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Best Poems Written by James Byrd

Below are the all-time best James Byrd poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Woodcutter

With feet rooted into the bones of the Earth,
the old man squatted on his heels and began his work.
He lifted his saw and placed it on top of a block of hardwood.
And then he began to cut.		                      Back-cut, forward.
				                             Back-cut, forward.
					               Metal wolf eating wood.
					                            Back-cut, forward.
He seemed to ignore the events around him.
The stomp and clank of war machines grinding on and on. 
Importance of officers, and measured industry of soldiers…
all were far from his concern. 			      Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
						    Dust began to fall.
						            Back-cut, forward.
The bamboo allowed me a view of his work. 
I watched the tireless arm moving backward and forward.
The cleft in the wood deepened while time and the old man’s eyes followed
the sure progress of the blade.			     Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
					                   Sour smell of wood.
						            Back-cut, forward.
As politicians sparred with words dreams were lost, 
young hopes were bleeding into unfamiliar soil,
and the old shoulders swayed as he continued to push the hard steel,
relentless in his patience. 			     Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
						      Work to be done.
						            Back-cut, forward.
Then a plank fell away from the hardwood block.
The saw was lifted to the top with barely a pause,
The calloused thumb and fingers placed to carefully guide the first cut,
and the rhythm began again.			     Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
						      Wood to be used.
						            Back-cut, forward.
Breath of the saw coming ragged through the wood
sounding like dying friends in after-battle numbness.
The day's heat, a dull, buzzing insect in my brain, played counterpoint
to the rasping of the saw.			     Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
						           All day long.
						            Back-cut, forward.
Time to move out on a night of war's business.
I then turned to see him stand and put his saw away.
In the dimming light, the old man gathered his collection of boards,
walked into his small house,
			and left us to our illusions
					     Back-cut, forward.
					             Back-cut, forward.
					                Another piece of wood.
					                            Back-cut, forward.

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Big Thicket Heat

It’s an old dog day
when the dragonflies play
and the pines smell sweet
in the Big Thicket heat.

A shallow creek a-runnin’
and the lazy turtles sunnin.’
Soft sand under feet
in the Big Thicket heat.

Cicadas sing and fly
in a raucous lullaby.
A siesta can’t compete
in the Big Thicket heat.

Then night gently falls 
and an old owl calls
while tree frogs greet
in the Big Thicket heat.

Now Daddy tells stories
of the Old Woods’ glories
and our day is complete
in the Big Thicket heat

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It's Over

With my thoughts of her
ripples move in the water.
The fish swims away.

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Got It Right (Haiku #2)

Ordinarily,
haiku is of nature’s realm;
so, I add a leaf.

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Cycle

A leaf has fallen.
It graces the forest floor…
a gift of essence.

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Winter

Snow on the firewood…
hiding the warm promises
of the fire within.

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Oracle

Summer memories
drift softly in autumn’s breath
forewarning of snow.

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Novice

A poor example,
this haiku haltingly made,
my first attempted.

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One Step Down

 Draft beer,

chess boards,

and Kerouac cool.

Cerebral grafitti and
a Robot-in-Drag juke box
bubbling out fifty years of good jazz.

A virtuoso burger flipper
destroying the laws of physics,
making gravity play the fool.

On the restroom walls,
the surfaces held
musings of poets

and philosophers…

overwritten since, 
by lesser bards

and now
closed.

Soon to be
apartments.

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The Dunes of Ossabaw

We walked by them…
The lovers on the beach…
The night hid our presence
and the waves silenced our passing.
There was no missing the intensity of their caresses
and the throes of their passions in the gentle falling of night.
We walked softly to honor their magic.
The lighthouse sparkled in your eyes
and the quiet laughing in your smile
echoed the warmth of younger days.
On an island, long ago, 
the dunes of Ossabaw
had whispered such spells
and we, in our youth,
had listened to the ocean’s love songs.
The return to our camp
passed in rich silence.
Under the amber glow of candles
the adventure returned
and I fell in love..
again.





Originally published in "Bang" by Due West Publishing. duewestbooks.com