Best Woodcraft Poems
Today's a busy day in a small town
Folk bustling around all sporting frowns
Dozens of stalls, with beautiful displays
Wonderful products with beautiful arrays
Jewellery, so beautiful, stylish and cleverly made
Woodcraft magnificent in the highest of grade
Clothing made to perfection, lovely knitwear on show
Dresses and skirts, how I wish I could sew
The crocket and pottery is beautiful too
I bought me a vase with flowers so blue
Well times heading on, it's time to go home
But I will be back, this market to roam
Muscles ache and backbones creak
New things bought become antique
Metals tarnish, plaster cracks
Paintings fade, their colour lacks
Rocks erode and woodcraft weathers
As does brick and hands and leather
So can't this work on poetry?
A problem for a bard trainee
I've read - I've learnt - my knowledge thin
My writing's young - how do I win?
Shift new to old - you'll never guess
To age my words - my verse distress
Change you to thou or thee or thy
Kick in wherefore instead of why
From shall to shalt and does to dost
And will to wilt to age adjust
Nay here and there but hither thither
Dally, tarry 'stead of dither
On some occasions add an "e"
Ye olde shoppe - example twee
Prithee sprinkle -eth or -est
To bringeth years I thinkest best
Methinks this mayst not spake the truth
Nor verily nor so forsooth
Perchance deceipt myself become
To transform words is rather rum
To scribe like quothed by Will Shakespeare
Tis most corrupt - a thin veneer
And so anon I stop this verse
Afore olde English gets much worse
Entry to contest "Old Jewelry or Just Old Things or Old, Old Poems"
Written 2nd November 2016 or hundreds of years ago?
If my house was on fire,
What would be the things, without which I would not retire?
Sixteen minutes of fate and so many things to accumulate.
Seven things that keeps our emotions entwined,
Would make my priority before I wind up and evacuate.
Mom’s paintings and Dad’s woodcraft.
Wrapped inside are numerous stories and memories.
I would surely save, every piece of their art.
My little sweet sister, My boss for ever!
Hahaha! Her public yet super-secret box, always under cover!
Hides her secret box behind her clothes in her cupboard.
Her broken nails, broken tooth, toffee wrappers, variety of erasers, her lock diary, the list goes on and on.
Even in my dreams, if I forget to take that box along,
Rest assured, I am gone!
The note book of my songs along my fortuitous guitar,
It always makes me a star!
“Me and my guitar”! We can never stay apart.
My blue and white, simple tennis shoes.
It makes my moves absolutely smooth.
It is with me, for every rally and every move.
Closest to my heart is my tennis racket.
Yes, it remains by my side.
An incredible gift from my mentor, my coach.
It’s an honour and my pride!
I don’t think, without it I would survive.
But it would be an ordeal that would never dissipate.
Wish me good luck! I should never have, such a fate.
2/18/2019
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Contest Name: Seven Things You Would Save If Your House Was On Fire
When I saw you in your casket, it brought tears to my eyes.
You died two years ago today on the thirteenth day of July.
When the doctors said that your illness was terminal, I didn't want to believe that it was true.
But sadly, they were correct and two years ago today, we lost you.
From 1975 to 2010 you worked at Woodcraft, you worked with lumber.
People may think that I'm crazy because I believe that 13 is an unlucky number.
You died on the thirteenth year of the century and also on the thirteenth day of July.
You took Chemotherapy treatments for months and two years ago today, you died.
[Dedicated to Charles F. Johnson (1947-2013) who died on July 13, 2013 at the age of 65.]
I read the weeks obituaries closely
saw lines of passing on every page
I wondered who they were and
who were those they left behind.
The names meant nothing to me.
I did not know them.
What did it matter to me they liked golf,
had a love for woodcraft, planted gardens?
What was the meaning of lists of those that passed?
I will never know them
or take the time to categorize
those things they liked to do.
Dark mornings before the birds awaken
I rise like those from other graves
and with the other ghosts stir alone
within our movement
toward the coffee and the light;
pen and pad held ready
to meet the challenge of my words;
to play with fire and golden strands
of filaments of thought.
Today I’ll choose the right combination
of characters in search of that single truth,
lost forever inside a forest of final light
and one day for one moment
someone will cast a casual glance
my way and say, “what did it matter
that he liked poetry?”
I never knew him.