Best Timbered Poems
A quiet fury gathered on Horizon’s distant side.
Its merciless intensity was destined to collide
with unsuspecting entities entombed beneath the ground
all huddled ‘neath a canopy, immune to earthly sound.
The timbered crown held steady 'till it met the tempest thrust.
Though some were felled by Heaven’s flogging, others stood the gust.
Malevolent gray shadows rolled and tumbled in the toil
as ominous dark nimbostratus stewed within the boil.
The sky peeled open wide releasing terrifying might
as spears of jagged lightning were unleashed upon the night.
A bolt was hurled from heaven and it found its mark below,
within the silent forest stood one massive tree aglow.
Barbs of lightning pierced its trunk and blew the shards of bark
into arrays of shrapnel as it ripped its limbs apart.
Then torrent rains began to pour upon its ravaged frame
to calm the rage sent from above, extinguishing the flame.
Those mighty winds have faded to a whisper once again,
the Sun returns its solace as it beams across the land.
The silent calm of morning is restored by breaking dawn.
For now the quiet fury from the Heavens has withdrawn.
Host: Mark Toney
Marathon Contest mile 25
1-19-2020
Categories:
timbered, allusion, angst, appreciation,
Form:
Couplet
Far above a timbered valley --
High up on a mountain peak --
The beauty of the day surrounds me
As I listen to the breezes speak.
Serenity caresses my soul --
Gentle winds tune each leaf they touch --
Until a symphony is heard
By senses not attuned to such.
I question the source of this artistry.
And, as resonant chords the winds pursue,
Lyric breezes sing their songs
And flood my mind with thoughts of you.
So, I listen for a voice in the wind --
As I wait for your spirit to pass by.
When I reach for a hand meant for me
The spell is broken by a sigh.
Categories:
timbered, imagination, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
There was a barn once painted red
that stood on grandpa's old homestead.
T'was built so very long ago -
a sorry sight. I told him so.
I often, as a boy, had wondered
why it hadn't ever timbered.
I knew the sagging rafters creaked
and roof, with missing shingles, leaked.
I stepped inside, the barn doors gone
and found it home for sparrows' song.
Circled they, around freely,
over floors in man's debris.
No matter which way I would glance,
dust in the sunlight rays would dance.
The warning cobwebs seemed to sketch.
Between the timbers, they would stretch.
Foundation laid in cobblestone
but its sure footing wasn't known.
Between the stones were gaping cracks
that could not hide the basic facts.
Now every post in building leaned,
and wall to wall had needed cleaned.
The winter winds would whistle through.
That big ol' barn had lost, I knew.
The weather's sin had taken toll
and wind and sleet had found its soul.
Its only purpose, couldn't render -
so it offered full surrender.
Now that ol' barn is much like us
and in our wants, we make a fuss.
Our sagging souls are so uncouth
that we no longer seek the truth.
Deceit flies in our open door
'til we care little anymore.
We’d rather compromise instead
as cobwebs fill our empty head.
Our minds are filled in sins' debris
with anyone whom we'd agree.
The love is lost between our bones.
It leaves us cold with loosened stones.
Will our beliefs stand firm, upright -
or will we yield to windy blight?
Are we responsible instead, or
is our character really dead?
Down through the years, the time has lapsed
and long ago that barn collapsed.
As I look now at its demise
I listen to the worlds last cries....
©2008 louis gander / ganderpoems.org
Categories:
timbered, character, freedom, political, remember,
Form:
Quatrain
A priest once told me that the lump
on my hand was a ganglion,
a fortress of fat besieged by health.
At last it burst and the hand swelled
like an old man's,
shovel shaped and splayed.
It was her black pan, butcher's meat,
too many eggs; backed up
on a plate like silage.
It was her slight hands shaking,
the constant poking with a bread knife,
the endless journey to the
first biscuit from the pack;
a menace that caught our hearts
and buttered them,
teeth marks, crusty.
Moreover, tomatoes,
pulpy and bloodlet,
burnt my wicked tongue,
purged a shard of shame,
dare I eat a box full
bedraggled in juices
and spitting at the angle of a chop kept?
Caked at the start in the corner
of the pan, beached in lard,
over fried, sole fit, chewed in discontent,
longing for more
between the acceptance of juices;
hope swallowed with brittle rashers,
timbered and gathered.
It was the thought, the deed,
the plan, the wait and duty of it.
Potatoes, eschonced in the pot, sullen, strewn;
a flaky hand sliced them deftly,
washed the starch off and raked them in.
It was sausages, flame ripped,
dashed, blackened and wedged
on the barbs of the fork,
heaved in with fried bread,
salty with froth.
It was puddings,
sinewed and cut crooked,
corpuscles of grizzle
congealing the blood,
jaws working the skin like the cud.
Eggs like ignoble sea creatures,
speckled and stiff,
surviving on the rise and fall of breath,
morphing into another gender
or something to wonder,
to chew on, to mention, once.
Perhaps a bean to lubricate,
to allow a channel of liberty
but still reheated to a lump,
a thankless sweetener to a morsel,
not unlike news.
Tea, besugared and welcome,
a scald to erode stubborn detritus,
a wash to emerge from.
Between mouthfuls of talk we glided,
sometimes low to the ground
near silence, seldom
scuttling to any real height.
I suppose that was left for
pipe and ***, in the latter end,
when all offence was shut up tight
and we had regard again;
the smoke curled up
and carried our souls,
and mingled, indiscernible
and flowed away.
Categories:
timbered, food, friendship, loss, memory,
Form:
Elegy
In the bay of icy mists, the viking ghost ships arrive, sails set full ahead,
Crashing anchors rattle loose, plunging beneath the cold murky surf,
As the hailing horns of the dead, announce to their lord, Odin, that
Valor's courageous have arrived, and wish to enter, the great halls of
Valhalla.
Here the cold winds of the north dwell, it's chilling
Breezes flow freely, through the phantom warriors spirits.
But these rough men fear not death, nor it's harsh breath, for they
Are vikings of the northern kingdoms, and they have come for
Their last rewards treasure, to enter beyond the gates of Valhalla,
And are armed ready to fight, beside their God Odin,
In victorious battle.
In these waters of the ethereal unknown passage,
The cracking and heaving, of these heavily
Laden vessels made of vapors thin mists,
Send an eerie chill down the backs, of mortal men.
As mountain icebergs float upon the wind
Chilled oceans surface, the Valkyries approach,
Smiling beneath their shimmering chain-mail of
Brilliance honor.
On the evergreen shores, a timbered lined hall stands,
It's gates of golden pitch blaze, with fires white
Hot flames of those concurred, their souls scream
For penance mercy.
Two long swords, Chris-crossed are the gates steel dead bolts lock,
Above it's embers glow, a fierce eagle with red crimson eyes,
Grapples, it's sharpen claws, cutting deeply into the oaken shields,
On the thatched roof of the golden hall.
A lone wolf beneath therein, passes sniffing at the
Garments of the fallen men, if fears scent, the wolf so smells,
Cast out is this soul, and dammed it is forevermore.
Within the many souls do enter, a hardy welcoming at the feasting
Table mead and honey wine, is set before these hero's of honor.
But outside the ships remain tethered, awaiting for their masters safe
Return, unaware of Thor's approach, his mighty hammer set at the
Ready.
Striking with thunders raw force, the hammer of power,
Brakes against the sheer ice, as quick as the lightning's flash,
Freezing tidal waves clash upwards, swallowing whole all evidence,
That these ghost ships ever existed.
Oh Valhalla, I pledge thee my life, my fighting spirit, my blood and
Body given in the name of Odin, for thy honor sake, shall I live and die,
Behold the vow's pledge of these Nordic men, known as the Vikings.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
timbered, adventure, history, imagination, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
Categories:
timbered, anxiety, racism, , atheist,
Form:
Haibun
I remember it well, the house was half timbered
and layered with brick that married the hill
White paint was peeling on the north-western side
and nothing but work would spark much appeal
We were traveling home after a weekend's adventure
without ever knowing we had entered the future
A sign on the gate had caused us to dawdle,
so we turned up the driveway to buy a few apples
But something had charmed us, like gold in the sun
The place sat up high, on a hilltop alone
with the clouds and the treetops, that filtered the light
leaving shadows on slopes that followed the road
Something had frozen a moment of sun
and gave us a feeling of something undone
The old man who lived there had much more to say
about selling the place, and a move into town
where an apple a day meant a run to the store
Quickly …. our thoughts, were left at his door
to grapple, to sort, to ripen and ponder
A wonder he didn't conclude us insane
Out in the yard, our children were playing
Running through grass that scented the hills
A house with good bones, we could call it a home
We climbed out on a limb, for a place to seek shelter,
we could make it our own
and that's what we did
The house of our dreams, is where we still live
Our dream came alive, and without one regret
We turned to buy apples……, we drove through the gate
We've lived here for decades. It must have been fate
____________________________________________________________
6/26/16
Something Seemingly Insignificant and Unexpected Changed My Life - Poetry Contest
Categories:
timbered, blessing, happiness, home, house,
Form:
Free verse
Beneath my bark is a whisper stilled in silence,
Scrolled within my rings of age, is a wish waiting
To be answered.
A timeless spark, infused engrain's of wooden pulp,
Legacies promise sense before my birth’s germination,
My special reason for existence.
Warmed by the sun’s rays, cradled by Mother Nature’s
Loving embrace, I’ve grown in the shadows of my elders,
My brethren of the forest wilds.
Tenderly a sprout grew forth, within me a secret kept
Unto myself alone, happily watching the world passes
Ideally by, as seasons changed from spring, to summer,
Yielding unto fall, then covered beneath
Blankets of chilling white.
I fear not the slicing of the human ax, or mourn
For having to leave thy native soil rich and warm,
For my life’s secret is coming true you see,
Mine inner Gift is to be a Christmas tree.
Blazing chains of sparkling lights shall grace
My branches of evergreen, as trims silvery tinsel
Hangs from my strong timbered limbs, that
Shine in the glowing warmth of this magical
Holiday called Christmas.
Crowning from above, admiration's highest branch
Lies a sacred symbol of ages eon’s long ago passed
A brilliant star of opulence, twinkling in the twilight’s
After glow of this special season.
Its eternal light weaves its mystical rays through my
Thick branches of pine, casting a shining upon the
Manjor hidden underneath, behold the greatest gift
Ever given, a simple child of the everlasting spirit.
Beneath my bark is a whisper stilled in silence,
Scrolled within my rings of age, is a wish waiting
To be answered.
A timeless spark, infused engrain's of wooden pulp,
Legacies promise sense before my birth’s germination,
My special reason for existence.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
timbered, america, christmas, faith, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
Where frosty flurries flourish
Sailing silver clouds stop,
Driving drips do nourish
Where would-be rains drop
Above a timbered tundra land
Laden lumber under showy snow,
Pretty piles of icy inches expand
Wild winter winds bellow below
A bathing beauty became the birch
And diamond bubbles graced her lap,
Sparkling clean, crested a new perch
Was on her head a shower cap
The pungent pine no longer evergreen
With cones of vanilla like ice cream,
Veiled in volumes of a scene serene
Frosty flurries flourish a January dream.
Categories:
timbered, january, nature, snow, storm,
Form:
Alliteration
FREEZE - FRAME OF QUEBEC CITY
Time-capsule towers over St. Lawrence:
Heights of Abraham look imperiously down
On the Ile d’Orleans spread over the river,
Chateau Frontenac’s fairytale frivolous turrets,
Le Parlement’s serious severity,
Antique town with narrow cobbled streets,
Overhanging shoulders of timbered gables.
Clipclop of caleche leaps back centuries,
Cobblestones echo concertina and fiddle music
About log-driving men with peavey poles.
L’ete indien - a world of rust and copper leaf,
Montmorency Falls and the legend,
All frozen in time and in winter’s snowy grip.
Categories:
timbered, urban
Form:
Imagism
You question why I wish to live
In isolation among the wilds,
Forsaking all society gives
And its lure of ventures beguiled?
To answer this I can't decree
In words what lacks simplicity
Instead, why not come with me
To taste my eccentricities.
Come with me to stand
Atop a snowy mountain's peak
To gaze at miles of virgin land
The beauty of which words can't speak.
Come, let it strip away your cares
And then perchance you just may dare
To feel the peace that's waiting there
Atop that snowy mountain fair.
Come with me and walk
Along a winding river's brink
To listen to the wood thrush talk
Or watch a doe come out to drink.
Come, watch the beaver's clever craft
Then pause to hear what few men have
Come stroll along that peaceful path
To listen to your spirit laugh.
Come with me and run
Through golden fields of flowing grain
Then pausing there to fill your lungs
Take time to smell the windblown plains.
Come, watch the merry butterfly
Float 'cross an amber colored sky
And hear the earth give out her sigh
As now the day says his goodbye.
Come with me and sleep
And lay beneath the star strewn skies
In timbered heights, so dark and deep
To find repose for weary eyes.
Come, think of all you've seen today
Of Mother Nature's grand display
And once we have knelt down to pray
Then let your dreams come out to play.
Then arise with the sun
And return to society
To work until the day is done
On another man's proprieties.
Think then of our day gone past
And of these questions you've asked
You'll know then why I'm an outcast
Who's chosen the more tranquil path.
Timothy I. Brumley
Categories:
timbered, animals, inspirational, nature, peace,
Form:
Narrative
Nestled in a valley in a clearing of large oak,
while sunlight touched but treetops where the baby robins woke,
stood an old abandoned cabin that had seen some better days,
had once seen better fam'lies and had once seen better ways.
A little stream meandered by with water clean and pure
that seemed to say, "Come drink from me. Your problems, I will cure."
And sparkled bright, the diamonds that had glistened in the sky,
as did the dew on God's green earth that blessed the patient eye.
Hither, yon the squirrels worked and did what squirrels do.
They shared their ample spacious trees where little finches flew -
where trees wore brilliant yellow, red and golden colored suits
where leaves had wiggled in the breeze among leftover fruits.
But when the sun had cleared the hill and peeked above the trees
exposing all the guilt of man and sin that Heaven sees -
it brought to light the darkness deep inside those timbered wall,
where dust and cobwebs fought a war and won man's mighty fall.
Now just a second, let's step back and tell me how they can -
how tiny little spiders beat the big and mighty man?
Just maybe, man with ego big, was thought too big to fail -
and now the dust and spiderwebs own every board and nail.
That cabin once was filled with 'men', with love and life and health,
but now sits there abandoned and long gone his pride and wealth.
I once knew well the fam'ly who had lived inside those walls
of that abandoned cabin where our Savior's voice still calls.
If mighty man's big head was pulled along with his conceit
from clouds so he'd descend back down and settle on his feet -
then maybe he could still enjoy the cabin in the trees
and persevere through patience with the autumn colored leaves -
that dance above the cabin roof, that seem to taunt en mass -
to each and every one of us until possessions pass -
that man was beaten down by bugs who haven't any clue
that God is still in full control over me and you...
©2012 louis gander - ganderpoems.org
Categories:
timbered, autumn, nature, old, pride,
Form:
Quatrain
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
Categories:
timbered, england, history,
Form:
Free verse
Every journey worth its salt has rocky places
Bank to bank filled with frothing white water,
The economics of avoidance, steering a lean course,
Avoiding higher peaks that thrill - vouchsafed to others.
Rest days taken during times of lower water
Even portaging some sections altogether,
Below one dam a three mile jumble of boulders.
Only one stretch really caught us napping.
Truth be told it really had me worried,
But knowing that we were riding higher water
I steered as best I could between foaming protrusions
That prudence whispered likely hid a rock.
Just once, as I recall, we grounded on gravel bar,
But I pushed us off before current turned us broadside. (10)
Minnesota's rollicking Mississippi is a charmer,
And many State Campgrounds court her boundaries,
Some even have hot water showers and manicured sites,
But a pall of mosquitoes infests more timbered parks
That no wind short of a tornado has the power to disperse,
We ate our evening meals under beekeeper's hats and nets,
It is funny when mosquitoes dive bomb cooling plates of food.
Poet's Notes:
(10) This is a real danger for a canoe in a rapid. A canoe that turns broadside to the rushing water can be rapidly filled with water and swamped.
Categories:
timbered, boat, dream, journey, nature,
Form:
Blank verse
That Dark Day, Our Childhood Castle Was Felled
Deed was dark, day of its felling
deafening that mighty crash!
Tragic this tale of the telling
thoughtless men, acting so rash.
Where rests now, its flying hordes,
winged weary and storm attacked?
Hammer and nails will pierce its boards
another forest gem ransacked!
Horror struck, sight of destruction
young lad, heart was thus impaled;
needed wisdom, life's instruction
on why sincere prayer had failed!
Mighty oak, child's treasured friend
taken, slain as if not alive,
yes, said - all things come to this end
greed is gold, for its luster strive.
When death invades, innocence lost
will such deep scars ever heal?
Can gold thus gained, justify cost
when a child finds heart break real?
R.J. Lindley,
May 25th, 1977
Note- (Poem was inspired by the (1968) cutting down of our childhood castle, swing and climbing kingdom of childhood fantasy). My younger brothers and sisters cried..
Forest behind our home was being timbered out for its dollar value in its old,mighty and majestic oak trees.
Although land was owned by others, children see such gems when so loved as their own..
Categories:
timbered, childhood, loss, love, memory,
Form:
Rhyme