Willow Tree Poems | Examples
These Willow Tree poems are examples of Tree poems about Willow. These are the best examples of Tree Willow poems written by international poets.
weeping willow trees
long limbs lashing and slashing
in the winds of spring
What gave me away?
Was it my sway?
Or my long limber limbs
Like glasses with broken rims?
Oh sure, wind has its way with me,
But broken or uprooted, I’ll never be.
Neither short, not tall, could be my description.
My strength and elasticity, a better depiction.
Cry me a river is your first hint,
And for a second; I’m easily bent.
Not a flower, or a bush, but green if you please.
In a botanical listing, I’m found under trees.
What I am, I will proudly bellow.
I’m known to most as a weeping willow.
willows gnarled limbs
curving in out and above
furniture ready
She stood beneath the spreading tree
and looked out far, across the sea
with wide eyes wonder , to the sky,
and softly wished to ask him why
her love that had to go so far,
across the waters, to a War
but just returned , was dancing rain,
that seemed to cry and say his name
and look, a Willow tree that sheltered her,
was like a sigh, against the sky
had branches like a comfort cloak,
but tempest shadows , returned like smoke
she wont forget their walks of green,
bare foot on days, in summers , seen
a sky of blue, like butterflies,
on Willow Tree, it rested high
Forget me knots and cornflowers blue,
a scene of wheatfields , its harvests new
he made a garland & held her hand
and gently left, for foreign lands
so she looked again across the sea
beneath the blue,
Blue Willow Tree.
We went for a walk, one windy day,
through the woods, and along the way,
she said to me, "If you please,
let's sit a while, it would make me smile,
beneath these shady willow trees."
Yet, as just then, a gale-like gust blew by,
in apprehension, I asked her, "Why?"
And with a flirt, a lift of skirt,
the lady promptly did reply,
"On my first date, not to prevaricate
or equivocate, I don't osculate.
It's not the wind beneath my wings,
or a draught up the shaft I love,
but the breeze between my knees."
Ill|||||
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willow bends
as jays flit on tree's branch...
clinging to old age. *
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[Lll \\
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Old weeping willow why do you cry
Your beauty is green leaves not blue
Your roots a pillow from which to thrive
As Mother Nature’s sun smiles on you
Many a kid has used your brown branches
To climb you or swing in your shadowy shade
Many a poet you inspire romantic antics
Carving heart in your bark or writing on page
Your children near and far mirror you
And some have been lumbered sadly
Furniture and houses made as proof
You must miss them being near badly
Do you weep due to lost dreams
Or is it the loss of your forest green
Is it because man pollutes the stream
Or you find no peace as we keep warring
I’d like to apologize for our ignorant ways
For changing your forest for selfish reasons
I hear your song in the wind each day
I cherish you at each every emerald season
So you stand on brown holy ground
It’s holy because you peach persevere
May you live forever in our town
As a preserved prize that thrives here
her favorite tree
no longer blooms in spring~
still the willow weeps
As you walk down the dirt path, past the tall green trees,
I hope you remember who you are when you reach the willow tree.
You will inevitably get lost, confused in the woods,
struggling to find your way to the willow.
When the light dims, the whoos and coos of owls
and other nameless creatures will hymn in your ear,
distracting you from the overcompensation of your own voice
a light whisper of overthinking,
a gentle pluck of uncertainty.
The journey is long and weary,
more mournful for the woods you walk
than eager for the destination ahead.
With fleet, you fall,
but with glory, you rise
again and again
proving you know what you want.
Unsure of what lies at your destination,
you remain purely hopeful,
your mind already hanging by the tips
of the lanceolate leaves.
The sun fades to moonlight,
and you stand in the quiet presence
of a single thought
a dream that lingered
through the walking and the withering.
Thankful for sight,
eager never to turn your back to the wilderness,
for you have reached
nature.
on a sizzling august afternoon
the glitter on the water scintillates
tapdancing on a hot griddle
till a cool breeze reaches the shore
and loosely sways the braids
of an old weeping willow
as if to a sweet nostalgic rhythm
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Submitted on June 11, 2025 for contest YOUR CHOICE X sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
Every rotation on your turn-table eye,
Or every buzz that the radio hums:
"Ah, I see, music sings through you.
So no, I know,
I won't be okay."
The green of the frail willow tree I spy,
Or every flash of a sunbeam on the stroll:
"Ah, I see, colours shine through you.
So no, I know,
I won't be okay."
Every frequent meal in this colourless place,
Or a willing treat if I'm likely to steal:
"Ah, I see, sweetness comes with you.
So no, I know,
I won't be okay."
Every second I spend counting hours away
Or hours I spend counting days:
"Ah, I see, my time should be with you.
So no, I know,
I can't see you though.
No, I know,
I won't be okay."
Mankind in all his stupidity and greed is slowly destroying our beautiful earth, the warnings are there but he chooses to ignore them.
Quote by poet.
I sat down under the cool shade of some weeping willow trees,
a babbling brook flowed nearby and was so soothing to hear.
I felt totally relaxed then I fell asleep and started to dream.
So, I asked the trees a question why is it that you all weep?
one said" We weep because of the way man treats mother earth,
he cuts down her forests because of greed causing climate change,
he dumps rubbish in her great oceans and is killing all her wildlife,
and causes great conflicts because others don't share his views.
So, you see my friend we don't have much to be happy about".
A plane flying overhead finally woke me up from my deep sleep.
It troubled me what I'd dreamt and as I walked away, I wept with them.
"The faces of pretty flowers will brighten anyone's day." By Poet
Today I took a walk down the street,
and found a beautiful flower garden.
I was in awe of the "Jewel" like flowers,
some stretching their heads over the white fence.
The "Gate" was open so I went in,
the bunny heard me "Mutter" heavenly place.
A weeping willow caught the sun in a "Shadow."
Oak, Willow, Maple, Birch.
Would this wood aid me in my search.
I could not see the wood from the trees.
I’d try so hard, but could not please.
Every year we grow a new ring.
The old man of the wood loses his voice.
Before was his time, I heard him sing.
Back in his youth, when we had that rare thing.
Choice.
On a hill far, far, away there lives a dead willow tree.
And if you visit there’ll be a girl, with long inky hair as deep as the darkest sky.
She wears long rags that are elegant and dances in the sowllow wind.
She comes every day with a beautiful dismay of light, then leaves when the sky turns to the deepest shade of moonlight.
But if you ask for her name she’ll point at a grave, then fade far, far, away as the wind shallowly presses on to a place too far away.