Linseed Poems | Examples

CORDIAL FLOWERS

Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair 
every bud is beauty born of love and toil  
rays of sunshine easy days and breezy air 
cordial flowers flushed with color coil 

Nature sings of all creation its here and there 
a joyful world of wonder heart's embroil 
calliandra feather sweeps of angel hair 
silver artemisias slick as linseed oil 

Garden art, its all about the artist's flair 
every shoot and floweret is alive with dare 
radiant things growing on blessed soil 
like cordial flowers flushed with color coil 

Bursts of blooming colors in my garden fair 
rays of sunshine, easy days and breezy air.

Detolf

Today was the first day I held 
a sledgehammer with intention
Callouses connect palms to fingers
tiny fleshy boa constrictors.

There is no catharsis
I know this to be a hollow act
With a face smithed of iron, 
a body lathed with linseed wood,
and a head full of nothing.

No I am not thinking, I am
in fact refusing to do so.
This is an act of refusal
I am choosing childish behavior.

The empty parking lot
execution spot greets
the glass bodied shelf
Which will no longer take
the space of memories it held.

What should be cold and angular
Void of anything aside reflection
is a monument of mourning
a future I shall never know.

Light refracts upon my cones,
my tunneled vision only to show
a mangled miscarriage of the man
I can never grow into with you.

Original Blue Haired Alice

Original blue- haired Alice rewrote the story
Wearing a gown she constructed from linseed
With lace sleeves cut from a summer shawl
Possibly her grandmother’s favorite garment

She popped roses and pearls into her stiff sixties hairdo
Finding hairspray to keep them there was a trick
There are only six cans left, and hard to find
Ebay is selling the last two cans for $2500 each

An evil Cheshire cat appeared.
I wanted a Cheshire dog, she said.
The cat refused to go, citing poetic license
So blue-haired Alice ignored it

Not easy to do when it kept waking her up
Gnashing its loud angry teeth when she was trying to sleep
I will sit here in this teacup and behave lied the white rabbit
Who contributed to the annoying night noises by chewing carrots.

What I Do In Between the Words

The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.

I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention,
but I give it.

My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a
a blank memory.

At least once a fortnight.
I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh;
the sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.

When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog'
(my camouflaged depression),
must be driven somewhere,
and left on the side of a highway.

These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write
with no bull attached -
no one likes a fake sun.

These inconsequential acts
are rituals, observances that maintain
the safe-side of my mind
while words eat words
in the dark.

Barn Life

I miss the barn, the hay loft,
a place to listen to the midday sun
creaking through old wood.,
the small clouds of horse flies
moving as one in their jet-pack bodies,
that rose and fell
  their small engines stuttering.

The humpbacked skeleton of a tractor
where goats built their castles,
the oily emptiness of its heart
as it clanked under their hooves
  into a gearless life once more.

When the empty stalls echoed a warning
to the horses that no longer stabled there,
I would get up into the sagging rafters
where feather whiskered winds
  rustled dust through broken boards,

It used to take them an hour
before they knew I was missing,
  later they knew where to find me.

I miss the soul-deep smell
of dry leather tackle long unharnessed,
the empty cans of linseed and engine oil,
the old shotgun so rusted
it grew out of a dirt-caked bucket
  as brown as a whittled flower stalk.

All gone, the barn, the farm house
  and ‘they’ - gone now.

Yet sometimes they call to me
as I dream in a lullaby loft,
and I still a little disappointed
  to be found.

Four Bears

Flying Jib son of Curry Comb
The care of the comb son of Garden Gnome

Garden Gnome son of Pillow Case
The case of the headrest o’ Second Base

Second Base son of Baby Chick
The chick who’s a pip son of Pogo Stick

Pogo Stick son of Gunder Fahr
The father of man son of Zanzibar

Zanzibar son of Zanihey
The hey zani hey son of Make My Day

Make My Day son of Monocle
The cull of the one son of Dimn Endoll

Dimn Endoll son of Angel Eyes
The seer of the saint son of Biting Flies

Biting Flies son of Linseed Oil
The oil of the flax son of Munsell Soil

Munsell Soil son of Swami Snake
The snake in the basket o’ Pullman Brake

Pullman Brake son of Hatta Tik
The bug in the rug son of Balletic

Balletic son of FBI
The Tommy gun men son of Hy and Dri

Hy and Dri son of Daily News
The word on the street son of Boogie Shoes

Boogie Shoes son of Years Ago
The gone by the way son of Best in Show

Best in Show son of Links of Chain
The iron that weeps son of Dick and Jane

Dick and Jane son of Bob and Weave
The blow to the head son of Makebelieve

Makebelieve son of Elmo Bib
The under the pin son of Flying Jib

What I Do Between the Words

The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut.
I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally
use linseed oil.

I dust a porcelain lady
twice a week. She does not need my attention, 
but I give it.

My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case,
otherwise it may turn into a blind
coal-black memory.

I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh,
At least once a fortnight.
The sigh does not mean anything
unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything.

When the black dog returns,
I drive out at night
with no aim or destination.
The 'dog' must be driven somewhere,
and left on the edge of a highway.

I go to the Oriental grocery emporium
each month to therapy-browse.
Sometimes I buy a paste or a sauce
not having a clue how to use them.
Cooking into the unknown
is my space travel.

These things I do are tramlines,
a navigability that gets me back
to a place where I can write a poem
with no black dogs attached -
no one likes a failing sun.

These things I do are rituals 
for the safe-side of my mind.


~~

(‘Black-dog’ is a euphemism for depression).

Autumn Outing

Logs stacked by a decaying shed;
scent of burning embers from chimney’s
wafting past my face;
I breathe in the crisp evening chill.

The woodlands, a palette of color
waiting to be laid out on a canvas
by my bristles;
VanDyke orange, red, brown and yellow;
I watch the yellow passing by the sunset
and it blinks to deeper orange hues.

Oils blending, scent of linseed
and turpentine mingle with
the log fires and overhead
flocks darken the skies
winging southwards.

The setting sun lends it’s
hues to the naked trees as
leaves float endlessly downwards
to rest upon an emerald bed.

I glance up from my palette to see
a doe standing there, 
right beside a Douglas fir;
her eyes trust mine
and in that simple moment I know,
there is a God.


10-6-19
Enter the 'Best free verse July-December 2019' Poetry Contest
John Hamilton

In Flowered Fields

The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams ,we  amble through bright  fields
Where cornflowers and blue linseed  softly grow
The face that was familiar is no more
The emptiness  and loss,  confused, real
The face that was familiar is no more
Yet in my dreams ,we wander through flowered fields

The hand that once held mine I still  do feel
Warm with tapered fingers and hard nails
That death was near you did not then reveal
The hand that once held mine I still can feel
The memory impressed like iron or steel
You were growing colder,oh,so pale.
The hand that once held mine I  think I feel
Warm with tapered fingers and hard nails

The Throwaways

Rescued from the side of the road on a cold and rainy day
Thrown out like a piece of trash...a worn out throwaway
So I pick you up and cover you up and bring you home with me
And wonder why they can not see... the beauty that I see

I wipe away the icy rain that has hardened on your back
And deeply rub with linseed oil each and every little crack
And when you  are  as warm and dry as warm and dry can be 
I remove the stain and blisters from your body carefully

And low and behold beneath that tattered surface there I find
The inner beauty... that is your soul ... akin to fine aged wine    
Your broken leg has bonded well with nary a trace of scar
Now you stand so straight and proud ... a superior chair by far

A Duncan Fife brought back to life by tender loving care
A focal piece within my house for everyone to share
Where Miss Mew... herself a throwaway... sits proudly on this thrown
Among the other throwaways that make this house a home  


Written:  Dec. 19Th, 2017

Author:  Elaine Cecelia George

This poem best describes my Meraki

Rain Is For Others

Rain Is For Others 

The village green 
And its linen fellows

Bask in summer's
Dappled yellows, 

Bowling leather 
Onto linseed willows

Beneath the fluffy 
Cotton pillows. 

Children playing
Shooting peas, 

Stinging faces 
And grazing knees, 

Gran and grandad 
Sip their teas

On chequered blankets
Under trees. 

Upon a sudden 
Skies grow dark, 

People shelter 
And dogs bark, 

The darting sparrow, 
The silent lark

Scatter raindrops 
On a sodden park.

Ominous rumbles 
A flash of light, 

The tempest's fury
With all its might, 

Causes lovers 
To cuss and fight,

To part as strangers
Before the night. 

Spectating sisters 
Watch fielding brothers, 

As doting fathers 
Kiss expectant mothers, 

Folding neatly 
Their mackintosh covers 

And all agreeing 
That rain is for others.

A Labor of Love

I take you down and look you over,
you've seen better days. 
Not so young as you used to be,
and you smell musty. I lay you open
and begin my examination.
I take off your jacket.
In all honesty much of your language 
is extraneous, in need of editing. 
Simple is as simple does. 
You're green and moldy, 
and rough around the edges; 
you'll need a good rubbing with linseed oil.
I close your pages, 
and put you back on the shelf, 
a labor of love for another day.

The Baseball Mitt

My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.

Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather, 
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil, 
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.

My father's attention was precious as gold; 
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye; 
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light; 
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.

With patience and compassion
My father guided my life, 
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.

Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Cradling me; 
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.

Chiaroscuro Twilight

tracing the edges of her hourglass 
curve, he imagines her eyes’ shadows
on oil and linseed…
wanting to be filled with neutral hues’ lines
as brushes smell of linoleum sky.

inside her navel is a garden and a river
waiting to be peeled, etched by strokes
washed in brown and grey waters
in a jar: he strokes milder through some 
verdant splendor of one Eve still in the night.

easel sweating hands on  bones’ canvas
gazing upon a display of creamy skin,
slowly being born from the marrow
an arrangement with chiaroscuro twilight…

           

but she’s just an image and he, a man.



            

For Brian's Choice 10

Delusion

What the mind creates 
Is real; the physical is
The illusion. Art born of
Passion like a finger that
Touches a wasps nest, 
Be still and no harm will
Come . Storm clouds
Gather; I smell the linseed
On the canvas. Mind that 
Guides the hand that 
Guides the pigment that 
Calms the storm. Fingers
Touch and we can see our
Soul? A sea of faces stare
At me; I am one, are they
The delusion?

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