Short Oaken Poems

In a pensive pose
Steel and wood combined as one
Oaken mannequin....

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the friendship of trees
shattered as rot downs oaken
force onto the roof

6/23/2018...

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 In an oaken wood,
Fairies weaving grassy cloth
Clothing for May Day....

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Dull white clouds splashed the autumn sky –
But God beamed His brightest oaken smile! 

11.23.14...

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The bayonet hangs on the wall,
Mounted on an oaken plaque.
“Remember”, says the plaque,
And nothing more....

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So scratch my skin
Unblemished and thin
Till it leaves red marks
On oaken bark
Can I see one day
All the words to her
I want to say...

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Trees,
oaken,
shivering.
Blustery winds
change style with color.
A rich raiment,
till stripping
them of
leaves.
...

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I

Our coalescent bodies,
align as gravestones in
mother's spacious palms;
she remains within the grove
nurturing bastard children
in her arms of oaken branches....

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Ahhh... but Dr. Ram,
Tis with feeble pen in hand...
I find that o'which I am...
A'wander crost the land...
A'sail amidst the sea...
Or still a'simply set a'place...
Under tallest oaken tree.

SeaWolf...

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The Palm Trees

Morning sky—
That is beauty.
It clings to the oaken boards,
The beautiful timber 
Colliding into sails after chores,
It is the beautiful horizon
Rising into mine, 
A love, palm in palm.
My hand in thine....

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July evening, ash and ember
Crickets croon a lullaby
Fire feasts on oaken timber
Smoke spirals toward the sky

July evening, ember and ash
Sparks below and stars above
Flames flicker, flail, and flash
And it’s all this poet’s thinking of....

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You've got smoking synergy
I've been cloaking energy
We're a broken tapestry
We've got token chemistry
They'll be croaking amnesty
We'll be poking sanity
In your joking vanity
I'll be choking symmetry
You'll be stroking emnity
In my oaken ministry....

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It’s Spring

Today I saw
A swallow fly
And spring was nigh,
An oaken branch
Puts forth its leaves
And winter grieves.
A bluebell shoot
Escapes the earth
Which gave it birth,
A black- faced lamb
With legs unfurled
Surveys the world.
White clouds parade
The heavens above
And I’m in love....

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Can I catch you
Can you stay?
Forests at wood
There we play
A gentle hand 
That fixed the dress
Brushing tears back
Saving stress
I can not bare
The oaken wave
Only memories
Can I save
I miss your hair
And what it covered
More than a mind
God knows I loved her
The ghost I knew
She rests away
I can not catch you
You can not stay....

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Woven into the fibers of every rug
   Burnished in the grains of hardwood floors
Shining in the panes of sunlit windows
   Carved into great oaken doors   

Gleaming in newly polished silver chalice
   A recipe of love, a woman's dearest wish
In the pride of her kitchen, aglow on each utensil
   Baked into her every dinner's dish...

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All happens for a reason.
We meet whose who we so like.
We dance, love, commit treason
With tingling energy spike.

One door has got to be shut
For another to open.
Else your guts would slowly rot 
In wooden box that's oaken.

Let your tired soul freely fly,
Go through rejuvenation.
He would watch you from the sky
And grant you revelation....

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searching for the perfect word on virginal paper
leads to the cut, to oaken tears, to a sorrow of yews;
then the unbalance, rowdy tracks of leaves and
branches, the pushing down against green bursts,
the mud and ways, as if we could claim to find more
than the idle wind through trees on a summer`s night,
more than a hush,more than a whisper,more than this...

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i was stretching
reaching across
you laying naked
next to me when
suddenly i felt i
was in the garden
of Eden suddenly
feeling licks and
tugs sucking my
grapes making me
think perhaps too
late i should have
pruned when soon
a shudder of my
leg's arbor started
somewhat startled
feeling like making
wine but not a whine
was heard more like
a dry non oaken moan...

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Twilight sky or morn sunrise,
warm as the blush upon my skin.
Oaken leaves, on Autumn's breeze,
fires flame is tinged within.

From the thorn, a single drop,
falls upon the love Rose.
Anger when not contained,
this is the color that I chose.


My color, Red.
by Paula Swanson
For the contest, Color my world
Sponsored by Nette Onclaud
Placement: 2nd...

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SPRING GARDEN

wildflower blossoms
a coiffured carpet of moss
curlicues of vines

calligraphic bold sonnet
intoxicating fragrance

~

budding green love taps
from a small child’s fingertips
on each oaken branch

lucid tickle of sunlight
robin builds her newborns’ nest

3/14/2017
Carlton D Kennedy’s The Love Of Nature contest
Tanka Form...

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Our realm, our secret world

Gnarled and weather worn,

Mystical, and mighty

Convoluted in its form.

As we played, its oaken trunk

Became our royal tower,

I played King, lording it,

Revelling in my power.
















Entry for
MAY 2019 no 6,ANY FORM,ANY THEME,
UP TO A MAX OF 8(EIGHT )Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand.
18/5/2019.Placed 5th....

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•

 Come to me O breath of life
 in silent room of flowered vase
 with delicate cracks and age defined
 the oaken floors worn of time

 I find this place of two immersed
 near crackling warmth of subtle hues
 a place where time has come to slow
 and winter's wrath of purity bestow

 
 Come to me O breath of life
 to hold one moment
 in fire light...

•


...

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My wife created a collage
More than thirty-one years ago
With colored photographs of me
In different running poses.
It still hangs from the wall above
My cluttered oaken desk, staring
Down at a metamorphic man
Unrecognized from the captured
Faded phantoms frozen in time.
It’s no wonder why memories
Remain so near and dear to us.
Their existential, uniqueness
Remain unchanged throughout time
Whereas, all else dies a slow death....

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When Agnes was taken, 
We were deeply shaken;
From reverie woken,
Hit by a wood oaken!

Fred should have been their man:
The Guy to Raw Skin tan;
In oven lodge no fan
And show evils man can...

To them it's the same thing:
They'd make Fred's sister thin;
First just whisk her away
And hope Fred goes astray...

At last, Fred failed to dance
And it was her last chance;
When at her shots were fired,
We guessed smart guns were hired....

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Woven into the fibers of every rug
  Burnished in the grains of hardwood floors
Shining in the panes of sun-lit windows
  Carved in stately oaken doors

Gleaming in newly polished silver chalice
  A recipe of love, a woman's dearest wish
The sparkle of her kitchen, aglow on each utensil
  Baked into her every dinner's dish




  Originally posted December 11, 2019
    CV-19 environs seem to make this
         poem even more relevant....

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