Long Woodshed Poems
Long Woodshed Poems. Below are the most popular long Woodshed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woodshed poems by poem length and keyword.
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
“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!”
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...
Form:
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.