Best Teak Poems
Penelopina Teena had a birthday today,
in faerie years she's a whopping 9008!
It's such a celebration as you have never seen
was held for this tiny white petite faerie queen.
A firefly has gifted her with the finest moon dust,
for faerie magic it's such powerful fine stuff.
Faerie chef Bengali Blue made fluffy cupcakes
with Venetian icing white, pink and blue all fresh baked.
An amethyst mirror gifted by Lil'miss Teak Breeze
was framed in the finest of gold and Elvin antiqued.
Jiminy Jack presented her with great berries gold,
from his orchard full of candied sweetness, full and bold.
Faerie Wa'di de Pella, a kindly fella
brought her a fine cookbook of treats rich with vanilla.
Dragonflies came with some light homemade Sliverene cream
for which to polish Teena's fine elemental wings.
A spider played Happy Birthday on its' web of silk,
while faerie Frank Fennell poured all, coconut milk.
A band of pipers and trumpeters played in bird nest;
all offerings were presented with such joyous zest.
Birds and bugs of all species danced throughout the whole night
to mesmerizing music, such a superb delight.
As the moon bid adieu to the late partying crowd,
the celebrants vanished in a crystal mushroom cloud.
Poems from old and yellowed
Chinese scrolls make me sad,
make me sad: stored in shiny,
lacquered boxes of perfumed teak,
they crumble when unrolled.
And the hands that must have written
Chinese thoughts upon the rolls:
little, leathern, patient hands,
painting poems -- stroke and stroke
and careful, delicate stroke --
stopping, meanwhile, to twirl
a waxed mustache --
for someone else, a foreigner,
who cannot understand, to read,
mull over, and be sad.
And this when Chinese thoughts
are gone, and tiny, trembling
Chinese hands are dust.
Bones creak with winter’s chill,
sledge trails cover the sparkling snow,
rushing like the wind in a barren landscape
towards a bleak lonely village far below
shimmering amongst the dark stately pines.
A teak grey sky domes over petrified trees.
Skiing hard, feeling an exhilarating allure,
hypnotic and unfettered despite the gelidity
as the cold breeze blows and moans into my face.
From afar a church bell tolls the end of day,
grey smoke twirls out of black chimneys.
There, in a homely cottage, you await,
a thick soup spreads its hot fragrances,
and thick slices of hot French bread
awaits my empty stomach. I hunger.
Oh yes, I hunger for tasty soup and more.
I speed up for nothing can stop me now
savouring the thought of you waiting in a snug bed
and dreaming of you and a pair of lips so cherry red.
QUEEN Afareen designed a perfume bottle
she herself exuded a scent of untainted ambergris, orris wafted as her heavenly cue
lime with jasmine spritz her exuberant brew
a black swan neck curved crystal female form
this bottle crafted in alexandrite, mirroring her
pharaoh shaped silhouette, gold sun rays embedded facade, stopper of opal warm
ruby inlays rested languidly at bottle base
slivers of pearl and aquamarine laced
replica of Aphrodite she encased in Myanmar teak, sculpted with elk ivory, reclining bottle
in Muga silk before a river lilting lily wattle
then gifted herself her own bottle, liquid tomb
nimble fingers twisting opal top for perfume
her unique irreplaceable exuding essence
imperceptibly drifting reverent presence
drinking the last undistilled drops from
edenic perfume bottle, QUEEN Afareen
extinguished herself gracefully into muscled
arms of Adonis, as bottle drifted downstream
towards turquoise ocean emptied, beamed
a sorrowed counterploy buried, it screamed
____________
Through the forests of Sumatra
Through the dark and sweaty jungle
Proud and fearless pads the tiger
Pads through bamboo, palm, liana
Powerfully swims across the water
Webbed feet pounding ‘gainst the current,
Unaware of near extinction
Forest dwindling, disappearing
Shrinking by illegal logging
Teak for tables, chairs and profit.
Will our tiger last the decade ?
To our children, ancient history ?
Ancient history, myth and mystery
With the sun-bear and the hornbill ?
Spring to action like the tiger
Planting trees and education
Guardians all of unique creatures
We can save the Sumatran tiger.
Viking Funeral
When that day comes that I will die
Dress me in the finest clothes
Patterned from ecru silken threads
In contrast with my hazel eyes
As the sun sets west and reflects
upon the sea so warm and blue
Place me in a sailing craft
Hand carved from exquisite teak
Surround me with my memories
My keepsakes and my written words
When the tide goes out to join the sea
please set my sails all pointed east
Aim and shoot a flaming shaft
To pierce the boat set it aflame
And consume me on my final quest
to delve into my watery nest
When the last flame is extinguished,
Retrieve my ashes from the craft
And place them in an marble jar
And toss them in the ocean deep
My life has always been mundane
I never lived to seize the day
My luck and judgements never meshed
My essence nor my core refreshed
To take a trip in such a way
To be remembered on that day
Will seal the memory of my death
When I have breathed my final breath
*Revised Poem from years ago 4/3/2017
Viking Funeral
When that day comes that I will die
Dress me in the finest clothing
Patterned from a textured sharksin
As the sun sets east and reflects
upon the sea so warm and blue
Place me in a red sailing craft
Hand carved from an exquisite teak
Surround me with my memories
My keepsakes and my written words
And when the tide goes out to sea
You may set my sails pointed west
Aim and shoot a flaming arrow
To pierce the boat set it aflame
And consume me on my final sail
When the last flame is extinguished,
Retrieve my ashes from the craft
And place them in an marble jar
And toss it in the ocean deep
My life has always been mundane
I never lived to seize the day
Good luck and judgements never meshed
My essence nor my core refreshed
To take a trip in such a way
To be remembered on that day
Will seal the memory of my death
When I have breathed my final breath
*Revised Poem from years ago
Otay! I’m an alien, toe what?
I used to wive on the pwanet Pwuto
Too told! TOE, I fwew to the moon
BOOOW-ING! (Eveeting too white!)
Toe I fwuttered down to Waw Tageles
Where I betame a BIG movie tar
Dey trew a party for my pwemier
but a bwack fuwwy fewine cwashed it!
Yep, I taw dat puddy-tat teak in too
Den he tunned me wit his tun gun!
Wucky for me, I dot away tumhow
Now I got dis widdle speech intetiment…
PS: Ewmer Fudd and me have become wather cwose since then because he had a
similar expewience when Bugs Bunny conked him on the head with an oversized
cawwot...
A tortoise-shell sky on a slate afternoon
matched the deep charcoal mood of a storm
Silence, profound, was as sharp as a thorn
We walked in the shadows, then the trail parted ways
Regret on our shoes, while the teak-sodden trees
wailed with distress in the turbulent haze
Shaking their heads, they were bending their limbs
watching worlds come to an end...
Wanting us back
calling us back, ...
and hoping we'd try once again.
_________________________________________
7/8/17
Yesterday
I sat crossed legged
On my teak floor
Looking out
At the city lights
As I thought
About that time
Down by the lake
I was sitting
On the shore
With the sun beaming
Warming my face
A cool breeze
Off the lake
Had caused me to think
Of that time
I was being pushed
On that old tire swing
In front of the house
I was swinging
Back and forth
Lost in my thoughts
Wondering
If she felt the same way
We had been together
Just the other day
I could still feel
Her hand in mine
We had walked
For hours that day
Talking about so many things
For some reason
I was distracted
Thinking about school
My teacher had scolded me
There I was sitting in her class
Not paying attention
She said I was always daydreaming
I have to admit
What she said
It was true
My mind
Drifted
To that place with the mirrors
There as I sat
At that counter
Mirrors at both ends
Just me alone
Looking at the endless counter
And so many of me
Wondering
What the future
Would hold
If each of me
Would live a different life
We all sat there
Swinging
Our legs
Back and forth
Like the pendulum
In my mind.
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.
Joyce K
There is this Lady I know, I thought I knew.
Could I have been so wrong, from my point of view ?
She perceives herself, a cardboard silhouette of a soul,
a papier mache doll, an image we all should know.
A shallow pond residing in the middle of this human ocean
is how she sees herself to be – a very strange notion
for me to comprehend as I look into the depths of her mind
and reflect upon all I know, that has shown her to be so kind,
deep, thoughtful, caring - giving her all throughout
her living a life of advocacy, concern and no doubt,
much, much more than I know or of my word
- in this attempt at poetry – that she might have heard.
This Lady with such a fine mind – a model for man kind –
who looks back in time, within, and cannot seem to find
one moment in a long ( seventy eight years ) life time
to recall, remember, feel her humanness in a flake of love,
a speck of joy, a line of happiness, a pool of blissfulness from above,
a stream of contentment, satisfaction for and from all the good
she has done for this world of troubled mankind, where he stood
the self. the self-satisfied, the self-destructive, and the lost.
I want to believe she has known a flake, a speck. a line tossed,
a pool, a stream and that these have been a part of her experience.
Are known, if not in the conscious, in the subconscious existence.
Is she to be, not but – as we look upon and within – veneer ?
A mosaic overlay on cardboard papier mache, she wants us to hear.
Not a mighty Oak, Maple, Mahogany, Teak, Burl just a paper doll.
Is this the carefully contrived image she believes ?, is this her fall
from grace ?, she thinks herself to be ?, - not the beauty of soul, of acts,
of the face I know, - but a mask to hide what?/, what are the facts ?
Is she this hollow, empty cardboard papier-mache doll ?, devoid
of feelings, of love, just walking through life, living it, must avoid.
I think not, nor can I – not even in my wildest of dreams believe
or perceive of such possibilities - but then, who am I to conceive,
to question the perception of the one who should truly know
herself, intimately better than anyone else on this planet could show.
So all these assumptions I have put out there, I should retrieve.
B. J. “A” 2
May 14th 2005
I wish to die
By the Teak rail
Of a salt weathered deck
A poetic death you see…
Wrap’t snug as a bug
Warm woolen shawl round my neck
With my ol’ grizzled dog at my knee
I’d like to be found
Eyes wide open and round
In a rocker of wicker
Gazing out to sea.
What better a death
An ol’ poet’s last breath
Could there possibly
…and poetically be?…
The Tree, In The Corner of The Woods
That tree, in the corner of the woods?
The one that peers' over the top in a valley,
high off the cliffs ridge just over there, Blue Hills.
The joyous time,
to figure the thought of the grain in them trees.
That tree, in the corner of the woods,
now over here.
I'd walked that far already,
by this Weeping Willow now.
I didn't see it weep once, not a tear!
The Hickory tree I smoked my fish with,
was by the Ash trees.
It was a mere glimpse of the valley,
a view of a grand ole' daddy Black Oak, seen as it stood.
That Zebrawood tree, I made a bowl to eat my cereal with,
was not as purple as the Purpleheart tree when I carved a shoe.
But softer than the Babinga tree,
when I carved an orange boot out of it!
That tree in the corner of the woods?
Was the Mahogany tree, the top-of-line boats that sailboats are built of, turned out to be an Apple tree?
George Washington would love them, haha!?
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
The Olive tree looking humbled,
the olive wasn't quite ripe enough for the martini.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
The Teak tree that needed to leak,
made your fruit look so good on your table.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
Stands taller than all the others,
where they wish they could rise tall.
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
Just peering over the top in a valley seeking its joy,
trying to figure the thought of the grand ole' daddy Black Oak!
The tree, in the corner of the woods?
It was a mere glimpse of what my valley held.
It was in those trees, a valley held in the woods,
the view to this grand ole' daddy Black Oak, seen as it stood as one.
Revised Edition - September 25, 2020 10:43 AM
Squeaky Clean Floors of Teak
All clean and shiny is my teak
When they step on my
Glossy black my heart leaps
Joyous smiles deep down my timbers leak
You can see your face and physique
When you look at me
Don’t walk on me with your dirty feet
Shhh….. Whisper when you speak
If you’re real quiet you’ll hear me squeak.