Best Woodwork Poems
They crawl out of the woodwork
Shedding lots of crocodile tears
Grieving for an ancient relative
They’ve not visited for many years
‘Auntie Annie’ is barely warm
But now you see the relations swarm
Waiting for the will to be read
They rub their hands with glee
Hoping they will be left
Lots of lovely money
‘Grieving relatives’ is rubbish!! Some are taking the mick ….
These mercenary vultures simply make me sick!
28th January 2017
My Childhood Home
My lovely childhood home, I miss it so...
built Eighteen Eighty-Six, so long ago.
Three floors, all rooms with mantled fireplaces;
carved woodwork, archways, spindled winding stair;
cathedral ceilings, sparkling chandelier
in dining room enjoyed on holidays.
Third floor not used but built with parkay floors
and doors that opened to small balconies.
Off the front door, a porch wrapped 'round two sides...
was like a fairy tale when I was young.
Such lovely grounds; garage with two horse stalls
and covered sleigh with velvet seats of red.
White gravel paths with gardens either side;
the rolling lawn, majestic tall pine trees
and rippling stony brook below the hill.
My childhood home fulfilled my childhood dreams–
so happy there with my dear family.
Until I married, it was home to me.
And since home now is not too far from it–
I often pass the site of my old house.
On left, before I pass under the bridge
that sprawls across the Hudson River now–
the empty view brings sadness to my heart.
To build that bridge they tore my old home down–
the only house to make this sacrifice–
The vision of my childhood home is gone.
As I ride by I feel them wave to me...
the ghosts of past, and my dear family.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Enchanted House
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 05/23/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: A Child's First Home
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Judged: 10/17/2015
Note: Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was completed and opened in November 1963
New York State claimed our home via eminent domain and purchased it in 1960
There is something about
The way you face your day
With a heart of gold
And such a giving way.
There is something about
The way you endure your pain
As if the stroke
Didn’t harm your brain
There is something about
The life you live
Loving like there will be no tomorrow
And living to forgive
There is something about
The brother you are
And the son you have been
That makes us more proud by far
It is everything about
The garden you grow
With sweat and tears
As the fruits to others you bestow
It is everything about
A body half paralyzed
That can produce gifts of woodwork
That leaves us mesmerized.
It is everything about
Your speech so limited
Yet communication
For you is unlimited.
It is everything about
Your inner soul
That has inspired me
To be so much more
It is you my brother
In all that you do
That have made the stars
Hush for me too.
I have been blessed to have such a brother
Contest: How you make the stars hush
Justin Bordner
Two Thousand Sixteen's Coming
By Franklin Price
4/21/2015
Two thousand sixteen's coming
It's not that far away
Politicians from the woodwork
Are coming out to play
Posing and expounding
Until their breaths are spent
On the negatives of others
As they run for president
It's not the things for which they stand
Or the good things that they did
It's the bad things of their opponent
As a stupid teenage kid
There's no recollection out of bounds
How far fetched to mind it seems
It may not have even happened
May have come to them in dreams
While you're deciding how to vote
Listen closely clear your mind
Search for one who speaks of self
Maybe one of them you'll find
If you do and they make sense
Plans for the populous
Get behind push them along
Climb on the campaign bus
This searching is the hardest job
For which anyone applies
For politicians fool us
Put blinders on our eyes
Blinders are for horses
Not for presidential races
Look closely at the candidates
And for their second faces
Wheelie bins know what you’re thinking
Deep down you know it’s true
They know just what you did last night
And they are judging you
And if you think you see them smirk
When you are walking past
It’s probably not the first time
And it will not be the last
Wheelie bins know everything
Much more than you’d suspect
For they grew wisdom from the pain
And betrayal of your neglect
They did not sit there helpless
When you moved in for the kill
They met up with their comrades
And learned transferrable skills
In the depths of all our gardens
They huddled, gaining strength
From knowledge and camaraderie
They learned woodwork and French
So if you think they are mocking you
With their skills in carpentry
Elles parlent français, mon ami,
Ces poubelles de wheelie
Wheelie bins know what you’re thinking
They know just what you’ve done
So do not cross a wheelie bin
For their time has finally come
You’ll find them down the garden
Happy within themselves
Reading Jean Paul Sartre
And knocking up some shelves
You're a mad rapper
I'm a mad hatter
Ideas in my head always bleeding
So lyrics you won't be needing
You spit them
I write them
You rap them
I rhyme them
Lines we be exchanging
Like I'd be interchanging
The lanes fast on the freeway
Paving the roads leading away
From the ghetto
Like Pinocchio was to Geppetto
We be each others woodwork
Combined we be the spork
Together in our minds
Like buns on girls behinds
We ain't getting lost
Whatever the cost
We'll stay in the light
Never fly stay and fight
Cause we be the illest
Cough Cough we infect the rest
Wanting to be part of the fuss
They try and copy 'r' us
But they will never ever
Be as swift or as clever...
Textbooks,
chalk dust,
young men
full of lust.
School bus,
school bag,
mathematics,
what a drag!
Woodwork,
English lit,
some pass,
some quit.
Autumn leaf,
summer sun,
playin’ truant
on the run.
Fibrolite
prefab,
bunson burner,
science lab.
Trampoline,
gym rope,
girls flirt,
boys hope!
Written: 1992
———
I attended “Rangi”
1974 ~ 1977.
Fallingwater is a house
Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright
And tours are given of its rooms
To bring one great delight.
The home is cantilevered
So the owners'd have a view
Of a lovely waterfall, a vista
Visited by few.
Every door and every window
Can be opened all around
So the residents or visitors
Could relish every sound.
All the terraces and woodwork,
Every fireplace and lamp
Is so obvious a Wright work,
Just as if he'd left a stamp.
After touring and observing
Such a setting so divine,
I can only state the obvious -
I wish that place were mine!
One door will close and another will open
a portal to something quite new
Turning the knob is at times very daunting
but something we all need to do
There is no telling the places its leading
pathways a threshold will show
Step after step an adventure is calling
you must decide if to go
There you may find in astonishing phrases
words that are sent from afar
Flowers in vases with crystal wine glasses
the light of the first morning star
Chambers and hallways with fine golden hardware
paintings the walls do appear
Mahogany woodwork in arches and stairways
curtains of lace velvet sheer
Maybe a chair that does look so inviting
asking you to take a seat
While in the vestibule, someone is waiting
one you are destined meet
No matter the instance when doorways are open
open as well, up your mind
If you walk through as another door closes
you might be surprised what you find
With no computer tying me down
I'm at a loss just what to do.
I've tried reading, crosswords, gardening
writing poems and stories too.
I've done woodwork, painting and cleaning things
the home shines like a new pin.
I've swept the paths and cleaned the windows
and given the hedges a trim.
When the computers been repaired once more
I'll cut back on its use.
No more hours of wasting time for me
No more of that abuse.
My nerves are in a better state
My blood pressure's been reduced
There's been no shouting at the screen
with a face that's coloured puce.
I can actually talk, so I've been told,
in a calm and peaceful way.
No bug eyed bellowing, sounding off
or ranting through the day.
I think I'm cured of computer sickness
I'm human once again.
So when that computer comes back home,
I'll leave the thing alone.
Really!
Armadilly Billy needed repair work on the home, as he wanted to move in.
Asking around Troll Lake Town, the answer was Leavit, again and again.
A bit confused, he needed repairs; he couldn’t leave it, like they said, therein.
So he picked up the Acme phone book, and understanding, then, did begin.
It said: Levit T. Beaver for the best woodwork, to be found, anywhere around.
The rumor was: he was once a movie star, before retiring to Troll Lake Town.
He had the scruffiest crew, Billy had ever seen, inept in absolutely, everything.
Called: The Muskrat Gang, they were tied up in chains, yes, the whole shebang.
Doing time for trying to blow up Leavit’s dam, yep, a real, live, chain gang, bound.
Tho, they were really chained up, to stop them, from aimlessly scurrying all, around.
He thought to give them purpose, before he was through, and a new profession, too.
After they tried to empty Troll Lake, to scoop out all the fish, on one crazy afternoon.
What they got was better, as Leavit tried to teach them work, with all kinds of wood.
He stopped them, and saved some mice, lost in a boat, on the lake, on that day, too.
Oddly, love blossomed between Leavit and one of the mice, her name was Mary Ann.
He was lucky in love, as the other mice decided, to rent rooms, to stay, on his island.
Though he had to admit that Gilligan, Skipper, and the other mice WERE a tad, strange.
And as for the Muskrat Gang, well, they seemed, to pretty much, stay unchanged.
After serving their time, Levit T. Beaver, offered to hire them, to help him clean up.
All their scurrying, was perfect for this, as he paid them in their most, beloved fish.
With the Chains gone, a job and home found, they discovered crime did not pay.
So my Moral, my friend, is that in the end… Crime is Never the Way!
April showers
thunder on varnished woodwork
wormy fine dining
"anamorphosis"
your eyes
like mundi’s orb
crystal Orion belted
mysterious black opals
Blue globed
opallios light veined,
a Star calls us
Home
some are blind, disinterested;
other windows once jaded
are jewels, like emeralds and
sapphire skies, topaz earthed
Becoming
portals to worlds of others,
wide and open minded
what they see
is not the holy see
anamorphosis
ripples truth
the hands and feet
still bleed
of another soul
in hidden dimension
eventually the grains
are raised, revealed
the metamorph,
radical star seed
out of the woodwork
stone crumbles
and as heads turn
salt is tasted
tears,
pillars burn
drones take confessions
we isolate
da vinci
corpus christi
solemnity on
a June viral Thursday
starbursts by 3
on a Monday
we commence debating
coffin cities and Georgia stones
where we are guided to numbers
on a Sunday
the puzzle
seen eventually
arriving in
The Cloud
we look for answers
all doors closed in a world
we are over rated in our vanity
internally, we are All
I Am
we are called
we learn about true Love
and why we are born
when death whispers around us
in our dawn
Now,
translate
salvator mundi.
Souls stretch
in the end, we all
reach for what's seen
in the Light
of an orb
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
“The Gospel of John Hurt” / Alt-J
https://youtu.be/LXkpWY5Y02Q
Lyrics/ “The Gospel of John Hurt”, Alt-J
https://genius.com/Alt-j-the-gospel-of-john-hurt-lyrics
"Something Extraordinary in Da Vinci's Paintings"
https://youtu.be/JDSnlDeRoKc
"The Search for the Last Supper"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2pJD5HtlKwg
"The Messiah Before Jesus"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g13jQYOzYo
1. Salvator Mundi
2. Leonardo Da Vinci
3. Georgia Guidestones
4. The Feast of Corpus Christi
5. Maundy Thursday
6. Metamorph
7. anamorphosis
8. covid19
9. Revelations, Book of
10. The Cloud
11. The Star
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morning_Star
Guess who just popped out of the woodwork
Good old Drake Eszes, can't hide my smirk
A friend from back when
So great he's back again
Hope he stays showing off his clever quirks
© Jack Ellison 2015
Nature's small insects cute and rude
Garden blooms gathering food
Butterflies' sweet nectar seeks,
Beneath sun's outstretched blond streaks
Where, yet a spider does hide
Silvery web shadows bide
Night is flashing lighting bugs
Tall grass leaves their heartfelt hugs
Dragonfly's wings weave and fades
Sunlight shining rainbow shades
Termites creeping in woodwork
Silent destroyers as they lurk
Beetle strength squirms in its murk
Fine powder they scratch and chirk
Cicadas incessant whining
Shedding its clear shell lining
Mosquito's blood hungry dining
Ill for which I've been pining
Cricket's chirp amid tall sheaves
Hidden inside curling leaves
A ladybug among a rose
Sweet aroma zephyr blows
Tiny creatures bombinate
Among flowers as they ate
1/18/2022
'Insects' Contest Info
Sponsor Angela Tune
All bugs are insects but, all insects are not bugs. True bugs belong to the order Hemiptera under the class Insecta. The main difference between bugs and insects is that bugs are the insects having proboscis, which can be used to suck food whereas insects have other mouthparts adapted for chewing or sponging.