Long Sawdust Poems
Long Sawdust Poems. Below are the most popular long Sawdust by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sawdust poems by poem length and keyword.
the Dolphin a love Sonnet That I May Walk--
My blue dolphin, you inspire me to write.
How I love the way you DANCE, WALK and prowl,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the great gray owl.
Let me compare you to a good sawdust?
You are more unreal, gentle and pleasant.
Clear heat toasts the light frolics of August,
And summertime has the argus pheasant.
How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your legs and personality.
Thinking of your shiny smile fills my days.
My love for you is the morality.
Now I must away with an active heart,
Remember my bright words whilst we're apart.
3/6/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
Ode to Harris
So they showed you
the politics of poetics
showed you how to sculpt
quotations
as if discreetly yours
sure-e-e...
they told you of your godhood
at Harvard
but they crucified you at Rowan Tree
fourteen light stained pages
4.95
6-15-00
__
Watching years go by
like the wax flow of candles
making mountains on
unblemished parchment
can’t help but wonder
what the light was ever used for
11/12/00
Facing South
Dusting off my polarity
I face North
and wonder what force
has brought me here
Concrete
Ehhhkhhkhhkkkk-uhhhuhhhuttuttt
sounds the forming of a citadel
ingredients flow in steps
(Fernando understands it all in Spanish)
The joviality of the foundation
is overcome with glee when
work is done
sitting among the leaves
and unrecyclable debris
I wonder, giving an entourage of words to meaning,
is this not concrete?
but what a venture!
so somewhere down the line
perceived madness will transform
into old age
as greatness is perceived
by those who lost the least
Work Bench
Aromatic flow
in an autumn breeze
smells of home
and 3/4” 4x8 sheets of plywood
fighting the mathematics of a
Taiwanese circular saw
the dry pulp blood
covers my cloths
smiling perplexed by an ancient memory
can almost feel time weathered hands
brushing sawdust from my hair
looking down
the cut clamors to the ground
12/28/00
The sunsets of my loneliness
silent thoughts of what was believed
unbreakable
life’s path is always mistakable
for the consistency of coincidence
to a love alone
The pencil is my heart
The paper is my burden
And the love on this snowy evening
is the focal point of my existence
AN INTERLOPING BIRD’S MIGRATION
Flew the bird from my
windowsill
Floating away like child
blown dandy-lions
Dissipated in the peachy air
of sunrise
Calling, calling “Birdie, Birdie
crash your cresting thoughts over me.”
(In darkness though, words are intricacies
of ice on glass)
“Thank God the Weekend’s Over”
©2021 Jerry Brotherton
It’s time to get up and go to work, that old alarm clock said.
It’s Monday and I still have her, rolling around in my head.
It’s six o’clock in the morning, and I’m feeling half past dead.
Thank God the weekend’s over, if I can just get out of bed.
Chorus:
There’s something about the weekend,
that can make me lose my mind.
Only when I drink tequila,
chased with a salted lime.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember,
the good times they say I had.
But if I wake up on Monday,
it couldn’t have been that bad.
Friday at the watering hole, I was drinking Bud and gin.
When the door swung open, and a golden light cascaded in.
If she was not heaven’s angel, she sure as hell should have been.
Just watching her assets swaying gave me goosebumps on my skin.
She strolled over to my table, said, “I hate to drink alone.”
“Have a seat”, I tried to say, but all that came out was a moan.
Electricity flashed, like a hurricane hit’n a cyclone.
And before the night was over, my paycheck was all but gone.
(Repeat Chorus)
We danced until my feet hurt, then we would drink and dance some more.
She floated like a feather, across the sawdust-covered floor.
We closed down that tavern, then we found an all-night liquor store.
She said let’s go back to my place, what are we standing here for.
We went to her apartment, my mind was in a little haze.
But I know one thing for sure, we set the morning sun ablaze.
It was a glorious encounter, that filled the next two days.
Didn’t know two people could be together, in so many ways.
(Repeat Chorus)
When Sunday’s sun went down, she said, “Cowboy, it’s been fun for sure.”
You’re the best one so far, it’s a shame we don’t have time for more.
She said this is a one-time thing, and she led me across the floor.
She shoved me out the window, as her husband walked in the door.
It’s time to get up and go to work, that old alarm clock said.
It’s Monday and I still have her, rolling around in my head.
It’s six o’clock in the morning, and I’m feeling half past dead.
Thank God the weekend’s over, but I don’t think I can get out of bed.
Yea, thank God the weekend’s over, and I’m still alive today.
He built his life with calloused hands,
In sawdust, cedar, pine and oak,
A man who measured where he stood,
And meant each honest word he spoke.
He didn't bend to suit the room,
Or soften truths to make them sweet—
He told you straight, exactly how
The world was laid out at your feet.
A godly man of stubborn faith,
Unshaken as a mountain side,
Who loved his family fierce and deep
With quiet, unpretentious pride.
At evenings end, he'd settle in
To watch the western trail untether,
Where cowboys rode beneath the blue
And weathered every storm together.
And when the screen grew soft and sweet,
And romance bloomed–as love will do–
He'd crack a smile and state the fact:
"Oh, he got the tulips."
Now heaven's shop has open doors,
And red spring blooms along the fence,
Where honest trade and plain-spoken truth
Make perfect, everlasting sense.
Rest easy, Papa. You finished the build,
You kept the faith, and you left us with a lifetime of love and laughter to hold onto.
The Appalachia World Championship Genre
is a newly researchable entity that along
with the collaborations of many people look
to meet the concerns of millions by developing
a community that will expand from the
American South East into South Eastern Canada.
The company will aspire to collaborate with companies
to help people in need and for generations of people
to come.Because of the simplicity of involvement.
They proposed and challenged the new development of
certain areas to create interest. Were as
and Along with the following. Recreation of usage of
sawdust. The teaching of renewable usage of the commercial
product sawdust. Developing a plan to make sawdust
bricks and store them so that a large amount of the product
can be evaluated for commercial usage.A large supply to
be used in areas were poverty limits.
But clothes and manufacturing new foods. Making and Moving
forward in the effords to improve. From Improvement to fazing.To brag about our past to look to a bragable future. Creating the Best to faze into
better, and safer.
The company will champion these causes and represent these interest.
The Chorest Era of belonging. Pride and Perfection. Making best due
with what we have to accomadate a new tommorrow.
Not to be ignorant of a persons present condition and state it as a way of avoiding becoming like that.
I was working out back, while under the palms
I've a tendon-cy to stand under the limbs
to focus my eyes, and digest the surrounding glands cape
Plantar-d there on the ground was a carpenter ant
that caught my attention, and that is a fact!
Disarming he was, determined as well
making his way through tall blades of green grass
As hungry as a calf, he had shinnyed himself
He knuckled up under with all of his nerve
Hopped on an iris, like a tropical bird
and began eating his way through small fingers of lumbar
that was stacked against the rear of the old cellar door
Diget know? .. It was humerus to watch, how he testes his food!
Consuming the wood from the bottom to top
He tendon to stop, to take a deep thigh,
then back to devour, while munching his lunch.
Lashing away, until his jaws became sore
He must have consumed a whole foot, of lumbar or more!
Prostated he was, till he lymphed to the floor
Tomarrow I'll have only sawdust to store !
Ureter about fables, and stories of ants
They are truly able to eat a whole fence!
Their orbital cavitiy is bladder and bigger
than one might imagine…They've the gall to be pigs !!
____________________________________________________
9/10/16
For Contest: Body of Work
Sponsor Viv
Words of body parts used:
back
palms
tendon
limbs
eyes
digest
gland
plantar
digit
arm
blade
calf
shin
knuckle
nerve
iris
fingers
lumbar
ear
cell
humerus
testes
bottom
thigh
lash
jaws
foot
prostate
lymph
marrow
ureter
orbital cavitiy
bladder
gall
The cracker crisp Maine air
rang with the rooster’s revel.
Moving day, time to clean the hens shed.
Monstrous three story hatchery,
thousands of burnt umber; beauties a laying.
Lace edged, bobby socks, red Keds,
barrettes, T-shirt and shorts;
and off to the hen house, pony tail bouncing.
Immersed in the acrid reek of chicken dew;
Blue jean boys, Georgie, and Wayne,
Aunt Donna and pony-tail girl;
wade through squawk, cluck and doodle.
Horrific chore, it had to get rid of THE girl?
The boys gawk at her waiting.
Up they all must go! Sunny side up!
Up, up, with the upside down
omelet laying peckers.
Grande dames lance laces,
buttons and barrettes.
wing flap, feathers fly,
deep brown questioning eyes.
“Get along with you three!”
Aunt Donna screams,
spitting feathers above the din.
“Up stairs with the whole damn lot of them!”
The boys eye the girl
and with a tilt of her chin
and scrawny pecker in each diminutive hand;
she joins the troops
walking gingerly over
the sawdust refuse strewn floor,
up the tangled trio go, up!
And into the valley of peckers
strode she.......grin.
The flags are waving brightly,
hypnotizing the naive,
they shimmer like carnival balloons.
There are merry andrews waltzing,
to the themes of marching bands,
they’re camouflaged to blend in with the moon.
The party’s getting started,
so we better get in line
- the wind is breathing something like a sigh.
The smell of cotton candy
drowns out the barkers script,
and multicolored lights announce the mood.
There’s rain off in the distance
- you can feel on your skin
- the children refuse to stay in line.
Dogs are barking somewhere,
and lanterns dance like birds
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.
The tent is Chinese silk,
as silver as a coin
- acrobats take tickets with their lips.
The sawdust smells like bacon,
and the seats are way too small,
but the crowd is pushing in
because red rain is falling.
Elephants turn like dancers,
and trumpet to the night
- the sound shakes the world like my alarm.
Another ho-hum morning,
soon the sky will tell a lie,
- that lemon light has something to proclaim.
My bags are packed for boredom,
the trip will last all day,
- there’s nothing left to do but step in time,
two, three, four.
I took my periodic stroll through the local antique store today.
There were the usual horse collars, clocks and various sundries on display.
Havin' no need fer horse collars and sech, I quickly passed them by,
But a paintin' of an abandoned stagecoach really caught my eye!
The artist depicted it in a field overgrown with tumbleweeds and brambles.
It looked so very forlorn, its former glory now in a total shambles!
I contemplated this poignant scene and mused upon its past,
And how it may have helped conquer the western frontier so very vast!
I could picture the cranky driver a-cussin' and crackin' his leather whip,
Stingin' the ears of his cantankerous mules urgin' them on to a faster clip!
As they raced across arid deserts and rounded treacherous mountain curves,
How the passengers must've been jostled, gittin' on each others nerves!
I visualized the characters that old stage must've transported to the west!
There were gamblers seekin' suckers, concealin' ample aces in their vest!
Platoons of preachers clutchin' their Bibles were numbered 'mongst the hosts,
And young and innocent teachers were headin' west to teach at army posts!
Soiled doves, plyin' their trade, were headed fer sawdust saloons.
I wondered if the old stage had ever been sacked by outlaws and their goons.
I reckon the old derelict had earned its repose - its axles no longer squeal.
If only that old stage could speak! My oh my! The secrets it might reveal!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
We placed a pine box casket on a sawhorse table.
There weren’t but little notice, did as best we able.
I watched the flowers wilting in the heat of August.
It seemed a shameful squander given what they cost us.
She was a stoic widow, though a might diminished.
She clutched a carved wood angel, one he never finished.
Then came a stovepipe preacher, smelled of hair slick tonic.
He kept his manner formal and his speech laconic.
It was a simple service in a smoke wood setting,
Another taproot sermon I’d be soon forgetting.
He hammered nail to cross the way the Good Book reckon,
“All sinners need God’s mercy when The Judgment beckon.”
He spoke some other hoo-ha ‘bout “The Lord's forgiveness,”
And I just shucked it off to get about my business.
I might be pissin’ sawdust when it come to prayer,
But when they toss on vittles, count me first hoss there.