Best Pinewood Poems
It had been a long night, an hour drive just to be with my sister. One must stay in touch with family; it’s the right thing to do. I don't even know what movie we saw. Here she was again in all her glory whining, and whimpering, about her conditions. Confined space is the wrong place to be with someone bi-polar. Sometimes, I think the family should mark her eruptions on a calendar, maybe there’s a pattern? She was hungry; her blood sugar was low; hurry, get her home!
“Geez Sis, if my life depended on carrying peanuts, I'd make damn sure I had them with me!” I my replied.
the sleet fell
through the headlight beams:
fog inside
“You bleeping self-centered witch!” Her reply.
And on and on, enumerating all my faults at the top of her lungs. Her face was darting back and forth across the stick shift like a viper. The weather was so bad, and her screaming so loud; I almost drove us up a telephone pole. The back road to her house was serpentine through a pinewood, and over narrow, slick, bridges. Well, about fifteen minutes into my dissection, I burst a gut.
“You need to have some control. Your diet is horrible. I wish you could see yourself eating. Your plate might as well be a trough.” There now I’ve gone and done it, I thought to myself. The little devil in me was all smiles. When we pulled into the driveway; she leapt out.
the car door
slams rattling the glass:
eyes wet as rain glass
It only felt good for a moment. It was true; she did deserve the comment. She’d felt free to butcher me, but, it was wrong to try to hurt her. The momentary release, which felt so good, has given us months of anguish.
Published in Dead Snakes Magazine Winter 2014
WILD NATURE
Far from squabble of snobbish sniffy people
I wish to visit a wild country
where loud amusement has no entry to disturb
simple innocent naive populace.
Bathed in soft Sun rays at delightful dawn
gazing at close by pinewood
I would like to lie supine not on smooth lawn but on feral grasses
on non-mowed meadow,
where light and shadow play hide and seek game.
I will enjoy crazy cattle grazing chewing coarse grasses and foliage,
or camels thriving on thorny bushes making barren field fertile.
I will walk on furrows of field of crops
Kaleidoscope of butterflies on flash and flutter of colorful wings
***** unfamiliar bird whistles to startle or croons in cadence.
My pleasure to pass through pathless wood
My rapture to feel fragrance of wild blossoms
I would like to venture verdure of verdant valley.
and watch wild insects allured to juices of agrestal plants.
I will feel offer of Nature as bliss in every limb
in the wild country.
I wish to escape compulsive constriction of city life
I will sleep sound in quietude on serenity of sublime solitude.
04/10/ 20
Fourth Place
'Wild' Poetry Contest by Anthony Slausin
First Place
-A Brian Strand 1092
Contest by Brian Strand
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
HOLIDAY SEASON
Grand goes Christmas celebration:
Creation cum recreation.
Christmas tree on decoration.
Merriment ! Just not to mention.
Bethlehem star shines, that’s the cause.
Reindeer pulls sledge for Santa Claus.
Jingle bells ring rhythmic with pause.
Santa giving gifts ! Great applause.
All work to bake cake at random.
Charm of party to miss seldom.
Gorgeous days ! No place of boredom.
Chilled breeze and snow fall ! Maximum.
Enjoy skating ! Fantastic fun.
Silvery snow shines under Sun.b
Kids throw snow balls to play and run.
After jogging, Jack Frost ate bun.
Holiday season in festive mood.
Visit to Grandma through pinewood,
On red dress goes Red Riding Hood
to taste delicious sumptuous food.
From Noonlight to Moonlight
I'll chance to mention a jaunt once took, along a sloping ridge; coming up steady o'er jakes ravine, cross the creaking pinewood bridge, tethering up the hosses, to a half charred lightening stricken tree; we gazed right down the 'scarpment at cattle roaming free after muffling up our riding boots in swathes of Hessian brown; stooping right over we made our way, by the darker shadowed ground, we got to to a stand of trees, that offered the needed hide; scuttling there as quick as quick, until we were inside made sure no herders were present, heard no sounds borne on the breeze; we picked out a couple of young heifers, this side of some bouldered scree then raising our crossbows silently, as moonglow licked each bolt; we loosed ..Whoosk.! the thuds)) sounded so strong you almost felt the jolt.: did i see a gleam in Mikkies eye?? could it be a heartfelt tear?? I said we had no real choice you know, my voice edged with tension & fear, a quick smile shot right back at me, as gazing deep in my eyes; she gave a hard kick into my shin, catching me by surprise!! saying now while I' affix the lariats Joe, you vamoose up the mountainside; get the horses and drags back soon, in case the rancher makes a ride, so I lit out for the ridge crest, my heart was beating wild." While swearing that damn hussey's more capricious than a wayward child; once on the ridge i scramble down, back to the waiting steeds quickly pulling the halters loose, my mind intent on speed!! soon I'm back with Mikkie, we pull the heifers onto the drags; then we're coaxing our horses up that draw!! headed for the safety of our own distant and shadowy crags. copyright Joe Maverick.co.uk
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.
Mountain soften the gawp of sun
far beyond the boondocks,
where the fog plays in stillness,
‘fore the banties arouse the glade
When life came to Bottom Land
bare feet stomped common paths
Between the tall oak trees
echoes stood for seconds,
as tiny voices cartwheeled
from hanging rocks that bite into the dell
The Good River lend a hand, Big Sandy,
to water the Bottom Land,
three acres that fed nine mouths
and satisfy our bellies
When the snow turn up,
and pile high on the new year,
like cotton on a mule cart,
Pap wore rags to keep his toes;
we count ten in early spring
When God send Roosevelt and the WPA,
Pap wore cow hide boots like men ought to
The log cabin was heaven; we lived like gods
In winter, we listen to the hissing of burning
fir and pinewood, and Pap’s alluring hunting tales
Ma’s fried-green tomatoes and cornmeal pancakes
were more than quails falling ‘fore Mt Horeb,
and Pap was more than Moses,
We loved more than Israel,
far from the isle where milk and honey flow
I
wet cat impaled on telegraph poles
serrated ashbrown fur
tinged with flinting silver
a mirror blue
cut by guitar strings on a shining plate
bathed in molten evening shine
jet streaks through pylon barrage
windshield wipers’ hemicircular swipe
dry cat’s crusty baguette fur
ashen edges of rapidfire cirrus
pylons stalk the sky
and catch the wipers in the eye
II
horses purr in the cat’s geule
carriages trot through veins of pomp
hounds howl in pinewood packs
fountains spurt warrior sperms
over-stuffed regalia golden-tressed coiffures
wrap scalp and skin in scented sweat
coachmen backfire trussed up in perches
perfumed eminences speed to trysts
III
The Sun-King illumines long dead VISTA galaxies
The Hall of Mirrors reveberates secret oaths
Lights dim as Le Notre adjusts tropical palm vats
The parvenu Corsican struts on depraved genes
IV
wipers peer through moving fingers
pylons jetstreak high-wire noon
Marie Antoinette drivels at Fresnes
The gilded streaming sun dances on fitful time
Glints through slithering interstitial space
Am I driving or am I driven in a cariole.
© T. Wignesan, October 29, 1986, Paris (Revised)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan 1992 - October 29, 1986 [from the collection : back to background material, 1993]
DEATH IN D FLAT
The song begins with a high note and ends on a low
And denotes the notes urged and surged in between
In the center of the song the brass begins to blow
But then a piccolo portends the end of pert and pristine
At first the fiddles finery finesses a flute
While a violin steals a viola’s heart
Suddenly a dulcimer and a drum declare a dispute
When, of course, a pinewood piano pulls them apart
The maestro keeps time measured quite well
With a baton beckoning beauty from a band renown
The crescendo cradles a symphony’s swell
But the vexing vocalist’s voice dons a deceptive gown
Then choreographed is the chorus, the chorals and bells
With a timpani to teach a trombone what it never before tried
Oh, from the choir comes the groans of ten thousand hells
And the misery music made when our romance and the rhythm died
© 2012…..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Elegy on the Death of Vicente Aleixandre, Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem : Elegia en la muerte de Vicente Aleixandre
(Born in 1923, Carlos Bousono, a renowned prize-winning Spanish poet and eminent theoretician on the aesthetics of poetry, held the Chair of Stylistics at the Central (Complutense) University of Madrid. ; later as E-meritus.
He wrote his doctoral dissertation, in 1950, on the poetry of Vicente Aleixandre, the recepient of the 1977 Nobel Prize for Literature. It is evident, he witnessed the Nobel laureate’s passing in 1984. Bousono’s every lecture, delivered off the cuff, earned him an indomitabe world-wide reputation. T. Wignesan)
In Death
Eyes that kept looking
so full of pain
on the last day, hardly moments
before dying,
and from the deathbed
he recalled in sadness,
from far away, very far away though somewhat hazily,
those days with his friends,
out there in the distance
of his childhood,
having himself a great time,
life even then being immortal,
they (may have) roamed through small orchards, or through the
pinewood, or the soaring heights
bathed palpitatingly in the light.
Then to run, concealing themselves,
in the rear of some thickets, awhile :
why were they not being called to
yet from the house.
A little later, a little later feeling really lonesome
for the very last time, and that would be it.
And when they put
a crown on his head as on the king of the world
the day when it all came to pass
the king* had reigned for seven years,
seven years as lord
over everyone in the universe : the air, the sea.
He breathed. He looked tired
and the impossibility. Life, the crown,
painted cardboard, feeling yet happy,
later in love, in the company
of those slinging shots, such happiness. Years without
knowing doubt, and all that was
just an instant so lonely,
bitter grief
real.
And now the tears –
he who never cried – filled his eyes,
sliding down ever so slowly
over his pale cheeks,
soaking the skin,
the mouth,
and continued sliding
even though he was already dead.
The tears lasted longer
than his sorrow-laden eyes.
Much longer
than his own pain.
• Probably a reference to King Juan Carlos of the House of Bourbon.
© T. Wignesan – Patis, 2013
drifting pollen swathes
golden contours round wood’s edge
fox cubs investigate
From lugging heavy boxes in a distribution place,
To taking pinewood coffins to a so called place of grace.
From melting from the heat from six till half past three,
To eating currant buns and drinking nice hot cups of tea.
From hassle from the bosses; there are far too many of them,
To driving around in solitude, with no one to shout your name.
From stitching machines and printing machines on the shop floor,
To making personal enquiries at some brand new prospects door.
From being driven crazy by the boredom of the job,
To have the joy of being able to earn a few more bob.
From the pittance of a wage that was forever small,
To a salary that makes you feel almost ten feet tall.
From the humblest of positions, in a factory set-up,
To driving bones and bodies to the hospital make-up.
From this most unusual tale, I'm sure you've got the notion,
That if you leave the factory, it's sure to be PROMOTION.
Even a funeral assistant gets twice as much or more,
Than all of these workers on this factory shop floor.
So Neil we wish you all the best in your new position,
There won’t be any hassle because it's just DEAD opposition.
Robert Cartwright-Davidson
A Poet’s Thoughts
I am luckier than most
I have a special place to write
A small room
No larger than a bathroom
It is neither a palace nor a ghetto
It is just a place where I can be alone with my thoughts
I know it has been used by artists before
An old pinewood table bears the name Picasso
Etched into the top so deep and so many years ago
Canvases and papers cover the walls
Unfinished pieces from a dozen generations of creativity
I wonder why they were never finished
It is a thought I could never answer
I know the words come to me
My pen scribes them to sheets of yellowing paper
They may never sell
No one may ever have the chance to read them
I may never include them in a book
But they are my words, my thoughts and my yellowing paper
No one can ever take that away from me
It is just me alone in my room and that is how I want it
in the sweet-water
of the dreamtime,
I wade with slow
easy steps
it is a waning light
of hope, that illuminates
a compendium in dreams
written as my heart
beats out the ink
from conception,
this story was confused
in death and life
And I hang
over the edge of tsunami
and I balance on pinewood,
the waters flow is stilled
but beats to the heart
of my dreams,
and the moons turn
forever lifts my head
and my spirit,
past the firmament
I am a child of darkness
cocooned in the light,
with the Kaleidoscope
of life and dreams
still writing,
until this pen
in the hand of my heart,
is silenced and at rest
It was in this land of animated nature
Under a moonlit cloak of stars
I was drawn to the glow of a Nymph
She glows as she pirouettes on top a meadow's lake
The zealous winds speak of you
Spiritess of amorous freedom
Can you give me the embrace of the life-giving out flow of spring
Show me the beauty of Aegle
Enchant me with the rich ether of Flora and Fauna
Lure me into your arms and bless me
With Warmth unto me till thy eternal death
She speaks to the dawn
Her locutions sound like serenity against my ears
The silence under the Cyan skys
Bethroned by the emerald like pinewood
I've witnessed her beauty
Dressed in the scent of oak and autumn leaves
Swaying in a gown of wilderness
Shinning bright on morning fire-welkin
Winsome flows and the twilight will pass
Caressing the silky glamour