Best Stumps Poems
Note to contest sponsor: poet's name is mentioned at beginning
of the audio. Do not listen to audio portion if you wish not to
Know the author of this poem.
In forest's night, the trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow;
silent shadows waver there,
chilled by gusts of autumn air.
Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
Among those stumps the shadows creep
and shroud a form that seems asleep
Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals -
a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
with scarf of death left on his throat.
The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
They cannot speak, but if they could,
they’d tell all travelers of the wood:
"We’re not the foe. It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
Although we loom and cause you fear,
something worse is lurking here."
Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
And silent shadows start to shrink
into a night of blackened ink.
I Love Horses: A--Z
A is for... Appaloosa. They have
blankets on their rumps.
B is for...Belgian. They work
hard and can pull up stumps.
C is for...Clydesdale. They're
BIG bays with white fluffy feet.
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony
from the moors--so sweet!
E is for...Egyptian, the finest
horse on desert sand.
F is for...Fresian: Big black War
Horse--a Knight's demand.
G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare
beauty like fairy tales.
H is for...Hanoverian. The best
all-round from England hails.
I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal
horse that's black and white.
J is for...Java Pony. He's
Indonesia's working sprite.
K is for...Knapstrup. He's a
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey
leapers known in the Big Tops!
M is for...Mustang. Wild and
Free--roams America's West.
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed
black and drives the best.
O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage
ribbons just get bigger.
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers
named his, Trigger.
Q is for...Quarter Horse,
cowboy's fav'rite! Does
Everything!
R is for...Racking Horse. His
ride's so smooth it will make
you sing.
S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse,
Gaited beauty everyone loves.
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing,
"The Sport of Kings", he does.
U is for...Ukrainian Riding
Horse: Beautiful born after
War's end.
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish
black stallion and true friend.
W is for...White (Albino) Horse.
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of
course!
X is for...Xilingol. He's
Mongolia's riding draft horse.
Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut
pony from Japan.
Z is for...Zebra: African wild
but tamed by man.
A personal therapist long past
the end,
The love of a horse...is the
love... of a Friend.
deborah burch
02.28.2013
"Notes on a Wrist"
the pulse felt
under nibs
of fingertips
translates a life
the semicolan
stretches like
the devil
hungers
it can
wait a long time
eternally feeding you
drip by drip
ever present
the missing
hovers, like a
hummingbird
never sits
beak and feet
wet in the detail
tasting the temptation
to cut strings
fleeting
and fickle
like a child
switches graces
the keys
black and white
the forest contains
all your precious things
hard to leave
leaves, all their
autumn winter stories
sentences written
and spent
like veins
singing stinging
the body of work
temporary rent
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
"There is a fable in the forest
whispered by branches as they blow,
a tale about the truth of leaving
things that no longer help you grow.
For on the surface it looks simple;
like you need only lace your boots,
but there is nothing quite as painful
as untangling your roots.
And proof is found in tree stumps
of the price some pay to flee,
that they would cut
their lives in half,
to cut the time before they're free.
Yet from the little left behind
Life has been known to grow again,
for unless you take your roots,
a part of you will still remain."
Careless whispers from sordid lips
Echo through the wooded landscape of hearts.
Destructive wants and needless needs,
Carried on the remnants of rust and bone,
Discarded amongst the fallen bridges,
Where once that precious garden grew—
Abundant petals with morning dew…
Oh how those poetic colours swirled
In the abstract minds of troubled youth,
With Silver tongue of rivers deep
And how that made the willows weep.
They wept in mournful sorrow first
Then blew light-heartedly in swift gay breeze,
Swaying merrily to gardener’s tune,
Reciting songs of lovers’ moon.
Drooping soon, one by one,
Neglect: naïve or playboy rule?
No willow’s death carved into stone
Sighs forgotten—another clone.
But each one knew they weren’t alone
With all decaying days that passed.
And thoughts of how the last was strewn:
Loved too quick, deceased by noon!
Empty melodies confined to ash
No garden path to lead them up,
The fickle gardener’s longing tales:
Seeking roses, endless fails.
Bitter stumps, now burnt and bare,
Fruitless end to nature’s womb,
Apocalyptic trails of dirt
Sporadic care and endless hurt.
Acidic rain to wash away
Polluted minds and drunken hearts,
A world once loved now fades to grey
Pastel night now charcoal day.
Neverland: a silly notion
Truth keeps blooms of love in motion,
A life of fantasy fulfilled
Though one of lies is one half lived.
Midnight Aurora
The Straw Man stopped by today
Listen to what he had to say
before blowing away
after this exposé
Aliens don’t do crop circles
or carve out landing strips
Only non-scarecrows have such ability
Ground crews do the Trojan work,
using string, planks of wood,
and sketchy blueprints
Heavy-duty equipment
is often required for the latter,
but not spaceships
As usual Ufologists and cults
are only too happy to jump on board
using the crappiest video recordings
as grainy evidence,
all enhanced by voiceovers
from know-all scarecrows that orbit the edges
of human gullibility and vulnerability —
ripe to be swayed either way
As for the heavens,
they never designed clarity on earth,
though they may provide
soul-searching clouds
that slowly unravel across the sky,
diluting everything
— even the water —
with bubbles of hope,
only to burst on the tines of pitchforks
misused by twisted hands
Such monsters
skulk in bedrooms and haylofts
after families in denial bail them out
They rarely take rain checks
unless kept in check
Though with hindsight,
it’s very poor foresight
to tempt them back downstairs
with a weapon as a birthday present
Many poets too lose rhyme and reason,
expressing reality as an
amputated tuning fork
whose stumps prevent them
ever facing the music
Others sense the blunt frequency
of straw beneath their feet
that will never soak up all the blood
And after spilling his guts,
the Straw Man added:
There’s still enough of me left
to return and break the back
of any new AI mirages.
By David Kavanagh
Woods enthuse me,
Bring me to a dancing state.
Lilt me, lift me, bring me back to my soul mother.
Bring me home, in pure joy and excitement.
I adore you, Woods.
Your fox, your eagle, your moss, your deer.
I am one with them, for I am one with you, and
We are all a part of this universal oneness
Mother sky and Mother meadow
Was there ever a more cosmic place in this
Fantasy world that some think is the real world?
Let me dance and sing and throw my arms into the air,
Playing enthusiastically into your eternal oneness,
Reveling in your stumps, branches, and the roots that
Tie Mother Earth to this heart-felt place.
Let others be of this world. Let me be ethereal,
A faerie whose wings are dancing and prancing in
perfect harmony with the heartbeat of the forest,
My savior, my friend, the pulse of the woods.
Nurturing my soul in joyfulness.
May I always be in awe of her.
Always.
Blooms and butterflies are a poet's delight,
For his sore eyes so soothing a sight,
Like mellifluous music melting his restless mind.
The brilliant blend of yellow and orange,
Brightens the day and lightens the mood.
They dance delicate on dainty dandelions,
Wings with patterns of pink and purple,
And with colours of crimson and white.
Those little luminous iridescent blue ones
Found on tree tops and tree stumps -
To a child's eyes they look like
Winged blue blooms of Morning Glory.
And the ones that flutter their freckled wings,
Black with tints of gorgeous golden green,
Are the perfect pictures of a pleasant day.
They bask in the sun spreading their wings,
And their radiance kindles grace and peace.
Date: 12/16/2020
Alliteration - Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
A Brian Strand You Choose Poetry Contest
Where the forest is still virgin and the lyrebirds often call,
the bronze-wing comes to drink, and the ferns are growing tall,
there are deer prints in the mud, and there’s leeches seeking prey…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where a pothole track goes winding through the burgan and ti-tree,
mountain ash and messmate stumps are overgrown history
from loggers in the forests, and the straining bullock dray…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where recreation parks have forced a need for clearing of the bush,
where this grassland in the mountain now welcomes the human push,
and the platypus is unperturbed, where it’s still prepared to play…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where lands been cleared and now the pines are planted in a row.
It’s all green but foreign and where nothing else will grow.
And king parrots or black cockies, have found their seeds okay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where dairy farms are greener than you ever think you’ll see,
blackberry hugs the banks with, bootlace bush and goodia pea,
and so mournful through the valley is the calling from the jay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where it’s back again to virgin scrub and hugging closer to a hill,
where the pools are getting deeper with backwaters black and still.
And the mother stream Latrobe, awaits the Loch, to draw away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
This little valley’s heaven for the angler coming here,
not only for the fishing, but the peace that’s always near.
Where one can reach the grassy banks of the chosen course,
then meander with the little creek, rippling from its source.
There’s a dearth of hides and cover for the trout who ‘hog’ the stream.
They chase the spinner to the edge, when they see the twirling gleam.
And where some take the triple hooks while others get away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Few are blessed with albatross wings
to glide high above the toothy surf
to soothe the cliffs that yearn to sing
in granite tones of golden destiny.
Some are born with burning stumps,
prone to dream... never to shadow suns.
They cling to icy crags and siren tones,
stumbling on drunken cliffs above bloody shoals.
Others are born void of most everything...
say for pearled hearts and hungry beaks.
Gazing out toward indifferent skies,
awaiting silver miracles that drift on by...on by.
A few are never meant to breathe at all.
Briefly tumbling in the throat of violent squall.
wee flakes on glacial lakes of bluing memory
few are charmed with albatross wings.
Remembering days of young- long ago
Adventurous me, I yearned for playtime
Playing with my siblings on mounds of snow
To the peaks of high mountains I would climb
'Neath fallen oaks rotted stumps, I have hid
I used to be so sly and so witty
Down wettened remnants of mudslides- I've slid
'Fore man turned my home into a city
I now live in an abandoned brownstone
Once red-haired and fluffy-tailed; now all grey
For twenty-five years I have lived alone
Inside concrete walls...near the Hudson Bay
One last howl, 'fore I dream into the deep
One last howl, now I lay me down to sleep
Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
1/22/2021
Frisky, gray squirrels scramble
Beneath a massive, old oak tree
Gathering the best acorns they see
Their fluffy tailed, lively damsels
Opossum wobble on short legs
From their laurel sheltered lairs
Toward the thickets where there’s
Vast bugs and spiders in their webs
Gentle, soft haired rabbits assemblage
Onward, seeking out grassy fortresses
Where they might discover tortoises
And additional special kinds of foliage
Black and white stripped skunks
Bob out toward their furry friends
Reassured they will make amends
So they will help them over tree stumps
Russet colored raccoons with charming features
Searching for their favorite pine tree expansion
Scrambling up through the long branches
To havens above all the other creatures
Big, black bear grumble through woods so eerie
Checking all around for beehives or cherries
Hoping to find a bit of honey or sweet berries
To munch on before the weather gets dreary
Tan and bronze deer clamber up cliffs that deliver
To the meadows where they’re stopping together
To chew long grass and weeds found whether
They make their trek toward the gently flowing river
Forests are thriving with these unique beings
All the different beasts living there from across
Pine, oak, birch, locust, laurel, fern and moss
God’s gifts to us who love this place so pleasing
Out of all the questions I have been asked in life
None of them stump me more like this:
Why do I write?
It does not stump me because it’s tricky
It stumps me because it’s a stupid question to ask
Why do I write?
Because there’s nothing more relaxing than it.
Sure sometimes it’s frustrating
Difficult, fundamentally challenging
But that’s part of the beauty of it
Letting you emotions spill out across the page
And knowing that people read it
That people expect who you are
It’s brilliant
When you live a life of not speaking up
Of being that quite person in the background
Expressing yourself is… magnificent
I’m not me when I write
Something takes over me, controls me
So much so that I don’t really know what I am writing consciously
But it works so well
I guess some people will never understand
The joy in it all
When you're my age and you develop some characteristic
That doesn’t suit the normal criteria you get picked on
It happens, you can’t stop it
But I feel sorry for them
Expressing yourself through writing is one of my greatest joys
And I’m not going to stop
Not now
Not ever
Times such as these test body soul and mind
So should our thoughts be pain and dark confined
Or loosed to concentrate on brighter things
Like furry puppies, flowers and girls on swings
In this bright morning sun as I roved out
Past village houses waking to their day
With little gardens, blossoms all about
As all across this England’s pleasant brae
In scepticism native to my heart
With self restraint on humour that’s sardonic
Ever seeking inspiration to my art
I crossed heath margin gloomy and achromic
Then onward later passing black swamp marsh
Of putrid mud and roots round dead stumps curled
As sunlight penetrated tree top arch
I found myself in new and magic world
Tread higher then, along the wooded track
The earth grew ever brighter to my eye
The canopy now thin, then folded back
Til nothing seemed above me, only sky
A single buzzard circled in the blue
Then as my eye adjusted, were revealed
Another, then Red Kites made patterns
new
With searching eyes they scanned the sunlit field
In echelon of helix high then higher
More birds soared in great three dimensioned bowl
In choreographed flight dance; did they require
Direction by divine traffic control?
All Carnivores! life based upon life cycle
Thus nature’s way is seen in rhythm born
Seasons and the land each follow pattern tidal
(These barrows once stood bare in sand dune form)
In crisis deep we face a time of trial
Could nature’s message give a way to vow
Whether raged against or treating with denial
All cycles shall complete; as then - so now
25 March 2020
The wind wailed, and I could hear the trees cry;
as I approached the scar of a clear cut.
No birds were on the ground or in the sky,
it resembled a killing field somewhat.
Before me lay the bleached bones of dead trees;
abandoned limbs, a woodsman's axe hacked off.
And stumps of a forest felled to its knees;
while locals protest and profiteers scoff.
Old-growth forests get harvested at length,
and soon, they will disappear forever.
These trees lend the Native people their strength;
a living link, we've no right to sever.
As this clearcut drew a tear from my eye,
the wind wailed, and I could hear the trees cry.
Close to election time, we have the chance
to hear the candidates for office speak,
or “stump,” in nearby towns, to give their stance
on issues and improvements that they seek,
to promise they will strengthen all that’s weak.
The term “stump speech” dates back two hundred years,
when it was not used figuratively;
and those of the American Frontier
who ran for office stood, for all to see,
on tree stumps while they campaigned movingly.
All-day affairs complete with food and beer,
these rural fetes were rollicking and loud.
The speakers then (as now) tried hard to steer
the votes their way and captivate the crowd.
By hecklers’ jeers, the brave ones were not cowed.
With jokes and boasts, some livened every speech.
Sharp jabs at rivals filled the country air.
As time progressed, some speakers chose to reach
the crowd, not from a tree stump—but a chair
or barrel. Such scenarios weren’t rare.
Historical accounts of stumping state
the names of stand-out speakers in that day.
Three skilled men who excelled in a debate—
Abe Lincoln, Stephen Douglas, Henry Clay—
were stumpers whose wise words held unique sway.
Today some folks flock to the county fair,
not just for entertainment but to see
the candidates debating with great flair,
expounding on the facts; but they won’t be
atop tree stumps to shout, “Please vote for me!”
February 1, 2022
entered in Emile Pinet's Quintain (English) Contest