Where trees once stood, old wood, no good,
the whole forest fell to new homes.
Now real estate contracts require
the planting of at least one tree.
I said I couldn’t write
for I am an empty pen,
my ink wasted
on letters no one will read.
Torn, crumpled,
fed to the black hole
of a trash can.
Now I write of silence
Etching words into wood
For I have broken my vow with the papers
It isn’t determination,
nor delusion
just a moment,
a fragment that insists on staying.
And still, I write
not with ink,
but with the sharp edge
of a pen
long drained of stain.
FRACTURED
~~~~~~~~~~~
fractured wood whispers
tales told of time and toil
scars reveal beauty
One woman's glass ceiling is another man's wood floor
but there's no such thing for a second-class citizen
of a third world country
as
there's no moving up gender is against her
sexual orientation too considered 'half a witness'
in testimony
with
neither voice nor choice can't vote
or
leave home alone
unless
with consent
can't emigrate (passport permission required)
and
as for caste if she were a Dalit
(lowest of the low)
there's nowhere to go
so
between me and you, flee, be a refugee,
what's a poor girl to do?
Through the breeze driven fluttering foliage
sunlight licks lasciviously upon her skin.
Through the diaphanous dress that surrounds her
it warms her as her frenzied frolic begins.
In her rarefied rapture she prances,
ending sublime stasis from the night before
when suitor satyrs did woo her,
a legend legacy from days of yore.
Now alone in her wandering woodland
she dances dangerously close to free,
to the magical music of birdsong,
lithe limbs twisting beneath her trees.
She tosses tousled hair to the morning,
with artistic abandon she flies,
among the sun speckled leaves of her true loves
who brush branches to signal their sighs.
A city will swallow you whole
the suburbs will chew on you for a bit
our world's gone off its bloody blue axis.
We were born to thrive and not just exists
given mustard seed souls to nurture into bloom...
there are those that live to poke and twist
silk from the soul of the cherry wood loom.
Head for the evergreens for just a bit
take in a teaspoon of sapphire breaths.
sashay up a mountain- nanny by your side
thinning air sweetened by a robin's egg sky.
Blessed guardian in the shadow of the tree line...
Take a crystal dip in a cool blue orchid shaped Jewell
sleeping between the whisper of the alpine.
Return, with earthen spirits woven into the chest
to face the fiery darts of man's greasy restlessness
Hold onto the many, cherry wood blessings
hold tight for as long as you possibly can.
.
'long thuh long
arm
hern rests
Purty
her legz
drape each it's
side
"comfortably"
thuh poet writes
Her belly
firm 'gainst it's girth
whilst
her chin rests in her
propped up mitt via
hern petite's taut
arm
And whilst her visage
smilez
she starez up
"Ahh" herz gasps
peek'n through thuh
canopy
az she spy'z an eagle
spiral'in thuh open
Her curious guess
"it's spy'n
my beauty"
creeping toward clover
tiny yellow wood sorrel
jealous dandelions
Wood polished so bright to mimic gold,
Its yellow coat glitters in the sun,
May even fetch a high price when sold,
And still be cherished in the long run.
Like a flawless gold that flaunts great wealth,
Its glamour, a pride to regal thrones,
Where most kings recline in pride and health,
Yet it's mere wood disguised as gemstones.
Great craftsmanship like that of goldsmiths,
Who shape raw gold to forge pure beauty,
So carpenters carve wood into myths,
Emblazoned pride into their duty.
the wood was too green
above the flames the sparks danced
the fire gave its warmth
A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.
The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,
And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.
A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,
Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.
She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.
She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair
The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum
She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways
Norway
Norway is on my bucket list
blonde haired beauties I want to kiss
I must go to “Norwegian Wood”
everyone says I really should
but first I must land in Oslo
hope to watch the aurora glow
I will have to try some Rakfisk
that sounds much better than Lutefisk
Two Pieces of Wood
From trees that grew somewhere
Cut down and then sawn
A carpenter chose two pieces of wood
One short and one long.
He joined them together
In the shape of a cross
For another good carpenter
Whose life would be lost.
On that cross, crucified,
Jesus, nailed hands and feet
Our precious Saviour,
Crucifixion complete.
“Looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:2
Carpenter bee buzzing
and drilling
sawdust spirals down
~
Ode to the risen, the followed, the crossing,
when evil sits lurking mid shadows of fear
Thorns in the mirror where blood slowly trickles,
menacing voices, a nail and a spear
Who is it calls this a Saturday sermon,
punished with timbers now more than their weight
Hung out to dry as the crows above circle,
trust is a demon built solely on hate
Take me, oh soldier of somebody's freedom,
silence this tongue if your heart tells you so
Blanket your soul for this day goes unending,
I shall return at the end of the show
Picture a stone made of granite and marble,
rolled to the side as if many were there
Footsteps to follow, the pathway is leading,
straight to the truth, it has something to share
Wake and remember, the moment, the feeling,
once in a while it would do you some good
Thankful, a phrase meant to help you remember,
every day starts at the cross made of wood
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