Best Rosewood Poems
The truth stood downcast in the lie,
and more than one that week would die
when someone’s wife, who feared great shame,
then gave an innocent the blame.
Her scapegoat was both young and shy.
The truth stood downcast in the lie.
Her lover beat her, so she said
it was the young shy man instead!
Her face was bruised. What could she say
to take her lover’s blame away?
The truth stood downcast in the lie.
The town took up a mob’s cruel cry!
The man accused was black of skin.
They lynched him for the woman’s sin.
The world looked on and asked not why
the truth stood downcast in the lie.
Written Aug. 3, 2016
for the Truth Stood Downcast in the Lie Poetry Contest of John Lawless
That Hundred-year-old rosewood door,
Imported from Brazil and hung before the civil war,
according to the local folklore,
It was a magnificent reddish brown wooden door.
That adorned the front of a liquor store.
An Old newspaper clipping humorously
describes the terrific uproar.
And the gore when a hundred local women or more
stormed that liquor store they were unhinged
when they ripped down that old rosewood door
After that day never more
did that liquor store open its door
Pigtails sat tightly on her head
Curls poking through
And framing her face.
The bear kept her company,
Sat close by her head.
The dolls sat carefully placed
Drinking tea around the table.
Her name in blocks
Across the wall,
Not easily missed by passing eyes.
A rainbow spread above her bed,
Sparkles raining down,
A crown above her head.
Drawings littered the floor,
Colors outside the lines.
A perfect metaphor, she thought
For the life she had made.
The curtains are pulled
Closing off the sun
Yet the walls were still bright
And young
And innocent.
She stood in the doorway,
The image fading.
The walls were still bright,
But the memories dimmed.
As long as she stood there,
The room would not change.
They kept it the same,
No matter how long she was gone.
Her clothes were now dark,
Her hair loose and full.
She stared at the room,
For one last time
Hoping she could return
Although the hope
Would not last.
Thy curve hath taught
the rosewood how to sing
and my fingers
long roughened by cedar
grow gentle upon thy hips
returning unto the edge of thy ebony
Through forty harvests
rain hath polished
snow hath kept
the sun made sweet the grain
Lo, the wood thrush calleth
from the bough
where once this timber
drank the morning
Thrice I say unto thee
I love thee—
And another ring
God closeth
in the heartwood
=======
You'll know I'm near
when western cedar scents the air
On the strings of blarney
We'll walk the ebony frets
against the gathering gloam
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
Since seventy-six
the calluses have set
Along the strings of blarney
We strike the open chord
that fills the room
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
We slide our fingers
down the weathered neck
Through the strings of blarney
The mahogany has mellowed
where our hands have wept
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
I never claimed
the tuning stayed precise
We swapped strings
to keep the pitch
The neck needs a patient hand
or we leave it be
and play on
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
I know the notes
were never wholly true
In the strings of blarney
Some rang clear
others fell flat
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
There were songs
we never learned to play
A verse or two
we never got right
We put them away
and learned another tune
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
And if you hear
this old guitar someday
On the strings of blarney
You may hear a wrong note
and know it was ours
Fifty autumns
sealed in Indian Rosewood
=======