Long Pinewood Poems
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A Poet’s Thoughts
I am luckier than most
I have a special place to write
A small room
No larger than a bathroom
It is neither a palace nor a ghetto
It is just a place where I can be alone with my thoughts
I know it has been used by artists before
An old pinewood table bears the name Picasso
Etched into the top so deep and so many years ago
Canvases and papers cover the walls
Unfinished pieces from a dozen generations of creativity
I wonder why they were never finished
It is a thought I could never answer
I know the words come to me
My pen scribes them to sheets of yellowing paper
They may never sell
No one may ever have the chance to read them
I may never include them in a book
But they are my words, my thoughts and my yellowing paper
No one can ever take that away from me
It is just me alone in my room and that is how I want it
WILD NATURE
Far from squabble of snobbish sniffy people
I wish to visit a wild country
where loud amusement has no entry to disturb
simple innocent naive populace.
Bathed in soft Sun rays at delightful dawn
gazing at close by pinewood
I would like to lie supine not on smooth lawn but on feral grasses
on non-mowed meadow,
where light and shadow play hide and seek game.
I will enjoy crazy cattle grazing chewing coarse grasses and foliage,
or camels thriving on thorny bushes making barren field fertile.
I will walk on furrows of field of crops
Kaleidoscope of butterflies on flash and flutter of colorful wings
***** unfamiliar bird whistles to startle or croons in cadence.
My pleasure to pass through pathless wood
My rapture to feel fragrance of wild blossoms
I would like to venture verdure of verdant valley.
and watch wild insects allured to juices of agrestal plants.
I will feel offer of Nature as bliss in every limb
in the wild country.
I wish to escape compulsive constriction of city life
I will sleep sound in quietude on serenity of sublime solitude.
04/10/ 20
Fourth Place
'Wild' Poetry Contest by Anthony Slausin
First Place
-A Brian Strand 1092
Contest by Brian Strand
HOLIDAY SEASON
Grand goes Christmas celebration:
Creation cum recreation.
Christmas tree on decoration.
Merriment ! Just not to mention.
Bethlehem star shines, that’s the cause.
Reindeer pulls sledge for Santa Claus.
Jingle bells ring rhythmic with pause.
Santa giving gifts ! Great applause.
All work to bake cake at random.
Charm of party to miss seldom.
Gorgeous days ! No place of boredom.
Chilled breeze and snow fall ! Maximum.
Enjoy skating ! Fantastic fun.
Silvery snow shines under Sun.b
Kids throw snow balls to play and run.
After jogging, Jack Frost ate bun.
Holiday season in festive mood.
Visit to Grandma through pinewood,
On red dress goes Red Riding Hood
to taste delicious sumptuous food.
Carpet patterns
and the swirlings of grain
in wooden floors were maps
to me of exotic worlds,
portal holes for a child
to enter and explore
places edged on the
furthest reaches
of the fabulous.
Even today, as an old man,
I saw a landscape
in miniature when morning sunlight
came through the window
and crept across
the room, illuminating a map
in the knots and welts of grain
rolled out on the pinewood floor.
I found myself off on tour
swept into the detail
along its ravines
and imagined trails,
into its wild inland,
the unfenced territories whose
vast subterranean caves
well far below what
can be seen, the dank
dormitories of dream.
And then,
above the underworld,
dry plains paused
by rocky outcrops
of doubt, the long silences
that stretch for miles
and curl up in corners
when evening falls.
The star pitted dark hung
with mystery, morse
for the mystic,
until a sober perspective
shrank the sublime
back into a smaller space
to fit ordinary sight
and became
the comforting familiarity
of a well trodden
wooden floor, aged, uneven,
basking in the morning's
honeyed light.
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
We carried him to the chapel gate,
And laid him down to rest.
In a pinewood box beneath the cross,
With his Sunday suit and vest.
No soul there knew, no soul did ask,
If earth was what he’d choose.
If he’d rather drift the wind,
Or ride the morning dew.
I stepped up to the pulpit then,
My paper white and clean.
Not one tear had stained the page,
Nor hand had marked between.
I spoke of quiet, gentle ways,
A calm and patient man.
His brothers bowed their heads in shame—
They knew no such soul had been.
For he’d laugh so loud the windows shook,
He’d curse the fence and rain.
He’d sing off-key from dawn till dark,
Till every throat complained.
His oldest friends looked eye to eye,
But not a word was said—
For every line I’d come to read
Fit some stranger’s life instead.
I spoke of courage, grace, and peace,
Of virtues broad and much too plain.
The sort that fit most any man
Whose boots won’t walk our streets again.
I thanked the Lord for borrowed words,
Well-polished, neat, and true.
Though none were beckoned from memory,
And none belonged to you.
When all was done, they praised the speech,
Said, “Son, you spoke just right.”
But I had buried more than flesh
Before we left that night.
For first we laid his body down
Beneath the cedar tree.
Then laid the man I should have known
Beneath machinery.
" Can you feel the soul of an abandoned house;
can you hear the whispering?"
quote...by Constance La France
As I approach the abandoned house of my youth
rain is falling
I came to remember its sights and sounds
without the illusion of youth
before it disappears in the void of years
only the footstones seem intact
leading to the crumbling porch of decaying wooden planks
where my grandmother would sit in her rocking chair
as I played on the steps of Pinewood
the oak tree I climbed is covered in Spanish moss
its limbs dying
the swing set I used is laying in grasses of brambles and weeds
having rusted away
the front door languishes on a single hinge
cocked to the side
allowing dust and dirt to be blown inside
I slowly step inside, my eyes scanning the shadowed light
feces of critters lay scattered on the floor
my mother would constantly sweep clean
the scent of rotten wood and mold
have replaced the smell of my dad's pipe
my hands touch the walls
as I walk from room to room
each one filled with voices and memories
rain is pouring through the roof
onto the floor of my yesterdays without mercy
there is nothing here in this empty barren space
hollowed out from time
leaving the ghosts of yesterday
hidden in the dim-lit shadows of decay
their remembered whispers follow me
as I leave, I look back
with a sadness that will linger in my mind
5/26/23
contest Writing Challenge "C" quotes
sponsor Constance La France
Pinewood school park Is where I used to run and have fun in.
Been stomping that concrete since a young in.
Mom high off an eight ball, Im in my feelings bug gin
Under the bridge by the creek is where you used to find my graffiti art in.
Moved to Maryland from Florida just to be faced with the same situation.
Thinking that Ma would have stayed still she was on seven years of Parole And a few months probation.
Ma couldn’t maintain her promise on staying clean.
That was a waste of my childhood dream.
Learned young that I was on my own to build my own family, Create my own team.
So, If I am willing to devote my all.
I secure my security when I say, “I got you til I fall”.
I don’t want no candles. I don’t want no cake,
Neither chocolate icing, nor coconut flake.
Don’t want no fancy paper tied up with pretty bows.
Honey, I just wanna be there when you’re taking off your clothes.
And the chipmunk’s sniffin’ through the corn crib.
Catbird’s sittin’ in a tree.
Pea hen’s peckin’ at the saw dust.
Would you celebrate my birthday with me?
We could party in the kitchen.
We could party in the hall.
We could party in the stable.
We could party in a stall.
We could party way past midnight,
Till the light of dawn returns.
Party while the bacon sizzles,
Party till it burns.
It’s another birthday like the year before.
The same surprise I’m always wishing for.
You’re all I want; in case you hadn’t guessed,
You wrapped my present, babe, when you got dressed.
And the smoke goes rising from the chimney.
Wind chime plays its song for free.
Pinewood crackles in the fire.
Would you celebrate my birthday with me?
We could party in the basement.
We could party in the shed.
We could party on the sofa.
We could party on the bed.
We could party like we’re lovebirds
Stranded on some tropic isle.
Party like we’re puppies, darlin’;
Do it doggie style.
If you don't remember, honey, that's alright.
I'll just remind you later on tonight.
I'll start out subtle; dropping hints and such,
Till I get my hands on what I love to touch.
The alarm clock’s tickin’ on the nightstand;
Big and small hands both agree,
Time’s been slippin’ through our fingers.
Would you celebrate my birthday with me?
in the sweet-water
of the dreamtime,
I wade with slow
easy steps
it is a waning light
of hope, that illuminates
a compendium in dreams
written as my heart
beats out the ink
from conception,
this story was confused
in death and life
And I hang
over the edge of tsunami
and I balance on pinewood,
the waters flow is stilled
but beats to the heart
of my dreams,
and the moons turn
forever lifts my head
and my spirit,
past the firmament
I am a child of darkness
cocooned in the light,
with the Kaleidoscope
of life and dreams
still writing,
until this pen
in the hand of my heart,
is silenced and at rest