Short Woodpile Poems

single bunny eats 
has whole yard as it's garden 
plays in the woodpile...

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stacked against fence line 
someone's hard work has paid off 
winters work is done...

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Backwater junction in a backwoods town
Rusty and creepier than a carnival clown
Timber rattlesnakes hide their slanted eyes
No one visits this woodpile, no big surprise...

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Hunger, gelid, frigid, no nighty,
In a long coldly winter night,
Needy for a so big woodpile 
In dark, solo I had to chop
Details are good chop --
sticks chum pal up --
marks  choc-ice !!!
Choppy choosy !! 
Wood not woo !
Cook not coo !
Warming,
fire up,  
heat,
fill,
by...

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Spring is still kicking its heels,
in winters waiting room,
expectations unravel.

The squirrels are too awake,
there is no sign of sleep,
in their glittering eyes.

Magpies peck at a low cast sky,
hunt, for gaps of sunlight.

Charlie, the old man
who chop's his own firewood
died yesterday,

mice have already moved
into his woodpile.



...

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Creep around the stacks of wood
To see if something's there
That shouldn't be there if it could
Before it vanishes into thin air
Watch it crawl away too fast
With a face of mud
Because its face has long decayed
From death and time and blood
Follow hard upon its track
And you will not come back
Snatch you down its muddy hole
It makes its nest and naps....

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crawling through tall green grass
making miles of tunnels
in fields all around

a lake, the yearly rain makes
floating on rafts
crafted from grandpa's woodpile

hot brown hills of slick dry grass
slid and sped down
in cardboard boxes

old knotted oak tree
climb up like a ladder
jump into leaves piled high

acorns falling
my childhood pastimes
wonderful memories of home...

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I was not made for the hutch
No Wire fence to keep me in
A bedroom light my search light
I’m a Frabbit set me free

To these four walls I must conform
Someone’s else’s rules obey
Your life controlled by fear
Regards what your masters do or say

From the meadow to the woodpile
I fear the acts of man
I wish to escape, begin living in colour
Set this frightened rabbit free....

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Over the pine trees the ball I threw
Neighbor’s bay window the ball went through

My neighbor asked me if I would?                                                                              
Come over to his house, split a cord of wood

In the woodpile see the chipmunk pray
I do not want to be the Bald Eagle’s prey

From the woodpile a gagging scent
A payment my neighbor’s skunk had sent...

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Over the pine trees the ball I threw
Neighbor’s bay window the ball went through

My neighbor asked me if I would?                                                                              
Come over to his house, split a cord of wood

In the woodpile see the chipmunk pray
I do not want to be the Bald Eagle’s prey

From the woodpile a gagging scent
A payment my neighbor’s skunk had sent...

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There stands the painter upon his hill
His wife is gone but not his skill

On each and every rainy day
He hunkers down for an outdoor stay

A woodpile serves him as his chair 
From which he casts his longing stare

Slowly the brush does touch the paint
As he pictures his departed saint 

Quickening strokes all each knowing
His eyes now closed the paint a flowing

The colors before him come to life
The strokes reveal his teary wife...

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he sobs 
hidden in the back lot beyond the woodpile
many days he has listlessly searched for her
wedding wing
thrown as she declared her
independence
or rather
that she never loved him

never?

dark soil and trampled gardens marked by deer
he is alone here
but nothing shines to guide him
nothing shines in the dirt
if only he could find it he'd have something
real 
to show her

now her eyes are cast down
she drives away 
fast
nothing shining....

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