Best Oaken Poems
Stay - One more golden morning –
Linger - One more silver night –
Abide tiny child born of my desire
To encourage a new life;
Watch with me the amber moon
Peek through moonbeams rising up so large
We could touch it's creamsicle face -
Sleep caressed within the shelter of soft umber leaves,
Preparing for their final journey,
To sing a last duet with you,
This last autumnal aria, no more with choruses, just two thin voices
To a harp song strummed through my oaken limbs;
Now see the changing cloud ships
Gather - carrying cargoes full of rain -
To scuttle ‘cross the sunrise
When breezes turn from summer zephyrs
To blustery torrents, tinted with icy dew;
As you sail away, soaring on their roller coaster wings,
I leave a kiss upon your face in sunlight that taught your heart to beat –
Watching with a blessing on my lips -
My empty arms still remembering your round, smooth face -
As you ride the vagabond winds
Following their air-born trails to find your place
Where you nestle deep within a warm and richly decorated nursery –
A birthing place –
For when you labor I stand a silent sentinel alongside ancient family,
A vigil as the silent snows blanket your dreams of mighty forest oak -
To wake in seasonal celebration
When, re-formed, your first leaves appear;
No farewell now only adieu, my little one, until we meet again.
It has stood for decades along the county gravel road.
Skittering mice and barn owls now call it their abode.
What was once a stately building is now a shambles,
Surrounded by barren fields and prickly brambles.
Where once its weather-boarding was a bright cherry-red,
Due to the ravages of time, they're now a silvered-gray instead.
Yet can be seen a faded Mail Pouch Tobacco sign on its weathered side,
And a rusty weather-vane twisting in the wind, though a bit cockeyed!
Seasons of howling gales have striven to raze its sturdy oaken beams,
But they've held the old barn together though straining at its seams.
Its cavernous lofts once abounded with fragrant alfalfa hay,
That provided children a playground on many a rainy day.
It sheltered horses, sheep and cattle on frigid winter nights,
And for lack of electricity, it was lit by flickering lantern lights.
It was built when neighbors helped neighbors who were skilled,
At wielding hammer and saw and cherished great pride in their guild.
(The old barn of which I speak still stands on Indiana's Farmers' Pike,
Where I spent many happy times as an unassuming Hoosier tyke!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Was Selected as Poem Of The Day by Soup 26 July 2016
In Ordinary Cups
The blades of winter grind into the ice
like blood on a bitten lip
two lovers spin and twirl
The days pass from teacup to teacup
in the peaceful silence of a solitary nest.
From gentle easy sunrise through sheer white
to the subtle fall of accordion night.
The echoes of childish laughter tremble
across the cracked surface of plaster walls.
Random squeaks in oaken floors return
the footfall of father, coming and going.
Long lost cat's paw prints impress carpet
dragons from Shanghai with ghostly ease,
and every loved and loving one returns
in peace, to rest beneath the tapping fingertips
upon a porcelain cup of tea from China.
11/9/10
Re-formed for Roy the Verse BELOW
The Teetotaler
The blades of winter grind into the ice, flirting
with the rosy cheek of puppy love, snow-crusted mittens
cling, like chapped skin on bitten lips; scarfs twirl; they spin.
As steam rises from the cup, reminisce, the first kiss,
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping
with the rosy cheek of puppy love; snow crusted mittens
cling. Black hair, fair skin, Irish-eyed, he cajoles a grin.
In the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him
across swamp-grass hummocks, rotten ice, lace tripping;
they spin. Assam seeps in porcelain, another cup
she pours. In an empty nest the cup clinks saucer,
in the steam, not the leaves, she remembers him.
From sunrise through fall of white, she sees the mist
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
She pours. In an empty nest, the cup clinks saucer.
The recollections of youthful laughter cut, tremble,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls
falling accordion-like into chinks of memory.
Random squeaks in the oaken floors recall returns,
these images mist swirl from the tea-of family,
across the cracked surfaces of her mind's walls.
A long lost cat walks shrouded through silent the scene
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips
these images mist-swirl from the tea-of family,
Every loved and loving one returns mist-born
within a porcelain cup of tea from China;
in peace, they rest beneath her tapping fingertips.
3/21/15
Jim was a lumberjack from Borehamwood
A chainsaw mishap took off his manhood
His Love life was a mess
He now suffers from stress
So he made himself one out of oak wood .
He went to bed one night full of desire
Sue his wife put on her sexy attire
Things got steamy and hot
He gave it all he got
But with the friction his oak thing caught fire .
His poor wife shouted " For crying out loud"
The poor woodcutter no longer stood proud
His once oaken member
Was a glowing ember
A blackened stump he's no longer endowed.
The smoke alarms in the house all went off
Sue and Jim splutterd and started to cough
Fire men broke down the door
Saw Jim's dong on the floor
Couldn't believe Jim had used it to boff.
So every night when they both go to bed
They both read books and watch TV instead
Then he had a great thought
And the next day he bought
A ten inch piece of pipe made out of lead.
In his workshop he worked on it all day
The next night asked Sue "Well what do you say"
She couldnt help laughing
At the size of his thing
She said" You're not coming near me, no way. "
Written on the 9th June 2020
A soft spring breeze blows gently
across the open toes
of my Italian leather sandals.
Sitting on the weathered oaken bench
I can picture you swinging on those wooden slat swings
with your flowing hair pushed back in a ponytail
bouncing up and down off the top of your cashmere sweater
I imagine your little smile as you giggled with your girlfriends
I can still see that little twinkle in your eye as you caught me staring at you
I smiled and my cheeks turned a pinkish red
I remember walking over your way and asking your name
You said it was Spoilt Brat and I couldn't help laugh
We took a walk as all your friends watched
You were so bold, grabbing my hand and starting to run
We ran so fast and then fell helplessly in the grass
You touched my faced and pulled me in
and we kissed, oh such a wonderful kiss
so soft and light. you lit up my night
Such beautiful memories coming back to me
on this sunny spring day.
Fighting mid the strong and bold,
His eye and blade were keen;
Marching like a thund'ring storm
On foes of Faith, his queen.
Now returned in victory
Upon his mighty bay,
Set he off to Langley Tow'r
Her summons to obey.
"John the Squire," the footman called,
And held the oaken door;
Faith, it seemed, had gleaming eyes
Like never once before.
"John! 'tis good to see thee hale,"
The queen exclaimed, and rose:
Tales have sped to Langley's gates
Of many broken bows."
"God has saved me whole and well,
By prayers, I ween, of thee;
Tell me please, my lady Queen
What service I may be."
Saying thus, the squire bowed
And doffed his burnished helm;
Struck in awe by Faith, his love,
The queen of Arthur's realm.
"Gilbert saith," rehearsed the queen,
"That deeds of thee are done
Greater yet than those of Wat
Or even Henry's son."
Tears bedecked her youthful face,
And glistened in the light;
John the Squire, as she had hoped,
Had done her favour right.
"Nay!" the humble squire cried,
"This word is not so true!
How could I, the meanest squire,
Perform the deeds they do?"
"Hush!" It was a firm command;
"I'll hear these lies no more;
Kneel before me, Squire John,
A knight shall leave the door."
Down before the queen he knelt,
He pledged his knighthood true;
Swore her ev'ry small command
With cheerful heart to do.
From his side she drew his sword,
She struck the accolade;
"Thus the greatest knight," she said,
"Is from a squire made."
From her hand the sword did fall,
It clashed upon a stone:
"John, if battle claimed thy life,
How could I be alone?"
"God has prospered all my ways;
My Queen, I praythee, cease!
Soon these wars shall claim our foes,
And Britain be in peace."
Faith remained there by her throne,
With light upon her hair;
Not one maid of Camelot
Was even half so fair.
"God be with thee evermore,"
She bravely said at last;
"Guard and keep thee from the foe
Until the very last."
John the Knight farewell did bid,
And swiftly rode away:
When the wars were hammered out,
He'd be a king in May.
For the Famous Art contest. Inspired by the painting "The Accolade" -1901 by Edmund Blair Leighton.
Heavily broken our love is but a token,
from words left unspoken, you ruin me.
Your vow betoken my soul is now oaken,
as I'm left heartbroken, you don't seem to see.
My world has gone gray with these games that you play,
the price that I pay, as my mind fills with doubt.
You've lead me astray, but I can't stay away.
There's nothing more to say, so please, let me out.
In another life, maybe, you and me
could possibly be, but now the pain's ceaseless.
Just set me free and perhaps you will see,
worlds apart are we, yet, you leave me ...speechless.
08/15/2019
Fading photographs are strewn across alabaster tabletops,
drenched in moonlight streaming through rustling curtains.
Snow owls call out to each other through the whistling wind,
as flakes of snow dust
frostbit grass outside crystallized windows.
A roaring fireplace crackles in the corner,
and I sit back upon an oaken rocking chair,
tracing my fingertips over delicate memories,
transported back to harmonious
days and carefree nights.
Your silhouette appears, drenched
in glorious sunlight.
Summer emerges like
a breath of fresh air,
as luscious ivy crawls up
wrought iron fences,
and onyx roses bloom within the gaps.
Your golden voice calls out to me.
A single teardrop slides down
the warmth of my cheek.
It’s been so many years since
I heard that angelic sound,
smelled the aromatic vanilla
permeating from your silken skin,
and fell into your tender embrace.
My blood swelters under your touch.
I whisper, “I’ve been so lost without you.”
“Can I not stay here with you like this forever?”
You whisper back,
One day, my love, for it’s not your time yet.”
And within the blink of an eye,
an icy chill races up my spine,
snapping me back to harsh reality,
to a world so frigid without you—
forever tracing memories until
I can finally take my final breath.
Ambling thro' the museum today an object caught my eye,
Inviting me to pause and reminisce about a time gone by.
'Twas an old oaken icebox standing there on display.
That ancient relic served as the family refrigerator in its day.
I recollected that we had one like it when I was a tyke,
Growing up on the Hoosier farm on fabled Farmer's Pike.
It cooled the milk and cream and butter that Mom made,
To spread on fresh-baked bread with a tad of marmalade!
What a refreshing sight on a sweltering summer's day,
To see the iceman's truck slowly meandering our way,
Along Farmer's Pike, crystal-clear ice stacked on the truck,
And anticipating a sliver of ice to chomp on and suck!
Mom put a card in the window to show the amount of ice required.
The iceman took note of this and delivered the ice desired.
He'd carry a hundred-pound block of ice on his burly back,
As nonchalantly as if toting feathers in a gunny sack!
Iceboxes served their purpose and in museums they now repose.
Once in awhile you'll find them at flea-markets and antique shows.
Fancy refrigerators now cool the grub and make the ice.
The iceman's logo I yet recall, "Iceman's Ice Is Twice As Nice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
By a little log house that I used to call home,
In the hills and the woods that I once used to roam,
There the seasons would dance with the grace of a swan
Till the music was stilled and the curtain was drawn.
And the dance of the spring filled my heart with delight,
From the rose-tinted dawn to the sweet-tempered night;
For the blooms of the rose were a gossamer gown,
While the carpet of flow'rs was the softest of down;
And the warm, gentle breeze was the touch of a hand
That from heaven had quickened the land.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the little log house by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
There the dance of the summer was pleasant and long,
All the streams and the rivers were bursting with song,
Every sweet berry bush was a wonderful friend,
And the garden a feast that I used to attend;
Flocks of birds wheeled as one like a cavalry drill,
And the butterflies danced on the hill.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the cool mountain stream 'neath the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
Then at summer's last fade stole an autumnal wave,
Both as quiet and swift as an Indian brave;
All the leaves on the trees were transformed into gold,
And the warm summer days turned to frost and to cold;
It was then that the apples were blushing like girls,
And the rainbows that fell shone like pearls.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the leaves that fell down from the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
Cloudy winter was filled with the dance of the snow,
With the faint smell of smoke, with the firelight's glow;
And I oftentimes walked down the path to the hill
Where the snow-angels danced round the old cider mill;
And the house dressed in snow, and in icicles too
Was a cave by the seawater blue.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the snow-covered woods by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
By Isaiah Zerbst on the seventh of October, 2013
She knelt upon a plank, plain oaken
(sable cloak, her mourning guise),
and sensed the breath of distant sighs,
pale shades of pain behind blue eyes…
While clasping close a cross-like token
(holding hope for those in need)
she prayed her Lord "please intercede,
my woes be washed, my soul be freed"…
Archangels, in the skies evoken
(candles flickered, shadows shivered),
through the panes, the moonlight quivered,
summoned forth, the wish delivered…
Forgotten words he once had spoken
(dimly echoed ’neath the dome)
swept sweetness of the honeycomb
o'er distant realms they used to roam…
At midnight's knell, in dreams awoken,
memories of love unfeigned…
Though loneliness of grief remained,
she still held hope… hope hadn't waned…
And when the dawn had early broken,
by the font, in peace, she lay…
As sudden as a sunset ray,
the light of life had slipped away…
Today, meandering through the clutter of the local antique store,
I almost tripped and fell over an object partially hidden on the floor!
My hands came to rest on an old-fashioned school desk sitting there.
It reminded me of the one I occupied in my school days, I do declare!
My thoughts drifted back through the misty past to reminisce and ponder.
As I caressed its oaken surface with my fingers, I began to wonder.
Did it once grace a simple one-room prairie schoolhouse in Indiana?
Might it have come from a rustic schoolroom in the state of Montana?
The slanting top of the old desk was scratched and with ink was stained.
I saw faint initials carved by an idle lad whose attention span had waned!
The varnish was worn off the folding seat by many a squirming kid.
Wads of chewing gum still adorned the underside of the folding lid!
I recalled sitting at one of those uncomfortable desks trying to stay awake!
As Miss Ruth droned on and on, all I could think of was the recess break!
The room reeked of oranges and fried egg sandwiches we'd bring to munch.
Kids of means paid a dime to eat finer fare in the lunchroom for their lunch!
I recalled the thwack on my knuckles of Miss Ruth's ruler to get my attention,
And what awaited me at home for misbehavior with growing apprehension!
(A clerk noting my glazed eyes asked, "May I help you sir? Is anything amiss?"
"Nah", I replied. "If you please, I'd like to stand here awhile and reminisce!")
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of
Destiny’s say.
On judgment hill from on high,
Voices do echo downwards, as the
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
Hangman's tree.
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west,
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you,
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
Mans tree.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Rushes to the window
with every pitter-patter
but it is only the rain
crashing into me
trying to wash away my pain
reminding of sunny days
where the pitter-patter
was the beating of my heart
where love was never sought
but happily was found
my heart breathes
feeling once more
your tenderness
pitter-patters run across
the oaken hardwood floors
and I see in her your smile
your love
your heart
The rain and my tears fall
yet I know
most go a lifetime without true love
but no not me
my heart goes pitter-patter
one last time
butterflies float away into my soul
and I remember
I loved you
Dull white clouds splashed the autumn sky –
But God beamed His brightest oaken smile!
11.23.14