Best Wooden Poems
wooden sea- rafts float
as the hardest beads
the mildest prayers
offer layered dahlias
for Holy Queen's regatta
~ Dedicated to Our Lady of Fatima's 90th Anniversary
POTD/POTW
~ For Richard Lamoreaux's Poem of the Day Contest
-------
I was pleasantly glad to receive both awards for this
short form. It may have touched the spirit of those
who celebrate Mary's devotion as a Mother. Resubmitted 4/11/2019
In the far away island on desolate seashore
You build your desire castle of dream sands
You protect the fragile niche
From the breaking waves rolling to reach you
They can’t churn the sandy abode
Made by insular lonely people.
Your windows are closed to the sunny sky
Shrouded by the dense darkness
You turn into a slice of moonless night
In your periphery I pass you by
I can’t see through you
The true colors of opaque people.
You fly in the frozen sky
On the forlorn wings of winter
In your heart of Arctic sea
Sentiments freeze, don’t swim
I can’t hold your limp hands
For support for you’re cold people.
In your life that you make a desert
The oasis disappears under the dunes
Blazed by your flaming mind
Emotions burn, don’t flow
I can’t find a stream in your heart
To float my feelings for you’re dry people.
I’m wandering in the museum of our times
Where you’ve all turned into wooden people.
June 5, 2018
"There was an old cemetery
in that fence row.
Thirty some graves I've heard;
no record of it at the court house."
The neighbor pointed past
the corn rows,
Round Up sterile,
to posts askew
like aged teeth;
broken wire pulled down by sod,
prickly with random barbs
and wild roses.
No sign of it, or them,
who might be there yet,
no concrete vault
or weather weary headstone
to chip the disk blades.
Gone with
the builder of the fence
ever fertile dust,
scattered by the plow.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound
the lamas leap and the water falls-- clear,
mindful, the wind's play on the Quechua's ground.
The majesty of the Andes astounds
for from behind the clouds, the peaks reappear.
From the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Like great red-clay dunes or snow capped mounds;
courts rise and fall in terrain, so austere;
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Rainbows of red, blue, and gold oft surround
distant ruins of gray stones, now severe
from the mountain's peak; the wooden flutes sound.
Solid, earth-bound, sun-browned, lost to the hounds,
so, Quechua shepherds bound stairs cavalier--
mindful; the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
Pachamama's love surrounds without bounds,
long gone are the conquers; all life is here,
from the mountain's peak, the wooden flutes sound--
mindful, the winds play on the Quechua's ground.
* Quechua is one of the native people of Peru
**The Dominican Monks set hounds trained to kill
on the natives who refused conversion.
*** Pachamama, fertility Godess in Incas Mythos
(An invented ghost tale)
A tale was told how centuries ago
at one old wooden bridge, there had occurred
a tragedy, for led there by some foe,
three children, by his scythe, were massacred.
It plagued my mind what drove him to this act;
how evil could prevail and not atone!
So one dank night the path to death I tracked,
and on the bridge I found myself alone.
Then suddenly I shrank. There loomed ahead
a disembodied soul with horror’s face.
Then circling endlessly the bridge, he fled,
as smaller ghosts with bandied blades gave chase.
Three gravestones lie nearby - no less. . . no more.
And yet the spirits I had seen were four!
An oldie for Carolyn Devonshire's Halloween Fright Poetry Contest
Sat on top of High Lonesome Hill
It would scream, cry, lacked grease and oil
The lonely sound as the mountain wind would blow
Pumped ice cold water, thirsty cows would drink their fill
In the summer time, the Sun would boil
Still pumping even in the snow
Built out of oak timber
Many years ago, strong as the day was long
Storms come and go, still standing tall
Never missed a day of work since I can remember
And singing it's mournful song
For a bunch of thirsty cows, it was "Cattle Call"
The road there was an old dry creek bed
In the oak trees, the deer would hide
I would ride there on a buckskin bay
For hours of dreaming and resting my head
All that was yesterday
Windmill spin as you pump the cowboy's gold
With a piece of beef jerky, a no finer meal
If that could only happen again
Like the memory that only a cowboy can hold
That old spinning windmill wheel
It was Heaven without any sin
"The Wooden Cradle"
a white wooden empty cradle, I wait in the nursery room
for the smell of baby fragrance to illuminate sleeping bloom
years have escalated, still sounds of silence hurt my ears
for all I hear are tender sobs from a Mother's broken tears.
I felt a distant heartbeat once, but it has ceased to linger
my warmth caressed a dying soul who touched my slats with finger
his breath was labored; his life short, but I held his heart close
now haunting memories exist as I cuddle his sweet ghost.
my frame sits in a sunny place, outside, I see a tree
swaying in the balmy breeze where a swing should be
instead, I cry, so silently, recall a tiny form
I embraced in a moment in time and kept him safe and warm.
if these walls within this room could whisper words of sorrow
sheer pain would cause tremendous tears to fashion sad tomorrows
I sympathize with woeful walls whose treasure no longer looms
but no-one understands my loss inside the nursery room.
*For Frank H.'s PERSONIFICATION Contest.
The old wooden bench with the high back
Carefully covered with a soft cushion
Drew her to come, sit, enjoy this morn's slack
And view the fog as it covered Orion
The bench held her in its arms many days
Her books and glasses felt comfortable lying there
On afternoons a scented shawl thrown blase'
He would visit her each day his life share
Today her scent lingered, her glasses lay
Nowhere was she seen; small footsteps led away
In his heart alarm bells rang with dismay
Rain pours 'pon the old bench_ grief display
If only he had not kept her confined
And let her spirit with his freely align
Finis'_
Sponsor: Black Eyed Susan
Contest: On A Bench
Moses began with blood on wood, the lamb to slaughter went,
Not until the birth of Christ, the significant intent.
Upon the cross with hands held high, the nails biting through his wrists,
Yet never once upon the cross my Saviour did resist.
Unto the maiden at the foot, his body laid and bare,
His mother Mary held him close and offered up her prayer.
And so today I ask you all, what price would you pay,
For such a man to take the cross in such a loving way?
The sins of the world he took within, and so harsh his heart did break,
And I know that mankind is not so false, that this life taken, was a mistake.
So look upon your wrists and feet, upon your side and back,
No scars will ever upon you show, for he took them with every lash.
Whipped and torn his flesh did tear, his blood flowing upon the ground,
And through this torment that he bore, he never made a sound.
What right has man to use his name in cursing and in vain,
The Lamb who took our sins away, Blessed be his name!
Quiet and still now.
The swing occasionally catches the air.
The tire never moves.
There’s no one there to care.
The jungle gym beside it is played with by squirrels.
The sand box below holds creatures quiet and shy.
Tiny plastic men are lost in the sand deep below.
A metal car is with them, once favorite of them all.
Leaves stir in the clubhouse, with spiders in its loft.
My son hadn’t played with it for a long, long while.
But I hadn’t noticed while he was here running in the house.
And now when I see the Wooden Swing Set…
It’s connects with my empty heart.
A touch of Empty Nest Syndrome brought this poem to me.
Comes a time of unbreaking
what's broken
maybe broken to the point
a thing can't be fixed
ever
forever
severed.
To be sure prayers can find a home
but not when a divine plan's mark
is missed
yet must insist
with clenched fist
I resist.
A simple woodcarver, be
like Mister Geppetto
fend off a life of despair
perhaps with a little help from
a Fairy with Turquoise Hair.
For a creator
nothing causes elation
like its finest creation
seeking salvation.
All may end in ruin
in stringed freedom's destroy
it's never easy
bein' a wooden boy.
Life's call is abrupt
so keep your dukes up.
Contemplating atop the “Great Wall,” was Neruda comparing similarities of this and “Machu
Picchu?” Was there more commonality beyond stonemasons craft? High stone walls ancient
cities, “great walls,” lesser ones (Berlin) are designated barriers between peoples/ideologies
for protection. Long standing cultural isolation results.
Constructing a fence of wood at Isla Negra afforded symbolic protection. Wooden slats
allowed words over and through pickets to the world beyond. If “Machu Picchu” was “a trip to
the serenity of the soul,” fences and “great walls” lie on opposite sides of that.
Neruda’s prolific poetry rose above politics unencumbered by walls, fences or dogma.
for contest on Pablo Neruda
Wooden window creaks -
Tree branch swing hanging lowly
Peeking sun thaws snow
Wooden toy or boy
Pinocchio tells no lies
A real boy who cries
I want to tell you a story that will not end with the glory,
Of a good friendship gone gory, come on drink the drink from my flask.
You have backstabbed me through my worst, so come on now, do quench your thirst,
And to be buzzed, you will be first; I know you’re love to have a blast.
Thanks for helping me; you’re the only one who could help with this task.
Come on, let us bury the past.
Do you remember my good friend, often times you try to pretend?
Saying in you, I should depend, masked people must take off their mask.
Behind my back you were lying, in revenge now I’m applying,
Like in your lies you were trying, to avoid whatever I ask.
And now you will feel, what I was feeling, on the wrath that I cast,
Go on; drink the drink from my flask.
Do you feel inebriated, perhaps too intoxicated?
It seems your vision has faded, my, you have gotten drunk so fast.
Come on help me mix this caustic, hurry now! Is it too toxic?
It’s not harmful; you won’t get sick, be careful it could give a blast.
I push him in, but he don’t fit, so now I had to use my rasp,
I vowed my revenge, so take in your breath; it is to be your last.
And now in this drum you will bask.
You have done me this way too long; lying, stealing; the same old song,
And in life you do not belong, for it’s your lies that are too vast.
I’m done with my contemplating and your death I am awaiting,
Should I go, I am debating, now you’re time in there has surpassed.
I am not like you; I take it further, can you see the contrast?
For your help, it’s an A, you passed.
Sips of liquor is what it took, to rid this liar, thief, and crook,
Now entombed in this little nook, I wipe the germs off of my flask.
And though he’s dead, I am upset, because my clothes and shoes are wet,
And for this day I won’t forget; my senses I begin to grasp.
But for now all of my problems are floating, in acid and gas,
There they’ll dwell, in the wooden cask.
_____________________________________
For Elaine George's 'Tell me a story' contest
The form is Trochaic Octameter
Iambic pentameter serves as the substitute.