Woodpile Poems | Examples

HERMIT'S FIRE IN THE FROZEN MEDIEVAL FOREST

HERMIT’S FIRE IN THE FROZEN MEDIEVAL FOREST 
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The wind, a teeth-chattering dirge
through skeletal branches,
finds no purchase on the small flame.

He built it low, a secret
whispered to the snow-laden earth,
a defiant ember in the kingdom of ice.

Years bleed into seasons here,
marked only by the shrinking woodpile,
the lengthening beard, the deepening lines
etched by firelight and solitude.

He remembers faces,
ghosts flickering in the flames,
loves lost, battles fought,
a life traded for this quiet burn.

The forest breathes around him,
a vast, indifferent lung.
He is a mote, a spark,
yet the fire persists,
a stubborn refusal to surrender
to the long, cold night.

And perhaps, he thinks,
as the embers glow,
that is enough.
Just to burn.
Just to be.

Backwater Junction

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

baby bunny

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

woodpile

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

A Charlie Spring

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.

The Woodpile

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.

The Wild Petunia

I never expected you to come to Australia first
Still with the appearance that I am familiar 
I must travel across the ocean back and forth
And you? I wonder how could you come here?

I saw you climb the fence in our hometown
Up to my ears and blowing your horn
Then you asked me if I was afraid of
And I said: I like your  beautiful song

We used to play hide and seek in a woodpile
I pretend that I don't know where you're hiding
You can't wait to stick your head out of the pile
You tell me you're right next to me with your song 

I see you in this foreign country unexpectedly
Did you travel across the ocean to follow me
We meet in these wild fields when melancholy
The joy alike seeing relatives you bring to me 

I always feel the coldness of the world
Many things are inconvenient to say publicly
But my heart has been filled with your love
When I need some real "friends" so eagerly

We know "friendship"  already too many 
The definition of them is confusing me
The Illusory "friendship" is hard to rely on
Only you, Wild Petunia, by thousands of miles
You come here to stay with me

Stars

Mind like an acrobat
She sways precariously back 
and forth with the constant influx of travelers
Who never seem to stay more than a night
Part with their cynical phrases
And compare her to a trapeze

She is the calico feline that hides
In the woodpile for fear of being known
The nights have long since turned frigid
The aroma of death
Is what gives her away
Too late now to be saved

Imperfections in the sky 
Draw weary eyes to gaze upon them
Amplified in the freckles on her face
Pinpricks on the vast unknown
Flaming balls of unknown chaos
Look like stars to the naked eye

Frightened Rabbit

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.

Paint Her

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

Chum

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

Pastimes In Old Novato

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

Hodge - Podge Again - Repost

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

Memory Lane

So much of beauty has come and gone
and never known its own worth
in farm and field in whitewashed barns
in the raucous music of the rooster.

Poorer are we for the loss of harrow and ax
the woodpile stacked with oak and ash
the balsam pillows stowed in drawers 
of quilted blankets and linens bleached.

The not so ordinary loved packed scarf
from scraps of sweater knitted
the braided rugs made from well-worn blankets
and the smell of wood smoke in caste iron.  

Reminisce with me of clothes upon a line
and the smell of sunshine on white sheets.
Remember, oh remember the lady slippers
deep within the birch filled wood at mid-day.

All of these have come and gone 
mere photos remain pixels without emulsions
slick shadow less, machine stamped hulls
so little of real beauty remains.

Martyrs

Fires burning, burning bright.
Not for warmth or even light.                        
Burning flesh seared to the bone. 
Was this the sense of martyrdom?

Mary Tudor was the Queen, 
return of Popery her dream.
Henry's child without a doubt,
her fathers deeds to turn about.

Men and women, loosing life,
butchers son and bakers wife.
Bishops, clerics, Lords and sires,
Not one spared the holy fires.

Thomas Cranmer was her aim, 
he caused her mother so much pain.
Anne Boleyn's most errant knight,
causing Mary's own sad plight.

Hooper, Ridley, Cranmer too,
English folk, all good and true.
All subsumed to appease her bile,
sacrificed on the stakes woodpile.

Fourteen score souls finally died,
entering the flames with pride.
Heretics, each and every one.
Assured of joining God's own son. 

As death became well-nigh routine,
The people cried God Save the Queen.
But they, in their hearts, were wary,
amongst themselves called her Bloody Mary.

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