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Best Poems Written by Jeanette Woods

Below are the all-time best Jeanette Woods poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Blueberry Haiku

early summer morn 

blueberry pancakes  served warm

apron stained, with love

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What Lies Beneath

Who am I really?
Lover , sinner , saint?
The outward faces that we show,
are only coats of paint.
Everyone goes about  the expected way,
and plays their little games,
never realizing , that they all spread the pain.
The ones we thought that loved us best,
tell the most vicious lies.
And all the time they hide behind
a mask of perfect smiles.
A world full of glossies , and whitened bright veneers
passing by those they deem less worthy,
and causing them to fear.
Left with wondering what we did,
to make them feel such disdain?
People we once trusted,
now just  turn the other way.
False friends , and broken vessels,
is all there is to say.
Whited sepulchers on the outside,
inside death and decay.

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The Boy Pilot-

Reporters waiting at the blocked off air- strip,
to get photos of the boy wonder at the end of his trip.
Around the world in his hot air balloon,
from Anchorage to Cameroon.
Picking up treasures from every land,
grizzly bear claws, and feathered bands.
The air ship lands while the crowd cheers,
The door opens , and the boy pilot nears.
“Will you make a statement?”, they want to know,
“What have you seen , and where did you go?”
I travelled wherever the wind blew me to,
met people , went places, that I never knew.
So, I have many tales to tell ,
of the wonders I have seen,
many stories to be written,
And I am but fifteen.

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Love In the Time of Winter-

In an icen forest ,
inside a crystal grave,
beneath the ancient snowy trees,
a tiny fairy lays.
In frosted air above her,
brushing wings with glassine leaves,
snowflakes dust the branches,
as all faerie-kind does grieve.
For a summer fae was never meant
in wintertime to bide,
the northern King,thought love would be,
enough to warm his bride.
But the King’s brother did wish her heart to claim,
and when she did not turn,
he poisoned her with holly,
and left her with frost burn.
But justice is not lacking,
for the evil deed was seen,
a sprite was in the window,
but could not save the Queen.
The King’s brother we see frozen,
hung now from diamond thread,
he thought to win the Queen her love,
but now has lost his head.
So now forever sits the King ,
in the winter land of Fae,
to never love another ,
from the land of Summer’s Day.

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Twisted

I wonder if you see me ,
if you really care,
If I’ve become some spirit ,
just passing through you there.
A will’o'wisp with no real form,
to tie me to your sphere,
I am just a haint to you ,
with naught to hold me here.
We used to be lovers bold,
and cared naught who saw,
held tight with bands of brightened gold,
without a taint or flaw.
But you have found another,
who’s caught your soul from thee,
torn it like a paper mask,
worn on Hallow’s eve.
So tis not I , the haint,
but you my dear,
and you don’t realize,
the spider caught you in her web ,
and drained you with her lies.

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Jonquil Bulbs

Just
Over the
Next hill
Quietly resting
Underneath the
Icy ground
Lay the jonquils.

Bulbs 
Unscathed by
Long winter days
Bearing the promise of 
Spring.

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The River

A quiet foggy morning. The river lies low.
A lone fly -fisherman is hoping to catch a trout.
Ripples and waves,
trickle and play.
The trees stoop over the water.
Reaching for their drink for the dawn.
Shhhhhhh.
A squirrel.
Nibbling the hickory nut away from its branch.
Snap.
Crunch.
Appetizer on a limb.
It’s breakfast ,
wilderness style.

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The Visitor-

The town lay dark and sleeping,
people safe ,in beds were keeping.
Only I , restless , hounded.
walked down the street,
heart pounded.
What called me from my nightly slumber?
Something lonely, a despairing hunger.
Through the gate , a soldier stumbles,
in the distance , cannon rumbles.
Suddenly , in my arms he falls,
“1863? he said,” do you see the musket balls?”
His blood soaks through a letter,
he pushes in my hands.
“Give this to my Jeanette,
make sure she understands!”
With one last cold and wintry breath,
Like fog he disappears,
I’m bewildered , frightened,
for he didn’t know the year.
It’s 2013 now, and Jeanette is now long gone,
I keep the blood stained letter ,
in my mind the cannon echoes on.

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Signature-

White shoulders
with hair pinned up.
A velvet dress,
shows just enough.
Sweet sixteen,
a first date gift,
of bottled perfume,
the fragrant mist.
Of White Shoulders.

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Night Thoughts-

I ‘ve had the strange sensation,
thoughts swirling in my head,
Like “Where do fireflies go at dawn?”,
“Where do they go to bed?”

“What do owls dream about,”
,”while sleeping in their tree?”
“Do they dream about their night- flights,
“, and where the mice might be?”

“What fancies do the small bats see, “
“what memories do they keep?”
“I’d like to listen to their thoughts,”
“when they are fast asleep. “

Where might we all travel?
Which places would we be?
If we could know the night -one’s thoughts,
while dreaming in the tree.