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Chad Wood Poem
She spent
her evening with a
friend named Jack. Jack
stood out like a volunteer, making
no apology for himself (though he forward
marched through her life like a
soldier's foot-stomp parade,
minus pomp minus
circumstance).
Jack always
took his possessions at
first ever impulse, that is
to say he was the type of
man who could "carpe diem" with the
best of them. She agreed. "Play
the horn play the drum", she
thought, while given
to him.
Jack always
left his possessions at
second glance. He was the
nothing-to-show-for-it type of man.
She did not want him to return. She did
want him to return. He did not
want to come home. He
did want to come
home.
She spent
her evening without
a friend named Jack, who
steals the thunder. Jack sat on the
shelf like streamlined vodka. Apologetically,
he backward marched a Saint Louis
funeral-in-reverse. She
then nursed a wound
to remember
him by.
(Author: Chad Wood - This poem was entered in the contest "Create Your Own Form, Maybe
?" sponsored by Constance ~ A Rambling Poet! ~ Form: Call this the "In and Out" form. The
stanzas have ten lines each, which expand and retract, with subject matter about 'something
in life that comes and goes', can be as many or as few stanzas long as wished)
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
Wisdom, at once held high and rarely found,
is now "found" in snow scattered forms.
These ember months cast frost ground
images of philosophy, while so often does the air transform,
and time tucks beneath a place pretending to be warm.
And through the window glass are seas of kingly deed -
of judgments justified by sovereign overrule.
Is such the way of thanking God for this white-seed
after reap. At last, before a burning yule
we pontificate on the wisely right, and the rightly fool.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
I.
He also sees eyes that sparkle off
the golden coast readily as the
weight of the sea, who with her
pounding fist rolls the beach flat
and erases the footprints.
Who steals the light and places it on the crests of waves?
Is she the Atlas who holds my
sky on her shoulders? Were she
to shrug it off, would it not fall
and crush my world below?
II.
She also sees eyes that sparkle off
the golden coast readily as the
weight of the sea, who with her
arms brings life to the shore and
sweeps the dead into her undertow.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
I met a veteran from World War II
who, eighty-three, reached out to shake my hand;
at Normandy, who'd seen his brethren killed,
now walks the streets of Berlin, Maryland.
He models life, simple yet abundant,
by stocking up a van with meat and cheese
and, seeking out the tired, poor, and hungry,
and greeting them with a "thank you", and "please".
He mentioned D-Day once, as I recall -
said he couldn't number those he had slain,
yet, the other soldiers jumping with him
all dead the moment they leapt from the plane.
To think, this man, who held the mortal coil
of all the nations longing to be free,
who vowed to suffer death, should it have him,
would stoop to honor men, the likes of me.
I asked myself "do I take for granted
my freedom, bled and died for, in this land",
the day a veteran from World War II,
at eighty-three, reached out to shake my hand.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
O beauty, under whose spell this man be
intoxicated by her love affair
as every night she wraps, seductively,
in whispers! Swirling whispers in the air.
With pride of life, with lust of flesh and eyes,
her stratagem promotes wicked appeal
like sinfully delicious chocolate lies
my palette wets to make a business deal.
Then, somehow, with her charismatic charm
this brightest angel fallen from beyond
can have a man to trade his best for harm
and, in this cosmic game of chess, be pawned,
at whence the spell she lifts, plays magistrate.
So wrongly does she toy with this man's fate.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
Passed this week by slow
like honey poured out
Monday over oats
and figs, milk, bowl
of mixed up fruit with.
Tuesday drinking
I two coffees
by day making
way for scheduled
busy time.
Busy week
came Friday
at last
catching
breath.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
Blue Hubbard, or Butternut -
A squash is a squash.
Bake at four hundred degrees
'til the flesh is soft,
sweet like a candy,
healthy, and
fresh!
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
I'm sipping on a couch-boat in
Van Gogh-painted water.
Bill Evans is dueting his blue-kind
keys with my jolly time ticker.
When my eyes are shut, I think two-dimensional.
I think onomatopoeic.
Fancy that.
Afterall, my generation combines words like
"emotion" and "icon". My generation puts
society on a screen...
Ah, but I suppose the
next will convert the universe into binary,
and leave me behind
with my coffee, and jazz.
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
Her hands, I see, are sweetly crafted
My hands, her hair, a river rafted
Or ruby coasts on which I sail
The shore, her face - sublime detail
With sand, so white, so pure, and smooth
Sifting as my fingers move
Her face, her heart, a new frontier
My heart, full sail, is drawing near
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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Chad Wood Poem
Not a single feeling felt
ever could before with me
corner like a kitten I am.
Ended love as elastic gap
stretched time wide to go
straight to end, and over.
Am on trial, feels a coma
reduced to fever, in fear
yes I love will never say.
Time passed to clarity in
end of my quote end quote.
Most kind tragic plot arc
planted seed inside, made
often mistakes, now knows
reality to always witness
alpha first then to omega.
Reset heart aches now for
yes but waits more to say.
(note from author: this is an acrostic where the letters at the beginning and end of the lines both form words. I put an homage to e. e. cummings in there who can find it?)
Copyright © Chad Wood | Year Posted 2010
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