Short Knurled Poems

Listen to poem:

keep old frail weak trees
for scars knurls holes and wrinkles
birds and bees call home...

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Kneeling, head bowed, the old

          Knight remained still, though his

Knobby and enfeebled

                    Knees pulsed with pain, his worn

Knuckles ached, bloodied and

          Knurled ... honored now, nigh his

KING ... he would ... not ... falter.




* FIRST PLACE in the "Pleiades K" Poetry Contest, Kim Merryman, Sponsor. *...

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My heart has sought your mystery
guardian dryad, ivy tressed tree,
other worldly mound and ley;
long I’ve searched the fair Sidhe.

Here, found I the ancient long bone,
the knurled hawthorn, the Druid’s home.
Sheltered, shrouded, and overgrown
within St. Cyril’s grave well come.

At last, at last my longings free,
and I can dwell a time with thee
A time, past time, with all the wee
Before the banshee calls to me....

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A tackle trunk beneath a tree.
It's knurled top a bright red-brown.
A rod leaned up against it's side
bought at a store from the next town.

A magic moment held in time
by elves for parents that I pride,
but not for gifts at Christmas time;
for thoughts abound and in their stride.

The tree Blue Spruce with silver boughs
seen standing still in vacant air.
The room aglow with warmth and wishes.
The first to view as though a prayer....

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When all of youth flees
and even the whitest eye reddens, rheums,
words, fair words, dispel the gloom.
When hands are mapped with age and knurled,
still, they transform the page, the eye, the cage,
for where words flow, the mind goes,
to the pristine smiles and 
the smooth curves which once were
yours, your cheek, your neck, your hip.
Deny me anything but the word
for it’s magic will soon be all that remains
of fleeting youth....

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Splick, splosh, splash. The stormy sky’s crash;
Emptying all of heavens rejected sadness onto our heads.
Greed is laughing, as gales fell trees to the marshy ground.
The knurled earth twists and boils spitting out sorrow.
Lightning strikes!
Umbrellas deflect angels’ tears and direct the gods’ fury,
Darkness encompasses the earth-
Evil takes Joy’s place- 
All is death. All is hatred.
When an infant’s cry’s for a lost mother lightens the skies....

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Listen to poem:

Age gnarls, weather beats skin to flaky dryness. 
Wrinkles and lines, furrows, knots and blotches
Twist and contort the skin of babies and youths
to a knurled, rough, compliant easy to grip surface.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
Despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls and grumbles,
Can be gripped, manipulated and convinced to comply and yield.
For now there is little else to lose, little else to try anew.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to yield....

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