw the gauntlet down, that never more the child in need, the time for ignorance be bound, the time is now to plant a seed, to open eyes and look around, to plant a poem tree indeed.   RON PURTLEBAUGH         WHAT DO YOU SEE? A RUSTED HOOD OR A POEM TREE?   Deep in the city, an old vacant lot in overgrown scrub where litter gets caught rusted and ruined, some old monkey bars so tightly entangled it seems bolted on, in lean-to fashion, the hood of a car.   An old broken windshield keeps out the rain, serves equally well, the hut's window pane so dry is the blanket, the fiber board floor an old flattened peach crate, wired at the top hangs down the front as the little huts door.   The brick secured lid, a wood box inside deemed safe by the occupant, treasures to hide  varies the way, he comes here each day  careful no path can be traced to his place, and poem packed papers he's written and saved.   A dirty weed lot, an old rusted hood, nothing at all is what most people see but the young man who goes there, with poetry in his heart sees the beauty of his own poemtree.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Midnight At My Poem Tree   Moon bright night, I brought a book to sit with me, perhaps to read and looking east to southern skies, between the leaves, the small skylights that move and change with every breeze, my favorite spot in all the world here beneath my poem tree.   The brightened haze from river lights,  backdrop lights to midnight skies, serves to bring these weary eyes, tired, reading nights of rhymes, near enough the words to see,  circling round, a dear old friend, a firefly, a help for me.   Sits upon each page I turn,  slowly walks it line by line how he knows, I never know but always so, when I'm in need,  wish that I could say somehow, thank you friend, assisting me,  lighting words, that I might see.   Somehow, in my funny way, wish that I could be someday a firefly to all the kids, helping those who cannot read, helping light up all the words, helping those who wanting more, to the words they find in need, all the words they want to see, a place to read, their own sweet shade, each to find their poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh            A Simple Kite   I here give flight with what I might to send this literary kite to soar upon a breeze, with hopes to land and there append to one who values what I lend, and never, pray, offend or rend to useless bits, another's plan, but rather mend, in healing need, if where it land's in need, indeed. Or, perhaps to sprout anew, a brand new seed, or see a new found fire lit or see poem tree take root. That where it sits, gives shade and comfort to a friend, or if a friend be there in lack, to start a friendship there anew. These words I do, in fervent hope, pray, dont't lack in breadth and scope or fall into a boring hole, but rather go, to do what they're intended to, fall into another's hands, and if those other hands are you, I'm glad to be a friend to you, and hope that you find comfort in, and knowing that, you'll be calling me friend too.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Today Is Poem Tree Day   I bid you all my unknown friends, come gather 'round, crowd up near, today's a day of great import! Bring the children right up front...that's right my dear, sit her close beside my knee you may trust her here by me, I'll watch her as my very own and woo her tiny heart away, I've something special she's to see, something very dear to me, two smallish words, profound indeed, planted of God given seed. Growing them, I'll share with her and all who'd care to join and see. Come share with me it's giving shade, beneath the limbs, my poem tree. Notice first, it's penniless, taking not a cent to grow, no bigotry is in it's roots, it's shoots and buds wait not for spring no hate is in the Robins' wings, that gather high upon it's limbs, cut the bark and mercy flows, and you know...the sap that falls, makes the sweetest syrup known! It's seeds are constant, falling, twirling, to implant another person with the yearning buds of knowledge, inward burning. Let the seeds fall where they will, a poem tree, it never crowds, it never kills, it never has, it never will. I have some seeds here on display, please take of them, take what you will, take as many as you can, give them all away for me, (actually, it's not for me) this little girl that's right up front... she's the one they're really for, and you, and you, and he, and she. And a young boy in Auburn, Washington, a girl and boy in Bloomington a couple of kids in St. Augustine, and three that live by me. An endless list I have right here, I'm sure, as well, as others do. Scatter, plant them, throw them free, this I warrant, guarantee, peace will grow from every seed. This is all I ask of you, this is all we really need, this is all it really takes, to grow a poem tree.   Ron PurtlebaughToday Is Poem Tree Day   I bid you all my unknown friends, come gather 'round, crowd up near, today's a day of great import! Bring the children right up front...that's right my dear, sit her close beside my knee you may trust her here by me, I'll watch her as my very own and woo her tiny heart away, I've something special she's to see, something very dear to me, two smallish words, profound indeed, planted of God given seed. Growing them, I'll share with her and all who'd care to join and see. Come share with me it's giving shade, beneath the limbs, my poem tree. Notice first, it's penniless, taking not a cent to grow, no bigotry is in it's roots, it's shoots and buds wait not for spring no hate is in the Robins' wings, that gather high upon it's limbs, cut the bark and mercy flows, and you know...the sap that falls, makes the sweetest syrup known! It's seeds are constant, falling, twirling, to implant another person with the yearning buds of knowledge, inward burning. Let the seeds fall where they will, a poem tree, it never crowds, it never kills, it never has, it never will. I have some seeds here on display, please take of them, take what you will, take as many as you can, give them all away for me, (actually, it's not for me) this little girl that's right up front... she's the one they're really for, and you, and you, and he, and she. And a young boy in Auburn, Washington, a girl and boy in Bloomington a couple of kids in St. Augustine, and three that live by me. An endless list I have right here, I'm sure, as well, as others do. Scatter, plant them, throw them free, this I warrant, guarantee, peace will grow from every seed. This is all I ask of you, this is all we really need, this is all it really takes, to grow a poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Of Kings And Queens   Let me show you little folks you've never seen before, let me take you to a place where mostly less is more, squeeze up to close to Mama now, lay your head and Dad, Bubby, Sis, your little dog or perhaps your cat. Close you eyes and come with me a special place I like to read, a place that I do truly love, 'neath the poem tree. Sooner than you know, I bet, you'll be there just with me, the secret key to doing that, is learning how to read. It's not enough, just knowing how, some can read, but still don't go, (something of a waste to me). Things to do, places to see, people you can be, then close the book, and proudly say: I was King..... or..... I was Queen, I closed the book, and now I'm me!   Ron Purtlebaugh         FOR MILES TO GO  dedicated to my nephew Miles Halstead and the person I miss most, Mr. Robert Frost   Dr. Baloos, lives by the sea, two miles south of Anastasia beach, I'm quite proud to say, he's a good friend to me, I came to know well, to a very large degree, caring for used, discarded and abused, oftentimes lost poem trees. There's nothing I know like a poem tree lot, walking down rows, gazing in slots, looking in barrels, boxes and pots. They're layered below, stacked to the side, some are in books, some in com dots, some are in shells. some are deep wells, some like a flower, have a most pleasant smell. Some have no place, but still they have space, like 'Kindness,' by name, you just see their trace. There's a very long row, named 'Hopes and Daydreams,' Baloos, though he's tried, can't stack side by side, but Dr. Baloos, finds room as he can, stacking them straight to the sky! They seem without number, 'bout a billion and three, they're all the same cost, priceless and free. The strangest word row, my favorite part, some that haven't been dicovered! Beginning with aaaaabbezendorium, ending in zzzzzeckelflufuvered! And right in the middle, stands a great large sign:   Rules for the poem tree lot are listed in speczintintuber!   (Another word that's not been discovered!) It's easy to visit and easier to see, used and abused, unused poem trees, just lay your head down on something real soft, close your eyes tight as you start to drift off, picture yourself, what you most want to be, with Dr. Baloos, and a book by the sea, as sleep takes it's toll, you'll wake up to be, in a poem tree dream, 'neath your own poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Under My Own Poem Tree   Just below the inlet south of old Matanzas Bay, boasts the coast's coquina crags in all their fine array. Smoothed by sand and surf and time, tide pools line the way, with sustenance they bring to gulls, where fiddlers like to play. As brightest orange re-lights the dawn in heavenly display, fades to light, allows this sight,  this battle for shore, arena of war, where sea and land, reclaim the sand,  sea, then shore, four times a day. This is where I come to play,  to walk and think, to dream and see, it gives me shade, but has no leaves, this land and sea, my poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Poem Tree Isle   There's an orchard I know for young poem trees  a couple miles east of St. Augustine beach. From Anastasia island, it's just out of sight impossible to reach, by float or by flight.   I once knew a man, tried it one fall, in a fifty foot boat, when up came a squall, that turned in a blink to a fierce hurricane,  flipped o'er the boat in twenty foot waves, before it was capsized and shattered to bits, to Davy Jones' locker to sing it's obits, in flotsam and jetsam and splinters and boards to the cold still waters of the dark ocean floor,  a black swirling funnel, picked up the man, carrying him west, two miles inland, dropping him gently, in peaceful release, in the cooling sweet shade of a young poem tree. He fell fast asleep and started to dream, quicker than the beat of a honeybee wing, in a solitary moment, the blink of an eye, he was lying in the orchard on poem tree isle.   Ron Purtlebaugh             If I Were You And You Were Me   Standing, looking out and still, all the work that needs be done, the trees to plant for younger ones, trees for kids to swing upon, to shade them from the heated sun, that rages, burns, forces the unlucky ones, to darkened doors, the ruin of lives, the ghetto's run, Run child, run! Find your shade, your words of life,  not the gang, the knife, the gun! Grab a 'hold a poem tree! If up to me, I'd be there for to take your stripes, your pain, your strife, but as it is, I cannot be, but this, I can, as upon a street, a sign, be perhaps, a guiding light, to point you to a poemtree, help you find your shade in life, help you find serenity, building dreams and reading free. As I know you would for me.   Ron Purtlebaugh             Of Lite-Em-Up-Lamps And Poem Trees dedicated to my neice Layla Purtlebaugh   Mother runs her shop from home, where she wants to be, her daughter's on an ocean cruise, a throw rug by her knee. It's hard to tell a ship, a rug, 'specially when you're three. Hand to eyes, "Land Ho!" she cries, "grassy, covered in trees!" Carpet grass and chair leg trees,  those who are older than three, to her, the land of Burgundy, with forests of Chromium Trees. Yonder hill sits an overstuffed chair and  a lamp called a lite-em-up tree. It's hard to tell a lamp from a tree, 'specially, when you're three. But on that hill, she finds her dreams in an overstuffed chair, 'neath a lite-em-up tree. At nitey-nite time, when the sandman comes in mommy's safe arms, on a hill by the sea, fast aspleep 'neath her poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Nanuk's Tree   Nanuk lives where it's frosty and white, with Mother and Father and sister Telee. Six out of twelve, the sun shines at night, the cold frozen wilds near the North Sea, where never a tree has been in his sight. ********** This cold frozen land, an acceptance of life. A daily fought battle where hunger is strife, a strange loneliness, that cuts like his knife. This weapon, his tool, affords him the right food and warm furs for the cold winter nights. ********** He lays it to flint so the spark will ignite, the oil from the fat, with a warm glowing light, his freshly cut home, from ice with his knife,  the smiles of his parents, his sister so bright, especially Telee, the light of his life. ********** The warmth brought about when hunger is gone, a story to mind, the history's passed on, as it is now, it always shall be, contentment brings sleep, sleep, gentle dreams,  the loneliness flees, though never a tree, his family's his shade 'neath his own poemtree.   Ron Purtlebaugh             A POEM TREE OVER SATURN   from the land of the greens of Nottingham, by steamer across the sea, packing their clothes, suitcases, and trunks, the whole Bybee family, bid their homeland good-bye, bound for a land where water still sparkles, and even today, call it their home,  the pristine hills, of East Tennessee. The Bybee family had two children then, a daughter named Tricia and a son named Trevor, but every one called him TB, Who stowed away his dog, a short wiry mutt, his most loyal friend, he called Tee. TB loved the woods, and he always took Tee, bored not a minute, they often would sit, 'til the sun was near down, by a big old dead birch, half on the ground, split and left lying, by a fierce summer storm, watching the bees, fascinated to see, standing their doorway, flapping their wings, cooling the hive when the days were too warm, and going 'bout living, like a honey bee does, when she lives in a honey bee tree. Half down the mountain, an old one room school, but TB wouldn't go, though Sis always did, 'cause they laughed and they taunted and affixed him a name, (his front teeth stuck out), a sensitive young boy, whose heart was quite tender, they called him, 'the bucktooth, hillbilly kid'. So Tricia would teach him, by lantern light each night her lessons in school for the day, TB would listen, and pay strict attention,  he wanted to be something, someone, someday.  The day came to pass when the Federals stepped in, encroaching over here, attaching over there, and buying up everyone's land, "We're making it better, electricity for all, and to that end, we're building a dam!" Far up the mountain, the Bybee home stayed,  TB and Tee, watched the engineers each day, trying to figure and understand their plans, knocking down trees, closing off valleys, bulldozing, scraping, reshaping the land.  TB, like a sponge, let the knowledge soak in, with Tee ever near, his only best friend. A voracious reader, thanks much to his sister; acquiring books became his pastime, walking for miles, sometimes took hours, even here, he found much to learn, 'bout fissures, and lesions, tension, and math, cultures and wildlife, perseverance and paths,  in large part, just learning to learn. Negatives, and positives, tensile strength, adoptive's, ergonomics, and varied rates of burn.  He stored it away, and added each day,  he wanted to be something, someone, someday. When secondary school came, and the foolishness of children slipped quietly away, TB was there, to fulfill his dreams, with ream upon ream of knowledge tucked away. Finding aerospace engineering, chemistry and math, the new fields, the new woods. the new hills to climb, and the loyalty of his dog, though Tee was now gone, never was lost on TB, who had learned to push on, steadfast and sure, his Masters was soon on the way. Plodding and prodding, he never let up, with awards and citations for the knowledge he loved. Expanding his realm, dissertations, recitations, his tenderness never lost in the push and the shove, yet, still his first love, the attainment of knowledge, with the caring, and sharing, Sis Tricia, had taught him, stood solid, the captain of his helm. With a Doctorate now, word came of the scheme, to see Saturn, up close, with her wonderous rings,  a fly-by of planets, NASA envisaged, even bigger was this, than the dam he remembered, which had fired up his childhood dreams. Now they wanted him, no longer the bucktooth, hillbilly kid, But Him. TB Bybee, to be  part of their team. Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, still race on today, near the edge, of our own outer space, still sending back pictures, material for learning, the enrichment of  lives and our knowledge down here. When Saturn was passed, a shadow was cast, proud showing the work and the dreams, the hope of mankind and the Voyager teams, and TB Bybee, 'neath his own Poem Tree.     Ron Purtlebaugh         A Poem Tree In The Keys   By way of explanation, no fixed or correct summation, please take my hand and I'll expand on this title and what it could mean. Where the dunes and the sea do battle to be lives Dali Lee in a black tarred shanty on the sea oat side of the surf's war zone, in a grove of coconut trees. It's a beautiful place, he loves living there, but there's something that Dali would be. He's not sure what, maybe an engineer, but his school is small, no library near. But his uncle Joad, found some books in a boat. When the sun is hot and his chores are done, he shades himself from the ignorance he fears, he takes a book, sometimes two, he lies down to read in the shade of the palms, about engineers. He loves the palms and their shady cool breeze, and the mildewed books where he reads and learns, and dreams what he wants to be. This is his shade, his own poem tree, down in the Florida keys. If you're with me thus far, and like to know more, there's more shade to see in the keys.   In the south of Chicago, the University there, a few blocks away from Hyde Park, there's a girl I know, found her own poem tree, because she's afraid of the dark. She lived with her mother, no father at home, so mom had to work late at night. Being frightened, alone, she pounded a wedge 'tween a big wooden box and the edge of the door, assuring the fit was quite tight. The box a piano when turned back around on a curious whim, discovered one night, not just a box to lock herself in, and the keys, though sticking, and very well used were really her own best of friends. Cleaning it up, she learned how to play, mom bought her lessons, she played night and day. When frightened, alone, where folks stay away, she found when she played, it wasn't that way, to the stoop they would come at the end of the day and here the sweet music she learned how to play. The more they would stay, the more she would play and she played and she played, 'til it took her away. She studies piano in New York today. When asking my friend 'bout her own poem tree,  "your's in your words, mine's in the keys, wouldn't it be nice if people could see, we all need our shade, our own place to be, perhaps you can tell them, how it helped me, finding the shade of my own poem tree, in a box by the door, with eighty-eight keys."   Ron Purtlebaugh           Just Like Johnny Appleseed Plant A Poem Tree   A cherry can fly with a swift magpie, but most fruit is lost when it falls, but poem tree fruit, goes anywhere at all! Like an apple can fall, or a cherry can fly, like an eagle can soar, high as the sky. Strangely, a poem tree's no hybrid kind, it's most precious fruit, is anywhere to find, growing in meadows or mountains so high anyplace you find, a young fertile mind. Imagine us all as Johnny Appleseed! A zillion poem trees, and as many minds freed.   Ron Purtlebaugh             A Boy, A Tree A Gift From Me   Concious of his innocence, stranger still to lies and strifes of life, which all men know, many turn to anger, hate and thereby in their haste, negate the peace of life, it's ebb and flow, a feeling lost that once was known, This the thing, a treasured gift that he still owned. A well greened, lithesome, strength of youth, not oft' wasted as was mine, coursed his veins, his blood of blood as if life...thereby existed, as seems life, for each of us, was by God, and all creation, his for him, and he alone. The oyster's pearl of celebration, there for all the world to see, and grew he well, he knew no bounds, in his strength and glory, sound, reading books, as could be had, peace beneath his tree he found. This I pray to be your story, shade I pray that you will see, this a gift I pray to leave you, cooling 'neath your poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh           Dreams and Notions   Her silhouette, a summer's eve, the hottest day had nearly passed, glistening, the sweat lit crease behind her knees, evaporating, drying in the summer's breeze. Hot and sticky, stuck the hair tight upon her heated brow, on the barn, her slim outline, arm outstretched, a wayward glance belied her stance, staring up the dusty street, wondering would she ever leave, if perchance the time would come would she even stop to think, given just the slightest chance. In the pocket of her frock, draped atop her summer dress of cotton nearly wet with sweat, her lowered hand creeps in and stops, clutching round the dog eared pages coverless, the book she cherished, timeless ages, strange and new and far off places, indeed, her ticket out of there, when she stepped behind the barn and dropped herself in nature's arms, in the place she liked to be, the cooling shade, her poem tree. Carefully, she chose her page, a different time, a different place, who, today, she chose to be, where, the sights, she chose to see. Perhaps, she'd search for Romeo, or take a walk along the sea, walk the streets of Ancient Rome, or research the deepest seas. Sudden then, the dust seemed settled, and the road seemed not so long, to college where her mind belonged, her heart let loose a lighter song. When you look, child, down the road, that seems so dusty, hard and long,  don't forget the dreams you've cherished, cleave unto a writer's song. Find a poem, find a story, one to help you to prepare, keep your dreams alive and breathing, day will come, you'll be elsewhere. This, the way that lives are made, dreams and notions, realized, this, the way of poem trees, this, the way to find your shade.   Ron Purtlebaugh         To Be A Poem Tree   The icy cold of ghettos blows forsaken slumlord's broken fires  homeless froze in wintry snow, in dumpster homes with oil drum pyres,  through it all we walk on by. The tenements with windy halls a child squalls for lack of heat, eating, pull our curtains closed, it isn't me, it's not my fight! The lights are off and children cold. Who, to wrap them up in arms? While in the arm of mom or dad a needle hangs, the blood drips woes upon the one's deserving more, who didn't ask to share this harm, who only want a place that's warm, a little something for to eat one who'll take the time to read a line of laugh to lighten hearts, of little one's in need of more. The little one's who want to be, when death and cold are all they see, take the time to touch a child if only with a friendly smile a kindly look is all they need at times to know that someone cares, sometimes it's all that one receives, for all of us have shade to share, we all can be a poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh         life itself   born of sun, and wind, and rain the stars outline his vast domain for his head to rest, the clouds the dark of night, his sleeping shroud the rivers, streams, below, his veins the tide, his heartbeat, murmurs, strains the flowers of the earth, his jewels the grass and trees, his living fuel the air, his breath is everywhere the ferns and moss do make his hair the oceans deep, his reservoir the mountains high, his footstool are  north and south, contain his cold his sand, the deserts wide do hold his gift to us, both you and me he shares with us his poem trees.   ron purtlebaugh              A NEW TREE   Would that I could, plant a new tree, inside young and starving minds, one that drops it's seeds, quick twirling, like the maple, spreading, swirling, planting into fertile minds. Willing kinds that love to learn, and  burn for knowledge, soaking, seeping, wants to make this world we live in, one where peace and love be mined, like the diamond that it is, gem of life, reducing strife, taking way from mortal minds the thought of war and hate and "mine"  a road to peace, 'til end of time. Would that I could, plant a new tree, one to give it's shade to all, spreading 'round the world like springtime, giving shade for all to grow and to know, there is a way, we can do it, yes, we can, if we water well the right seeds, one's that see all men are freed, those that feed the one's not eating, stops the beating of the weaker, sees that life is more to this here time and place we all abide. Would that I could, plant a new tree, one that grows on different mountains, different plains, perhaps the moon, sprout anew in hot sand places, trees that make their own oasis, a place of shade for all mankind.   Ron Purtlebaugh         I Wonder   I didn't pay a single dime to climb upon this ride, and didn't know 'til I was twelve, upon it I would die. I wonder why they stand in line and wonder most of all, why's no test for who bears who, I wonder who decides? Little children born in need, squalid quarters, less to eat, rampant pain, addicted seed, no love at all to see them through, only tears to wash their feet, see them fed, taught beliefs.. No wonder why the world cries out, those that wonder, those that see, it's plain to me, the knowledge and the love we have it must be shared, it must be freed. I think I've found the perfect way, beneath a poem tree. Give a word, a book of knowledge this the thing that must be shared then we'll see the children freed. Growing children, knowing children, this the thing we need, kids who'll say, "Not to you, it happened to me, I saw it once, but not again, to see such filth repeat itself, there is no greater sin." Yes, I think the future's in the little children now, let's plant a forest of poem trees, and try to help them out.   Ron Purtlebaugh               Little Rain   Have you noticed the little rain, the soft one, not the kind that stings, the tiny drops upon your face,  your arms when bare,  the tiniest hair, only enough to know they're there,  drying so quickly as if they weren't?   I wonder if it's little rain for tiny poem trees, for gnats and noseeums,  small little guys, that like to read and dream?   ron purtlebaugh         DEW, ME TOO     Blowing o'er the blades of grass  breezes rustle every page, near my ear an open book lying 'neath my poem tree. Considering this morning come,  as if a cloak, renewed, meanders through the morning dew, breaks to sight and well displayed the dawning sun to light my page and creeping o'er, the finest fog, more the wisp a lowly cloud, forgot to go away. And takes with it for other days, the morning dew,  thinking, wishing, wondering, would that I could be as light  might it take me.   Ron Purtlebaugh        MY TEARS THE SEA   Rainy gray the cloudy skies fell beneath my eyes hardly could I even tell the place they hit the sand where the raindrops started, or my falling tears began. As one they ran into the sea, mingling there and leaving me alone upon the rocky shore to see the tide, my tears the sea.   What of all of those before, standing crying on the shore all alone just like me, the ocean washed away their pain it took away the tears they cried into the tide, just like me. Husbands, wives, who lost their sweethearts, sisters losing brothers, and the Mothers gave their sons into the wars, the whores who walk the streets and shores, somewhere, somehow  lost their plan, never knew a man like me, but still our tears   together now, wash the sand, hand in hand filling all the oceans wide, with our tears the sea.   And what of all the little children, 'thout a Mother or a Father 'cept the one we have above, to wipe away the tears, from the fears of being here, in this place all alone, their tears like mine, and the sisters and the brothers and the whores and the Fathers and the Mothers, fall like rain, into the tide then they're washed back home again, hand in hand with mine.   How I pray it gives them strength, helping them along. Hoping they will find a story, or a poem, or a song, just like me, perhaps beneath a poem tree, grown from tears, born, baptized, by the cleansing of the waters, just like me, awash their pain into the sea, into the sea my tears.   Ron Purtlebaugh         A Book, The World On A Leaf   Hop aboard and take a ride upon this falling leaf, it's big enough for you and me, because you see this special leaf is from the poem tree.   So grab a stem or hold to me, we've just begun, the world to see, for once you hold you won't let go, this lifetime ride is free.   See the East, the Orient, enchanted ruins of Italy, upon the Great Wall you and I shall have our ginseng tea.  The bulls and Matadors of Spain, smell the French perfumes, the Himalayas and the Urals, in India, the looms.   The Rockies, Caucasus and Alps, in Pakistan, the brass, in Central America, Panama, where ships can freely pass. In Holland, windmills, wooden shoes, Berlin's fallen wall,  the panda bears in Peking's zoo, finest of them all. Atop the worlds Tibetian roof, Australia's own Great Coral Reef, Seattle's needle standing tall, Venice with her water streets.   Hold on tight, this flying leaf may seem a  book of dreams, But dreams come true so read, read, read, and let your mind go free.   Ron Purtlebaugh        Lokay Quam-lo's Warrior Mind   To the north of snow cap mountain, where the juniper berry grows, stands the lodge near Bended River, Falling Flower's brother's home.   Soon to be a hunter, warrior like his father's, father was. known to friends as Lokay, only proud and brave, the young Quam-lo.   Quick of wit and tender hearted, third in line, his father's sons, not the swiftest brave young warrior, follows on the deer trail run.   Quiet though, and keen at tracking hand made knife from leather hangs, claws of Shardik, 'round his shoulders, killed young she bear, fed the clan. Well, and always, he'll remember warmed his family where they sat and the meat had warmed his belly, from the she bear's burning fat. And the smile of Falling Flower, through the long and wintry squalls, knowing she was full and happy, safely in her bear skin wrap. Through the summer hours sitting, reading 'neath his shady beech, from the pages and the papers, glued with sap of unknown trees. Found with treasures on a sandbar, that the trapper left behind, traced the letters with his fingers, down the strange and blackened lines. These, the things he taught his sister, taught himself the white man's signs and in reading, understanding, all about the white man's life. These the same men that had stolen Lokay Quam-lo's way of life, these the same men burned his village, stole his pony late one night. Daily reading to his sister, telling her the white man's lines, Lokay Quam-lo learned to know them, understand their way of life Tried to answer all her questions, tried to answer all her whys, as the summer turned to autumn, yellow leaves and darkened skies. Now the days were ever shorter and the time each day to read, but the hours were sufficient, there had been enough indeed. For the flame in Lokay's thinking in his sister, plant a seed. Lokay's love for thinking, reading  understanding, 'neath his tree. Came to be the most important Falling Flower's loving need, man of white, or brown or yellow, men of every color, creed, Her ambitions soared the zenith, Lokay truly set her free, all of this from brother's thinking, his forgiveness, she could see, from a book, a few glued pages and the shade of poem trees.   Ron Purtlebaugh       Trash: On Keeping The Poem Tree Area Clean Or Garbage In: Garbage Out   My lines are straight and that's a trait I came not to defend insist I must, in this your trust if needs be, I shall bend (to a point, that might offend) poetic license prerogative (by which I live and breathe) if you find my words drop through it might be wise to take a step back check and inspect the holes in your sieve there's nothing as vain and prone to disdain as a brain that's plain with genius it's claim when it's net, is a hole sans strainer or seine but I do concede without any strain what an ear catches it sends to the brain in a cow or a man that's fairly plain in sight and smell and everything knowledge found should be knowledge gained. If one little thing keeps bumpin' your brain overandoverandoveragain you've made up your mind to hit re-send but it won't go away and it won't go in hit waste or recycle or burn it or eat it or pick it right up and head for the trash and put it right in with your very own hands! Trash is trash whether trash for the brain or wind blown wrappers from a hamburger stand the littering laws must be maintained.   Ron Purtlebaugh     Root Words   In the roots of poem trees, Gnomes and elves have set up shelves Of books and works of every sort They share and read amongst themselves From Hemingway to Mr. Cort. Shakespeare has his very own, With full blown sets of Poe and Donne And Robert Frost has found a home Near Johnson, sits his lexicon. With medievel tales of war, Like Ivanhoe, the table round, Where I can go and read and dream As someone else, or just be me. I climb into a knothole dark, And light the sparks of fantasy, Travel back to Gulliver's time, Or sail upon the Poet's rhyme. Perhaps, you'll come and read with me,  And see the sights I read to see, Come climb into the roots of words, And share with me, the poem tree.   Ron Purtlebaugh     My Poem Tree, David