Archive For: Poetry


The Grove

A Poem by Rick Chiantaretto

The Grove - Tree

I will tell you the story of a sequoia tree,
whose roots do not grow so deep;
It isn’t the fault of the tree, now see,
the roots just don’t downwardly seep.
And so it is that these mighty trees,
with their roots so insignifi’ntly low
Would tumble o’er like a tumble weed would,
if their roots didn’t in’twiningly grow.
So in groves these monstrous trees they do grow,
and as simple as it may seem;
The grove remains firm, though the wind fiercely blows:
tossing waves on a stormy sea.
And so am I, in life all alone,
like a giant sequoia tree;
On a hill at a point of vantage I am,
for all around me I see, and am seen.
Then it grows, it twists and it turns,
and the grove reaches out to me;
Wanting to twine its roots with mine,
so it adds to the strength of the trees.
But me, as I am, I retract my roots,
not for pride or for fear you see:
I’m on a hill, far away from the grove,
how could they possib’ly need me?
And so on my hill, on my vantage point,
I stay as one ‘lone, solo tree.
Being the watchman, there in that place,
I warn where the storms may be.
And many a storm goes a rollin’ by
that threaten and shake the grove.
But me on my hill sit above the threat
and can watch the grove brave it alone.
Then one day a storm comes in…
much more fierce than the rest.
I’m on a hill, far away from the grove –
and feel so solemnly blessed.
The wind, it blows, it twists and it groans,
as the grove struggles for life.
I warned them so, yet still they cry,
“Help us out with our strife!”
“We need your roots, your talents and gifts,
your vantage point there on the hill.
“Help us now, though our branches quake,
with your strength they will be still.”

I answer:

“I’m just a tree, with roots so low,
you’ve always done well on your own.
“My talents are weak, not like any of yours,
I’d rather be left here alone.”
I’ll freely admit, I didn’t understand,
for it wasn’t me who needed the trees –
But the grove, ah, the grove it was
that needed the strength of me.
And now it’s too late, the storm went by,
tossing the grove like the waves on the sea.
I still remember the rips and the tears,
of a grove that had not strength to be.
Oh, I on my hill on my vantage point
stand up tall ‘till I see the sea!
Not beaten or torn, nor frazzled or worn
proud to be a lone sequoia tree!
And I remember the day that He came
the Lord of the vineyard; see –
I… I withstood, all alone, by myself
this solo sequoia tree!
“My friend,” he said, “You missed the point
I set you in view of the coast,
“Not to weather the storm, to survive on your own,
but to help those who needed it most!”
And with a quiet look that saddened his face,
He blew a kiss toward me –
Just like a lover would blow to the one
they would probably ne’er again see.
This kiss, though firm, but suave, as it were
just rustled my leaves a bit –
Suddenly upwards came out my roots,
over and over I flipped.
And that is how this grand ‘ole tree
who never weathered a storm
Lost my life, my vantage point,
for I just wanted to be left alone.

I will tell you the story of a sequoia tree,
whose roots do not grow so deep;
It isn’t the fault of the tree, now see,
the roots just don’t downwardly seep.
And so it is that this mighty tree
with roots so insignifi’ntly low
Tumbled over like a tumble weed would…
…for its roots didn’t in’twiningly grow.



A Poem by Rick Chiantaretto

An enchanted night it doesn’t take
For rapture to bewitch your mind with serenity
As you watch mystical creatures from heaven dance
Spell-bound by the silvery strands of moonlight
Haunting the waters of a still lake.

Perhaps it is not such tragedy that, to see,
You must watch from beneath.



A Cinquain by Rick Chiantaretto

Night. . . when
The crawly things
Come out to play upon your
Sleeping leg. And evil comes in
The night.