A Poetry Collection by Chris Lopez Henriquez

Theme Song
The Hanging Tree
by James Newton Howard

Are you, are you? 
Coming to this tree, 
where they’d strung up a man, 
they say who murdered three. 
Strange things did happen here, 
No stranger would it be. 
If we met, at midnight, in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you? 
Coming to the tree. 
Where the dead man called out, 
for his love to flee. 
Strange things did happen here no stranger would it be. 
If we met, at midnight, in the hanging tree.

Are you, are you, coming to the tree. 
Where I told you to run, so we’d both be free. 
Strange things did happen here no stranger would it be, 
if we met, at midnight, in the hanging tree. 

Are you, are you. 
Coming to the tree, wear a necklace of hope, 
side by side with me. 
Strange things did happen here, 
No stranger would it be. 
If we met, at midnight, in the hanging tree.

There, By The Beech Tree

He remained at the heart of the tree. 
The seed, bruised way in the deep!
Pink-Orange laid out in still waves, 
Dim light shined through the air, 
through the orange leaves, 
and onto the ground of this beech tree--
Where people went missing.
It illuminated the ground, 
exposing a dazzling watch. 

She walks towards him with a smirk on her face, 
Dark as it is revealing. 
But oh, she tripped!
His silky-white pants revealed 
by the sudden gush of wind, 
Where the acrid aroma lingered 
through the air. 
She began to shiver, on this cold day, 
for her plan was partly failing. 
Believing she was alone, she took off his watch.
Kissed him on his forehead.  
Sinking her fingers on this fertile ground, 
she began to cover-up her mistakes. 
Burying him deeper than before. 

A swish in the far distance, 
like that of a dangerous warning, 
caused her to perceive undesirable outcomes.
Rivulets of sweat danced down her cheek, 
like that of a water drop on a leaf. 
Frightening as it was, she had to go. 
She steps on a ram and it snaps, 
She looked around frantically 
to make sure no one saw. 
And in disbelief, she followed.

The body lay there under the leaves and soil. 
Where the roots of the plants, our roots, 
like that of beliefs, 
Lied deep within, sinking as mother nature 
consumed its body, 
Into nothingness. 
Mother nature witnessed it. 

Little did she know, every forest has its guardians. 
But they stay quiet. 
The Owl stayed quiet.

Hoo, Hoo!

The Owl knew and was aware where she hid the body
Fearful as it comes, it watches the angle worms, 
it watches the raw truth of humanity, 
He witnesses it. 
Was it brilliance?

From the convenient Grass, up above
Rock salt is as light as a feather
If to glance above the sea, you’d see the horizon
Nothing but despair laid within.
Laying among the trees, 
the willows swayed in the air.
 The honey locust slowly dying, 
There it stood.  
The oaks and the pines had blood-like color
Was there ever a signal he missed?
What is it telling him? What did he know?

The corridor of the woods didn’t lead it anywhere
Why was she running? 
The beech tree was different from all the other ones
What did it hide? 
What did it know?

The body, its blood. 
It blended with the red-orange leaves.
It was part of nature, death that is.
It is our common ground.
Their common ground.

The owl flew by way of the wind,
Standing on a ram, it watched her closely. 
He never left his side, 
He witnessed the body taken away by the earth, 
No one dared look for it, under this tree. 
Where People went missing. 
This coarse image was one of many. 
But there it was, the only evidence 
Linking her to the body. 
The watch she took away.

This Owl saw it happen,
And he kept it a secret, for he couldn’t speak. 
The stab marks. The blood. 
Days passed and
Rivulets of cold rain, as shallow as the dark, 
fell upon the ground. 
It cleaned the body, it cleaned the leaves. 
It cleaned the ground, it cleaned the crumbs. 
Did mother nature plan this? Did she know? 
He knew and stayed quiet.
But nobody knew. Nobody noticed him.

The Owl is the thing with piercing presence, 
Where its darkness is a cloak, 
Where its eyes are a door to many secrets. 
The Owl took part in crimes, 
Without getting its feathers dirty, however, 
He was the true master. 

Years passed, 
But this time she came back with another guy. 
Dressed with the same clothes. 
Darkness had taken over her pale skin.

“Hoo, Hoo!”

She layed among the leaves, side-by-side. 
Her blank stare, glazed eyes, 
Planning her next attack. 
Her brunette hair, typical to any girl. 
No one would suspect her. No one. But the Owl. 
Has he spoken, but have we simply not understood?
Has the Owl tried to warn him, but he didn’t listen?

The Wind, The Snow, and The Hail

The wind sings, over the silver lining, during the storm.
Father had warned him to be home before dark, since
The dangers wander around at night. 
His sneakers, filled with snow, worn-out and old.
The gush of winds were against him that night. 
They established property,
They established ground.
Three things his father would say lingered on his mind:
“Tuck down. Blend with the snow. Don’t follow the path.”
He wasn’t wearing white that day, and
The path was the quickest way to get home.

The snow screams hard on the trees tonight. 
His feet against the current,
His body against its will.
Not a footprint to be seen. 
The wind blows, the snow burns. 
This cold, this madness. 
Not a distance to be seen. 
Had he known better, would he have done it again? 

The hail moves with the wind’s flow.
He raised his gaze to the horizon, and
There stood a stranger. 
Not a house to be seen. 
This fire running through his being
Burning, he wasn’t used to seeing him.
His arms are searching for him
His arms are outstretched towards him. 
He feels him on his fingertips, 
Oh, his tongue dances behind his lips!
For him.

He was the stranger those warnings prepared you for. 
Blurry vision, blurry sky. 
Dark at night, and so he was. 
The stranger watched him struggle,
From his sleeve, a jagged end-point emerges. 
Oh, there was a fast spark like that of a star. 

His feet sunk as he walked towards the stranger, 
But this time there was something different in him. 
He directed his vision towards his hands, 
His eyes widened. 
Attempting to escape from him, foot after foot, 
 a big rock of hail hits him from the sky. 
Was mother nature planning all along?
Why is she helping him?
Rivulets of blood were painted across the snow 
like that of a snow cone. 
He dragged himself away from the stranger. 

“If ever in danger, whistle our pattern,” 
Malcolm’s father once said. 
And so he whistled. 
He whistled. 
The wind whistled. 
No response. 
The wind witnessed the chaos. 
He whistled again. 
This time, his dying whistle screamed through the air
Lights in the distance appeared. 
They shined through the darkness. 
But it was his last whistle. 

And just like that, mother nature covered up the body. 
Was she an accomplice? 
No one knew. 

“Malcolm!”
But he gave no response. No. Response.