Long Woodsman Poems
Long Woodsman Poems. Below are the most popular long Woodsman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woodsman poems by poem length and keyword.
The minuteman with his musket,
The man who won our freedom,
An everyday guy asked to step up,
And like a soldier, carry a gun
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The woodsman with coonskin cap,
Blazing countless, roaming trails,
Surveying endless, rolling acres,
Surviving all forms of travails,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The cowboy with his lasso,
Riding endless western lands,
Protecting the herd and his skin,
While riding for the brand,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The lumberjack in Buffalo Check,
Eats flap-jacks and swings an axe,
For soft-wood and piles of paper,
He fells trees that could break his back,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The soldier in his helmet,
Standing high upon the wall,
Burning bright against the night,
At any moment he can fall,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The cop driving a lonely beat,
Looking for human wolves,
Expected to fight on our behalf,
And yet still be held accountable,
An old friend who made you,
An old friend that you’ve spurned.
The hipster and the snowflake,
Proclaim everything toxic,
Plush comforts hide reality,
They claim good folks are sick,
Like the old friends who made them,
Like the old friends that they’ve spurned.
Thugs in black masks rage,
But claim they’re just ‘protesting,’
Targeting all who disagree,
Enthusiastically bashing,
The old friends who made them,
The old friends that they spurned.
But it is all quite shot-sighted,
They’d do better to learn,
From the giants whose shoulders hold us,
From the giants whose respect is earned,
For some day old friends may grow weary
Of being mocked, ignored, and spurned,
They may shrug their heavy shoulders,
Then sit back and watch it burn.
The birds were flying home
Upon the setting of the sun,
The flowered track lead me back
To where it all begun.
In the twilight of the village;
I glimpsed you paint your nose,
Couldn’t help but spy on you
High on tippy toes.
His graciousness surprised me;
The hunter from the north,
I never thought anything
From this would blossom forth.
This is how I tell the story
Of a man who’s versatile,
The woodsman and the artist
The one that made me smile.
The moonlight sparkled in your eyes
Connection from a glance,
This is when I fell in love
Consuming all romance.
Heart it beat a brand new beat
Combusting rhythmic glee,
This handsome, hot and striking man
Was gazing right at me.
Never been in love before
Happiness to weep,
Emotional, from the fall
Powerful and deep.
Stirring all new feelings...
Passion and desire,
No time again like this time when
You lit the love on fire.
I must have gazed at him slowly wandering
Along a bushy stream, his locks breeze-tossed
With cheeks a reddish rush, rugged like fall --
This woodsman lounging among the grass
His sunlit face wearing off into a gloom.
Beneath a tangled pine from which musk scent
Grew drowsy like his shirt cast down,
Behind the rays, deep was his discontent.
And watching this shadow from the vine,
His look ...sad cascading through leaves,
More sad than black,or all that black can pour.
Our eyes locked briefly, this sudden glance
Of dimming chance...I moved away...
Adored privately, I longed to hold those arms
Where splashed the murmur of this
my heart's veins ;
With all that throbbing did I implore...not now,
As calm sorrow drained from his
mystic charm.
5th Place Premier
He is a quiet, gentle man,
With a friendly, easy smile.
He's helpful and considerate,
Honest, without guile.
He works as the county game warden.
His family lives in the dell.
Well mannered, friendly, peaceful folk,
But no one knows them well.
If ever there is trouble,
He's there to set things right.
There is a strength within his eyes,
That no one wants to fight.
He came upon a man one night,
While out for his nightly run.
They looked into each other's eyes,\
And the stand off had begun.
They recognized each other,
As bitter enemies.
A vampire and a werewolf,
Beneath the moon and trees.
The wolf just preyed on animals,
As wolves are wont to do.
The vampire preferred human blood,
And the wolf was human too.
The vampire was new to the area,
But the werewolf called this home.
He'd guard, protect, defend this place,
If he had to fight alone.
They skirted one another,
Knowing they were evenly matched,
In strength and speed and fighting skill,
But there remained one catch.
A werewolf's bite could kill him.
The vampire knew this well,
So he bowed his acquiescence.
Where he went no one can tell.
The wolf returned to the village,
And his family in the dell,
Where he's known as a simple woodsman,
And he guards this place quite well.
In the still of the night when the moon is high,
It will give one's heart a start,
When he gives his call letting all things know,
There's a wolf pack in these parts.
Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory
Is found when the treading surface is clear.
A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade
My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend
That things with bristles can glide
Between and expand the substrate/snow interface.
Between the air and my skin there is no interface
Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory
Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide
Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear
My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend
To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade
My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade
Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface
Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend
I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory
Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear
My conscience about past regrets and glide
Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide
Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade
That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear
Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface--
That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory
As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend
That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend
That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide
Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory
Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade
Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface
From spring to summer is never clear.
The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear
About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend
Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface
With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide
Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade
Slip for grip. Never bask in glory
Unearned. The web interface has clear
Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend
To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.
(Inspired by the children's fairytale "Little Red Riding Hood" written by Charles Perrault.)
"Little red riding hood my how you've grown!
No longer that little girl I had once known.
I still can recall when you skipped through the woods
To visit your grandma and take her baked goods."
"Hello there Sir woodsman; yes time sure does fly.
I miss my dear grandma and sometimes still cry."
"Yes it's always hard when our loved one's are gone
But we must keep our faith and believe they live on.
I heard that you now have a child of your own
And she wears your red cape that your grandma had sewn?"
"Yes, Belle just adores it and wears it with pride
But to visit her grandma she takes a bus ride."
1st Win Placement
Submitted for the contest: A conversation with a fictional character.
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Why The Willow Weeps
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a beautiful park in a sunny valley.
In this park there were three Willow Trees. In those days the Willow was a proud tall tree,
Its strong limbs outspread. It stood with its branches happily swaying in the breeze,
Two taller Willows grew either side of the smaller tree where they had grown happily for Many years.
The land owner had looked after the sunny valley for a long time but as he became older He had to sell the park and a new owner came along who decided he needed a river Where boaters could glide in slow, tranquil waters.
Then woodsmen came and cut down one of the two taller Willow trees.
The younger tree looked on, helpless. Workmen diverted the river
So that it bent around the younger Tree's feet. The young Willow Tree,
Its branches once stretched out now, saddened, Hung its fronds down into the water.
Then a carpenter came along and built a bridge over the river. Now the park owner Wanted a path over the bridge so the woodsman cut down the remaining tall Willow to Make way for the path where the tall tree had once stood.
Now the young Willow tree wept as its branches dipped into the dappled shade of the Slow moving waters. The boaters on the river admired the beauty of the young Willow, its Soft fronds hanging into the dappled shade around its feet and, just occasionally, the Wind sighed in its branches.
Now all Willows grow with their soft fronds hanging down and weep into the water in Memory of the Willow that wept.
12/07/2016
Little Red left karate class with a grin,
her black belt tied tight below her chin;
the trail smelled of pine,
the sunlight a shine~
when the wolf slunk out wearing a grin.
He circled with swagger and show,
his growl pitched theatrically low;
but Red only sighed,
her patience denied~
she’d seen fiercer foes long ago.
She tossed off her hood with a flare,
revealing bright colors that made everyone stare;
a super-girl suit,
cape fluttering cute~
the wolf froze mid-step in mid-air.
He lunged with a howl and a boast
but Red moved like wind through a ghost;
she flipped him around,
then pinned him to ground~
his ego deflated the most.
He tumbled through mushrooms and leaves,
his pride snagged on branches and eaves;
the squirrels looked down,
the jays laughed aloud~
his ego and dignity lost to the trees.
He whimpered and staggered away,
his bravado gone fully astray;
the birds in the trees
chuckled on the breeze~
his pride in complete disarray.
At Grandma’s, Red knocked on the door,
glowing from triumphant Karate encore;
no woodsman required,
no rescue desired~
Big bad wolf will bother us no more.
And the wolf, with his tail hanging low,
decided it best to never again show;
for legends now spread
how Big Red said~
“I’m a superhero hero, just so you know.”
You can be found
somewhere underneath
the mask of
the mundane
On that plane
beneath the sheets
that cover your face
is the real you
The truth many don't see
because you hide behind
a false reality pretending
to be true
You developed a face
in your youth
that protected you
from a world that
couldn't see
You were free
once upon a time
before the ties that bind
attached & took hold
The bold soul that came
through the portal
of what's called mom
now dons a mortal frame
You were never the same
after crossing the threshold
of that door
What's more important
is the fact that you've
forgotten you're
more than this shell
A telling story of a soul
with more stories to tell
than it can remember
You fell faster than
a woodsman could
yell timber in a forest
surrounded by a
chorus of trees
That left you in a place
that leaves
nothing to salvage
but salvation lies within
The second coming
is a journey that begins
with steps toward
your true inception
Your true resurrection
is a shift in perception
of how you came to
manifest
This is a test every soul
must pass
before breaking through
that glass ceiling
Once you've succeeded
you'll hear the chorus
singing your praises
as you've now been raised
Raised from the ground
& out of the wilderness
no longer a tree
but a seed
A seed no longer in need
of healing but one that sows
from a place forever
growing indeed
This is the catch
that's absolutely worth
the reeling because
you've now been freed
It happened again to Bo Peep.
She'd gone off and lost all her sheep.
Met a woodsman named Ted
They spent time in his shed.
Bo cared not a Peep about sheep!
BY DALE GREGORY COZART
Little Bo Peep ignored her flock
She let Ted undo her tight frock
They had passionate sex
In his parent’s duplex
The poor sheep they all ran amock.
BY JAN ALLISON
Exhausted Bo Peep had to lay down her head
But Ted kept one sheep in back of the shed
Since she was unable
He hid under a table
So his sheep was the first to be Ted bred!
BY PAT ADAMS
Now rested, Bo woke in disgust
To find ewe and Ted in mid-thrust
So she took some pink pills
Then she ran for the hills
Looking for one she could trust!
BY DEAN WOOD