Best Wood 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.
At a dead man’s throat
lies the rain drenched woolen scarf
that stifled his screams.
Cold Winds howl through decayed trees -
witnesses in the shadows.
She listens to the whispering of trees
and views the dance of wind on dew kissed leaves.
Surrounded by tall silhouettes, she sees
emerging patterns as each shadow weaves
the light that lingers on extended limbs.
Green arms reach up as if to glorify
the One whose hand (as light of sun now dims)
is splashing brilliant colors onto sky.
The wood nymph relishes her tranquil home,
the night owl's hoot, and soothing sounds of dark.
She now reclines beneath a leafy dome,
embraced by (and embracing) steadfast bark.
As Full Moon glows, her respiration slows,
then melds with breath of elm in deep repose.
6/25/2010
There's a path I always take
down to the river where the woods
are dressed down open
The light of the sky
doesn't shine in your eyes
but leads the way to redemption
I like to stand there for a moment
on the shortcut created by troubled feet
woven with wilderness bliss
and cigarettes butts
It's a path that never sleeps
I see the same semi-blind vision
of the river every time
I hear baby boat horns blaring in the distance
and floating out of view
I walk to the rhythm of the trees
the faint sound of Wild Thing
playing in the car
I carry a bent black rod
with a tangled neon line
and a mud-covered box of rusty hooks
and flaming red bobbers
I wear my T-Shirt that says Iron City Beer
that's cut off at the belly
or sometimes my other one
that says Just Do It
with shredded denim shorts
that ride my buttocks
After a few seconds of inhaling
and exhaling an indecision
I do what most fishermen do
with only my thoughts to keep me company
I find a clean rock
and cast with desperation
The woods close
Eight decades and a half "young" is my mom.
Nine years and half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but one good thing - I now CAN'T multiply!
And right behind my mom I'm following. . .
The white hairs keep appearing; it's with dread
I picture myself one day swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head!
Mom always was athletic till her knees
gave out. . . so walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, she has no grave disease.
I think she just too often scrubbed the floor!
Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
At least my knees might possibly stay good.
For the Humorous Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin
Have I jealousy of my dear mate?
I don’t think I have any, but wait!
I sure wish I could pee
in the wood near a tree
like my husband does, standing up straight!
For Line Gauthier's Funny Limerick Contest
Wood Carving
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
9/27/2014
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
New never is...
(Charles Wood)
We are but voyeurs,
peering through the iris
of the painter’s eye’s recording
details of a scene
not meant for sharing,
when wealth and power
are kith and kin
of the common man,
and rank hath neither
meaning nor memory
or power over
the passions,
the needs of youth,
the sway of love,
the slip of flesh on flesh,
the scent of earth,
the consequence.
Do you not feel the crackle of
fear and violence,
smell as I do
shame and desperation,
comprehend the role of
each of the players
by the masks they wear?
Imagine if you will
the hours sure to follow:
the actions dictated by convention;
the disregarded pleas;
the assignment of blame;
the mean whispers;
the banishment;
the unchangeable fortunes.
If only it were true
that love will triumph
instead of being mere
frayed threads of duty.
At last the artist looks away
from the unfortunate scene,
quelling memories
far too close for comfort.
For Isaiah Zerbst’s contest.
A humble man is what I am before you.
You see, I am not worthy to say…
“Sir, may I have your daughter’s hand,
But please yield to your wife’s pleas:
Calm down a while as I explain what’s deep in my heart.
Why deprive your daughter of a possible life of pure bliss..?
Because sir, understand that love’s triumph seldom fails.
You see sir, “a humble man standing before you is what I am.
The love and protection you have for your daughter I understand.
But you see “simple is what raised me,
A simple man, with simple needs.
A simple man who is able to love deeply and fairly.
Yes I have made my fair share of mistakes.
Might have scarred an angel or two,
But who was ever born with a heart of gold..?
A humble man is what I am before you.
You see sir; the heart is simply out of our control.
How can one ignore a beautiful feeling?
A feeling that pulls hard at every fore of your soul.
How at some point we all wish we could roll over and forget its undying existence.
But sir, who was ever given a constraint heart..?
Yes, a humble man is what I am.
You see, I work sir, to earn a living
You may as you have, call it slave work,
Unworthy to have your daughter as my own.
But you see, these hands are built,
Built to struggle and earn a better life,
No man was ever born fulfilled sir,
And no man ever chooses to be born poor.
A humble man is what I was brought up to be,
But you see sir; it hurts me to see your daughter turn her face away
Turn away, to hide soft tears, which ooze dejectedly from her pure eyes.
What crime have I committed not to be regarded worthy..?
Because you see sir, at the end of the day love’s triumph seldom fails.
A humble man, with a heart that will strive,
Simple ways that will overcome all tribulations,
A heart that has been pulled from its place of sheer hopelessness
Hands that will slave for a better life and future for your daughter.
An upbringing that will sweep her off her feet every chance there is;
Is what I am sir.
So you see sir, please listen and understand that love’s triumph seldom fails
When two hearts are willing.
stoic or mourning
in a time of depression
or keepers of secrets
with a hostile divide?
why daylit drawn curtains
made from fabric she's wearing
and 'mother-in-law's tongue'
on the porch to the side?
is the pitchfork that's upright
a symbol of darkness
that's repeated in lines
on the clothes, arch and face?
a tribute to values
in eldon, iowa
or a satire in oil
of its people and place?
Wood Fairies There Often Play
Deep in that far wooded glen
was a place made for men
Was not so easily found
complete with Nature sound
Comfort for man and beast
just a mile northeast
Great to rest my soul there
peacefulness makes me aware
Wood fairies there often play
stacking rocks in my way
A test to see me step aside
watching from where they hide
Daring to find resting sleep
my soul they try to keep
No malice,just a loving desire
to share their eternal fire
Each visit I must bid adieu
with a, "so sad to leave you"
My friends of the wooded glen
thanks for allowing me in
Always this is the sweet reply
see you in the by and by
You are most welcomed any time
our uniting is most sublime
Each Spring my trek begins
to again see my little friends
As I slowly walk my way in
I marvel at this far wooded glen
Robert J. Lindley, 05-23-2015
At Halloween
At Halloween, just a few nights ago,
I saw a sinister dark and tangled wood
Beside a town where two rivers flow.
Entering by hidden paths not many know,
There an old and crumbling castle stood
At Halloween just a few nights ago.
From that castle a hooting owl flew low,
Leading me through that dark and tangled wood
Beside a town where two rivers flow,
Ancient halls lit by shaded new moon’s glow
Where spectral guardians in armour stood
At Halloween just a few nights ago,
I was lost in that place dark spirits know,
The owl perching in that haunted wood
Beside a town where two rivers flow
Close by that castle old where shadows grow
And silent ghosts of warriors stood
At Halloween just a few nights ago,
Beside a town where two rivers flow.
10/31/2022
Entered into Halloween Poetry Contest
By Emile Pinet
Wood Hills Creek
All is quaintly quiet on Wood Hills Creek
The day after Christmas a silence unique
No shaking hands or exchanging of smiles
Only symmetrical snow as it pleasantly piles
All is fractal frost on Wood Hills Creek
The air chilled and damp a barometer bleak
No warming of hands and hearts left cold
For Christmas is over now back to the old
All is blasphemy bitter on Wood Hills Creek
With shivering silences no words they speak
Goodwill toward man nowhere to be found
Only merchant materials that keep us bound
All is lamentingly lost on Wood Hills Creek
As greed gracefully falls a morphic mystique
The Spirit of Father Christmas left far behind
Until next year...just one day...to be kind.
Dec.21.2016
The Day After Christmas - Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays...
In deep forest with rotten leaves and wood
Where the sun’s light finds it hard to reflect.
Where wind won't blow even if it could
below dense undergrowth, it’s deadwood wrecked.
There is much silence there; all sound in check.
Here’s where the webs of spiders hang and cling
few flowers bloom, but weeds and mosses grow.
Broken branches and twigs which the trees fling
shrivel mushrooms that smell like sour bread dough.
In there hides the things the wood fairy knows.
A secret of life the wood fairy knows.
His burrow dug deep in the undergrowth
as he hibernates under winter's snow
to sneak out come spring to run to and fro
to play tricks on man and animals both.
As he plays in the light between the trees
while hiding in shadows of moss clothed stones.
So very often heard but seldom seen
is his deadwood follies with fancy tones
like the shadows themselves the forest owns.
Here in the deepest woods man seldom finds
the burrows of fairies or nest of crows
for we only go where the bare trail winds
and we walk as if our eyes were closed.
We seldom find what the wood fairy knows.
I have pilfered in deep, dark woods in vain
probing for what the wood fairy owns.
I have concluded we are all the same.
It is in oneself where happiness grows.
This is the secret the wood fairy knows.
A wondrous instrument is the guitar; its dancing strings are melodious to their last note. Strings ring out to celebrate or just to party by themselves; a mellow mood has acoustic guitar, as its wood sings out in tones of jubilation.
Dancing strings doing
A clog whenever fingers
Tickle their fancy.