Best Woodshed Poems
We are a jelly jar full of pencils new in town.
From Europe we came heads up, points down.
No fancy names, we shared the same woodshed
and thanked Welches jelly for this practical bed.
Lead was a number four and fatter than all.
Trim number twos, we all awaiting the call.
Writing and erasing, sometimes we paid
For frivolous writing the humans had made.
The sharpest point in the jar was funny ole Lead.
His weftage was smooth but his family all now dead.
Lead became smaller and smaller and in time
was nothing but a stub, when #2s were in their prime
It's unfair to be held back once you know our point of view
to trash cans we go for no reason with no expectation to sue.
Till one day we snap and die from being tossed
A point without a pencil, life is colder than frost
Eyes furtive carry the reflected sheen of aluminium paint that is smooth a chrome flood
On the tin roof of the woodshed seen, with moonlight awash, awaking the dreaming scene.
The light has the tint of coyote’s hair; the furtive fox is rising to maraud with that
Peripheral stare, the balance tail is curving around a body still turning, his eyes red dots
Burn beside the russet and auburn fur, in the night full deep, guard dog in slumbering sleep,
With a stealthy gait the stooping steep steps you negotiate, around the mottled boulders
Grey you move or even! glide your way. The lightest breeze full on your face, with elegant
Tresses like a filigree trace, to soundless halt you poise your form upon the ledge with its
Girth two pace. Your.. goal in sight about to spring.! with visage grim, the huddled lambs
Sense... sudden..fear! They start to bleat hear querulous tones, the move was neat! Yet P D
Drops down on lightening feet, from her crop of rock with a body shock, she lands on him
With her forked tree limb, his neck is pinned, in her sundown boots she stands on his tail at
The very root, with feral fear his eyes a-glare, how now will the tale of the captured fox ensnared
Unfold? Don’t destroy the tail of this fox caught cold! She could train him as her reddy scout
He has a fine nose plus attuned senses that she alone caught out!.. or better still she could
Keep him well penned perhaps in documents contained, or back to herr schäffer send!
I have come out of retirement ha ha! for P D's inner animal contest .
© JOE MAVERICK 2-01-2011
Let us honor where possible all of earth's fools
Who remind us that others view us the same way,
Who might also be brothers, if not on this day
Or the conflict this moment, prove friend in some way!
Where's the profit when violence makes us its tools.
When you look in a mirror, reflect on who's there,
Is he flawlessly pure or has he made mistakes
You aren't keen to uncover, who learns more from breaks
That his mother might give him, than the belt his dad takes
To the woodshed, "to learn him?" Tell me what's more "fair!"
Can harsh punishment ever be Love's consequence?
Was Christ's death for our faults or to show us God's Grace
That was there all along? In such pain lies embrace
That no man should ignore. "Jesus wept!" Liquid's trace!
Don't you feel His tears shed, their revealed eloquence?
If this day is my last, Lord, let me not conceal,
Worst shame's flaw in pride's shade that might proffer one light,
To a fellow fool feeling he's lost. Can the night
Be a tent for our nakedness, mellow sin's sight
To the sinless? Can sin be excused, if You're real?
Your forgiveness seems path more inviting than free.
Oh, in faith lies the journey where I hope to roam,
There discover provisions you share, a new home,
One where coming or going, Your Word's just "Shalom!"
And the rainbow's curved smile shines for all that can be.
Long Tooth
June 28th in 2019
Postcards of a ghetto life,
facts of being black
It's a common assumption in the hood
that you know how to talk smack
Lay the whip of indignation
smack dab on a hater's back
Twist the insult in deeper,
than give the whip another crack
If somebody tries to low rate you,
even try to talk about your family too
Well, in that case,
you gotta do what you gotta do
Take 'em out back to the verbal woodshed,
and teach them a thing or two
When you're talking smack,
you gotta be witty, you gotta be cool
Talking smack is an art form
that you don't learn in no charm school
Listen up, kids: talking smack don't have no rules
Nobody's off limit,
no one is too good that they can't be put down
Points are awarded
when you turn a smug smile into a frown
The best smack talkers got class,
that's just the way it's always been
They leave a door open, a dignified way out ...
so an enemy could one day be a friend
But don't get beside yourself,
and get to talking trash
Making me
have to smack talk you around again
Tell me you comprehend
Don't press that button
that'll make me go lingo loco
Please don't press send
(to a blues riff)
You're a blood red girl
You're a blood red girl
You're a blood red girl, you're a woodshed girl,
You're a good good girl.
You're a good good girl
You're a good good girl
You're a blood red girl, you're a woodshed girl
You're a good good girl.
You're a bloodshed girl
You're a bloodshed girl
You're a spit-curl girl, roller derby girl
You're a good good girl.
One fine day while shovelling snow from upon my sidewalk
I noticed a huge hairy dog on a big shiny white rock
He wagged his little bushy tail and ran with jolly up to me
and lifted up his right hind leg and on my leg he peed
Redfaced mad and humiliated,I chased him down the street
I followed him with full regard for what he did to me
I chased him to an alley and into a dark backyard
He ran into an old woodshed and hit the shed but hard
Down and out, he was laying, twitching on the ground
I had tried to read the printing on his collar I had found
I ran in fear of being caught for what I may have done
And ran into a big huge witch who must have weighed a ton
She looked and said "That was my dog" as I shook my dizzy head
"He used to be a damn good dog, but now he is damn good dead!"
I said "Good" and walked away with a grin upon my face
No more dog to pee on me and put me to disgrace
Back at home still shovelling snow, I heard a whining sound
I turned and looked to my dismay, "That dog is still around?"
I seen the witch who owned the dog, she smiled and sadi to me
"My dog is fine and my oh my, you should have let him be!"
With and evil laugh the stare, she said "Sick em!" clear and loud
I shovelled him up into the air, so high he broke a cloud
Finally he landed hard, and hit a speeding car
The dog flew like a football far off to distant stars
The old witch, shocked, left in a rage and went back to her home
We knew that dog ain't coming back and no more shall he roam
Here you have the story of a dog, some man's best friend
For any dog that pees on me to doggy heaven I will send
Before I resumed shovelling snow, I looked up to the sky
Then it started raining yellow drops on my face, don't ask why!!!
Staring up to the star lit sky
wondering why
time seems like
it is standing still
my heart is playing violins
every interval
dying crossed my mind
I vaguely recall any fear of it
never seriously considered
what I be leaving behind
always taken out
to the woodshed
by those closest to me
how long am I gonna stand
with my head in the sand
good self question
does it really heal
this self reflection
the orchestra of grief has past
it took five years
for the sad song to pass
before the melody set in
a sweet rhapsody was let in
while a solo harmonica
plays softly in the background
allowing inviting emotions...
Youngsters laugh at our "good ole days"
No Ipod’s, cells or weed
Mom didn't give you credit cards
She bought just what you need
Most kids had a paper route
If they wanted money to spend
Your parents were your parents
Not just another friend!
A loaf of bread was just a dime
And hand me downs the norm
No school bus picked you up
You had to hike it through a storm
We sat around the radio
The fireplace kept us warm
And listened to great artists
Like Opera stars perform
Families stayed together
Through good times and the bad
Always pulling for each other
And respecting Mom and Dad
I wouldn't change a thing
From my early childhood days
We were so much better off
Without these modern ways
The woodshed was your punishment
If you misbehaved in school
For you were always expected
To follow the golden rule
There was never a question
Of calling your Pa for bail
No one I ever knew
Spent any time in jail!
So take your Ipod’s, pricey sneakers
Your flat tv's and such
I'll still take those good ole days
Thank you very much
There was so much love and kindness
And love for country too
We gave you a great foundation
The rest is up to you
I guess we didn't do too bad
They call us the GREATEST GENERATION!
Copyright©2012 Beatrice Boyle
(All
…MORNING TIME
Every morning at four, I hear the slamming of the woodshed door.
The rattle of the poker and the smell of wood smoke, wafting through the air.
It rolls its way up the stair to where I am sleeping there.
The smell of homemade bread, toasting on the large black kitchen stove,
With coffee perking.
There’s honey and home churned butter, oatmeal hot, and brown sugar sweet.
Milk is ready to be strained and put in large steel milk pails.
Auntie’s in her Kitchen but has Uncle George to meet.
Now done with my breakfast and out the door, I run.
Up in the battered rusty truck, truck I jump, and so does good, old Shep.
It’s off to Grandfather’s farm we roll.
The sun is coming up on Brett Road, and smiles across the family farmland.
I see my Grandpa Billy and Great Grandpa Rufus comes with a limp
Outa’ the chicken coop, with brown eggs in a basket, as the cat’s wrap around his feet.
He comes up to greet with a large toothless grin and great bear hands he grabs and hugs me, His little JoAnne.
“Oh my, the weather out is real nice!” Said the Papa Turkey.
“Hey Mrs. Gobbler get the kids. Lets go for a nice Fall stroll.”
“Line up now. Listen to your Ma.”
The rafter of little poults wobbles by like Russian stacking dolls.
The gaggle gobble around the apple orchard,
pecking at fallen bruised apples and protruding worms.
Smoke comes from the farmhouse. A woman is hanging clothes on the line.
The farmer emerges from the woodshed carrying an ax.
“Hey Papa," said Mrs. Gobbler "look at the ole coot all bare-chested."
You have a better pair of breasts than he does!”
The Farmer's pace quickens, as he nears Mrs. Gobbler.
She flies laughing onto a branch an apple tree
which overhangs the duck pond. The kids scatter.
Papa does a running take off from the dirt path landing on the Farmer’s bare chest,
pushing him and his ax into the pond. Mrs. bombs the Farmer with dangling apples.
The kids pick up acorns and pelt the farmer in the head with them. There he sits surrounded
by bobbing apples and flaoting acorns, spewing water and wiping the hair from his eyes.
“My, my, my” says Papa Turkey.
“Sure does look like a tasty Farmer stew! Too bad we don’t have acorn biscuits.”
The woman drops her laundry basket and falls on the ground laughing.
“You Ole fool!” She says.
“You better try the chickens! This year the turkeys have your number!”
“But watch out for flying eggs! No yolking!”
It all comes down to peer pressure when you’re still in your teens.
You want to keep up with the Jones’ and you’ll go to any means
to put yourself into the limelight and be a member of the clique,
so you have to do some daring deed to give your gang a kick.
Because we lived out of the town on some land beside a creek,
we only had tank water so our baths are once a week.
Power hadn’t reached us yet, and our dunny was quite rank,
for we had an outside dunny, not a lavish septic tank.
And on this point peer pressures ugly head was bared.
I got teased about the outside dunny and then I was dared,
to rid it from our social scene to keep in with me peers …
I cannot let the gang down - or I’ll be turfed out on me ears.
Each day I visited the dunny I would sit upon the seat,
and ponder over tactics and what method would complete
the mission of destruction that our dunny will endure,
once I find the perfect moment for one outside dunny fewer.
It was the low and leaden clouds that descended once again,
which triggered ‘it is time’ once we had a week of rain,
for the creek had swollen now and lapped the dunny wall,
so I levered with a crowbar and watched the dunny fall.
Into the creek it’s swept away, tumbling ‘round and ‘round.
I’m feeling pleased with what I’ve done, but that night I found,
my Father was the least impressed of his guilty eldest son,
for he stood before me in the kitchen - and I’m squarely in the gun.
He said “We’re going to the woodshed Son - that means you and me.”
The woodshed is the torture chamber, where I’ll go across his knee.
I asked me Dad the reason why - he said “What you did isn’t funny.
I know it’s you who pushed into the creek our little outside dunny.”
I looked at the floor, next up at Dad, and then admitted “Yes I did.
But Dad at school the other day, we learnt about another kid.
George Washington his name was; he was just as bad as me.
He picked up his Fathers axe and chopped down his cherry tree.”
“But because the kid admitted he chopped down the cherry tree,
he did not get into trouble - I told the truth, so why punish me?”
My Father gave a long hard look - “On the point of truth I do agree,
but George Washington's ‘old man’ wasn't in the cherry tree.”
The languid days of summer passed so fleet - autumn's almost here.
Alas, I've fiddled around and left so many things undone, I fear.
Now, I must hustle about and cease buildin' castles in the sky,
Ere the honkin' geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
There's corn to shuck and fodder to stack in golden shocks.
The hen house needs repairin' to forestall that wily fox!
There are taters to be dug and stored in the cellar bye and bye,
Ere the vagabond geese and the blowin' snows begin to fly!
Wood needs sawed and hauled from the oak tree grove,
And stacked in the woodshed for the parlor heatin' stove.
The punkins must be gathered ere too many weeks go by,
Ere those skeins of geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Another job that must be done, one I've kept on suspense,
Is the repairin' and paintin' of that doggone picket fence!
I really need to strew some straw to bed down the stall and sty,
Ere those Canadian geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Luckily, I'm spared installin' storm windows come this autumn,
Since I didn't take 'em down last spring - I jes' plain forgot 'em!
I need to pick the apples so my spouse can fix an apple pie,
Ere those majestic geese and blowin' snows begin to fly!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Winter warms me.
It’s not the fire
or the quiet cat on lap.
It’s certainly not,
the harried, hurried holidays.
The shroud of
same-making snow
(the compost pile is the car;
the tree stump is the berry bush;
the woodshed is the forsythia patch)
is how echoes come to rest.
The words of seasons go
unfollowed by commentary.
ou c
Sounds no longer b n e.
A thought leads not to thought.
Wet boots,
tea mug warm in palm,
sun so low,
the song of snow
(sung sans echo),
is the cessation meditation
sought by seekers
all long year.
There's a tiger in the woodshed.
Safe and dark it lies,
Watching the night with
Brown and yellow liquid eyes.
The sleeper nestles in his bed,
The tiger kept outside.
No sudden urge will raise its head;
No dark horse will he ride!
The night goes on, and on again
As some nights tend to do,
Moon presiding on the scene,
Lone owl calling, "Who?"
But restless in his dreaming
And dreaming of his sin,
At last the dreamer goes
And takes the tiger in.
"Who done did that?"
My dad had to know
I pointed at sister
Said, "She has to go!"
Dad wasn't impressed
Told me, "You get undressed!"
As off to the woodshed
We two did go ...
Once there, bottom bare
I thought fast, though voice weak
"Hey, dad. It's nearly Christmas ~
How 'bout we turn the other cheek?"