Best Brushwood Poems
For a record,
A best friend covers your past from floating to the present life!
Though we also have,
Next-door friends!
Worldview friends!
Cross-culture friends!
Financial friends!
Devotion friends!
Close friends!
Friends with benefits!
Mentor friends!
Don’t quote me wrong but,
Girlfriends and boyfriends are like florets,
They bloom, fly, fall and dry.
While your friends will be crafting more brush-woods,
Each brushwood with abound leaves.
Friends are as mightier as a pen.
A clement friend will collate all the early worms for his/her friend!
A horizon friend will always transcribe and send missives.
A barnstorming friend can be amiable,
A friend’s cuddle and trust is glory!
True friends wipe off the tears trailing through your cheek
Friendship is a heart of trust.
Friends are like trees,
Trees grow and craft other brush-woods!
Friends are synonymous to trees.
All Rights Reserved
T.m.T scripts
> What can I say that is good.
About jumping horses over high brush wood.
Wish I could think of something nice.
Sorry can't if I had all night.
Horses were transport in days of old.
Many perished in two World Wars be told.
I worked with them for a while.
Was in the RAVC
In days of, not so old, horses of the military.
Stood far taller did than me.
So do those Grand National Jumps,
Their sight gives me the hump.
Horses running, I'm OK with that.
Even with a jockey on sat.
But over Grand National jumps of Brushwood high.
I would never ask a horse to do that, in case it dies.
You see I think that is so cruel.
Using as horse as a tool.
Just to win a cup and cash.
When all horse might get.
Is all a bowl of lukewarm bran mash,
Of course to the horse , no use is cash.
As across the water it might dash.
Not the bran, but the cash.
As overseas it will pay no tax.
Now I've aid that perhaps I can relax.
Unlike those horses who over those jumps did dash.
Sweating, frothing at their mouth, trying to spit that metal; bit out.
gasping for breath , what's that all about?
Horses are like the Badger and Fox.
Got four legs, but no human voice box.
So they cannot protest to you.
That's something some of us humans do.
Those who try to protect our animals, do you?
Taken from Poems. Some happy, some sad, some to make you glad Book 9 Books: www.feedaread.com?>aff=6463<
Sunset sky was like a fiery red flame
Swarms in artfulness swirls and whorls and drawn
Glorious heavenly feelings breeze came
Narrow wake trailing off with morning dawn.
Swarms in artfulness swirls and whorls and drawn
Wistful caress entrails tangled brushwood
Narrow wake trailing off with morning dawn.
A crimson rose bud in safe caress stood
Wistful caress entrails tangled brushwood
Glorious heavenly feelings breeze came
A crimson rose bud in safe caress stood
Sunset sky was like a fiery red flame
1/27/2021
Touch would a finger to the elegant and smooth cheek
That shines from tears as apple leaves after rain
You weep with happiness, me and yourself do not sparing,
All trying to understand the mystery of the lines on the left hand ...
Let me go through the forest of your hair
Lips, like a pair of black shoes
Order to enjoy crunch of brushwood of hair braids
And chocolate, spicy, as Savoy Truffle ...
Inhaling aroma lipstick
And plunging into pond of eyes,
I hear as rattle waterfalls
Those tart tears, so that brings us together ...
Bullet would make my eyes shot to their mouths,
Tongue-climber to conquer the top of dental ridge
Peninsula of tongue spread a carpet near a smooth gums
Fiery lava pours as rum, stalactites stringy saliva.
... You fell asleep, "Love" whispering sweet wind
The clouds suddenly vanished from the sky soul
And sweet to me in your arms this night leaving summer,
After falling in love with you, I fell in love and in life, and I can not be in a hurry.
P.S.one of my favorite works
please help fix any errors in it, I'm sure a lot of them(in the grammatical, lexical, spelling sense)
embellishing draft--
a stirring purple brushwood
old chestnut falls back
10.31.16
Smoke
Swirling, opaque puffs
Aimlessly adrift,
Float the predawn zephyrs.
Unsettled, this brushwood vagabond,
Looking slightly disoriented
As it seeks it's place to belong,
Or is expected to go.
It's existence, only,
Until disappearance.
I must build a shelter, to fight off the cold.
A rugged fortress lest poachers return –
My bloody blazer, now, filthy fivefold!
I am shivering cold; fire won’t burn.
I stealthily creep seeking higher ground.
With every fear a worn mind can churn,
I crawl beneath some trees; more wood is found.
Two bundles, brushwood: birch twigs, logs, to burn.
I build a warm blaze upon the bare earth.
Then, cook up some vittles: vermin and fern.
While feeding my hunger, I loosen my girth.
Then, see a mineshaft; my hope starts to yearn.
Distantly hidden, completely unmanned.
Through the north woods I come, my bow in hand.
Some Tales of the Wildwoods
Oke Iroegbu
Once upon a Time
It was winter
And a night of bitter cold
The snow lay thick upon the ground
And upon the branches of the trees
Two Woodcutters made their way home
And when they came to the Mountain
She was hanging motionless in the air
For the Ice King had kissed her
So cold was it that evening
That the animals and birds
Knew not what to make of it
‘Ugh!’ snarled the Wolf
As he limped through the brushwood
With his tail between his legs
‘This is perfectly monstrous weather!
Why doesn’t the Government look to it?’
‘Weet, weet, weet! Twittered the crickets
‘The old Earth is dead
And she is laid out in her white shroud’
‘The Earth is going to be married
And this is her bridal dress’
The Turtle doves whispered
Their little pink feet were quite frost bitten
But they felt it was their duty
To say something romantic about the
situation
‘Nonsense’ the Wolf growled
‘I tell you it is all the fault
Of the Government
And if you don’t believe me
I shall eat you’
The wolf had a thoroughly practical mind
‘Well for my own part’
Said the philosophical Woodpecker
I don’t care an atomic theory for explanations
If a thing is so, it is so
And at present it is terribly cold’
I see the evergreen live oaks in my backyard as old wise souls
Cosmic storehouses of wisdom, integrity and strength from the source
They stand tall soaring up high with their expansive curved brushwood
Spreading it in various directions to meet up with nearby oaks in the neighborhood
Beautiful shaded canopies they form bringing their shiny green foliage closer together
Make numerous cool, unruffled spots in the backyard to hang-out in burning summer weather
I respect their grandfatherly presence whenever I see them,
Admire their might and ability to provide generously to various animal domains
My green autumn, you goaded me to write.
I love the way you sparkle, shake, and hurl.
Conquering my mind day and by the night,
Always musing about the shorn kiss curl.
Let me approach you with a square crowbar.
You are more snowy, magnetic, and bright.
Light storms whisk the twiglets of October.
And autumntime has a quiescent sight.
How do I love you? Let me deem the ways.
I love your brickle birds, kindling, and leaves.
Thinking of your fine brushwood fills my days.
My zeal for you is that upbeat reeves.
Now I must away with a frozen heart.
Memorize my posh terms whilst we're apart.
Written: October 17, 2022
All Hallows' Evening Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
October’s Pretence.
Rain, nature is greening, but it’s a false spring; December will
pale the land into submission. Do not write poetry till February,
when almond trees blossom and strew petals about in protest
thinking winter takes the season of its sinister drama too far.
Last winter snow fell, a wonder land; people said they had not
seen snow for forty seven years. The stream is xanthous I think
of China’s main river where dolphins, not seen for years, swim
in cloudy water. What can’t be seen cannot be caught by man.
Dawn, on the track a boar, sniffed the air and grunted; a hairy,
pig in need of a pair of glasses. I moved and it disappeared into
the brushwood. On nature walks I used to take a camera, but
wild animals hate having their photo taken and avoided my
intrusive lens I was left with taking photos of trees, weeds and
evergreen bushes. My lazy dreaminess has paid off I have had
a good life no one ever expected anything glorious of me, and
left me in peace. If you look for me I will be on a bus trying to
find the fabulous castle; I once saw when I could see the future.
October’s Pretence.
Rain, nature is greening, but it’s a false spring; December will
pale the land into submission. Do not write poetry till February,
when almond trees blossom and strew petals about in protest
thinking winter takes the season of its sinister drama too far.
Last winter snow fell, a wonder land; people said they had not
seen snow for forty seven years. The stream is xanthous I think
of China’s main river where dolphins, not seen for years, swim
in cloudy water. What can’t be seen cannot be caught by man.
Dawn, on the track a boar, sniffed the air and grunted; a hairy,
pig in need of a pair of glasses. I moved and it disappeared into
the brushwood. On nature walks I used to take a camera, but
wild animals hate having their photo taken and avoided my
intrusive lens I was left with taking photos of trees, weeds and
evergreen bushes. My lazy dreaminess has paid off I have had
a good life no one ever expected anything glorious of me, and
left me in peace. If you look for me I will be on a bus trying to
find the fabulous castle; I once saw when I could see the future.
Below cool cotton rippled sky pale
Barren limbs hang so helpless in the mild gale
Sunlight dances before it sleeps
Early winter’s calling for all to keep
Afternoon’s beams strike the trees
They look like icicles twinkling in the breeze
Mute brown colors surrounds the landscape
Parched and dry soil twists up in a tunnel shape
All that was full of life has now passed
Tarnished and waiting for snow to blanket and contrast
Pieces of debris waving in the brushwood
As the first flakes fall on all where it stood
And shall be graced with beauty in time
With the pings of mother natures frozen white chime
Out of summer dawn breaks the hungry song,
of wide-mouthed swallows; mothers soar along.
Fly with hapless moths in tow, swift make haste
to brushwood nests, which stretch so wide, so long.
Nearer to me still, nearer to this shore
on black misty pond, silent dance this corp;
this sum of insects-quick their dizzy dance-
in rhythm though, as if they dance a score.
The grey mist drifts, it lifts and gently sways
to the darkened tree-line brief there it stays.
Glances past the leaves damp with morning dew,
hastened by the breeze carried past my gaze.
Glorious morning theatre aura spell
cast upon the pond-cast upon the dell.
Opus then painting-painting to a tale,
nature’s soul splendor, of this I do tell.
(click the pic for a preview of my upcoming book!)