#wooden
Frightened stars
Look for love, in the term of a fiend
*** and difference, we have a tale that frowns
Since to ends, a wisdom in the rain, has amends
Sanity, spate, arrogancy
Lips with no beginning or end, take the time
Such is a creed that needs me, in the oracle of speed
Wait on me to hate wholeness, of a carnal chime
Safety, in the riches of a forest
Wink, wood, and the anarchy of a patience
Set aflame by the sight I imagine, continues in lest
Spare me a tear for an enemy, rage of me never ends
Done with my concern, can't a prettiness spite a spirit
With the life of another speed, chance and challenge winds
Come and go, sunshine, the night has a punk in the hint
Of a simple smile, I have never made, and ate for inclined sins...
Shade, do we even care?
Song, can a ***** of burden sit in a sick's fever?
Treacle, as if a war in the milk of heaven had a clever liar?
Dance, in the mouth you swallow with, ink is ours for never?
Dead, antipathy, lead
Spice in the stare, my light has shared, with you
Sakes in the blindness I sold to you, for a craving said
Season's of a devil, my imagination ***** with your smile to...
Love, many, and wishes
Succor is mine, for every strength of a terror
Simple as that, a ray of hope isn't what religion
Meant, if and when a smile is nothing but my charity...
4d ago
May 30, 2026 at 11:34 AM UTC
He carried the weight
Wooden crate filled with
Hope and Joy
Goods and Supplies
Down the gangplank
into the milling crowed
Wooden dock all a flow
People moving to and fro
Seeking and sought
between...
Massive wooden ships all agleam
with rigging and sail
Two bells — Mr. Christian
Two bells
As the sound from that burnished bell
Rang out across the scene
Men all drudgery, groaned.
Four more hours between
End of day revelry
Sign here....cargo delivered
Payment....rendered
Back to the hold
More cargo to unfold
Sound the bell
Four if you please — Mr. Christian
Joy lept up — work day done
The men stopped, and stood
looking at the setting sun
Hue and Cry went out
Job's all done
Everyone is paid
Cargo all delivered
Now for some fun
Scampering through the
Setting Sun.
Mar 13
Mar 13, 2026 at 9:48 AM UTC
arthritis tippled wooden relief plugged in a bed of mud
the leaves that decay to its side
compliment the carved ones that feather the face
but it is creaked crevice and sinuous
a kind crumpled face or maybe a stern yet approving parent mask
two seasons of weathering
withered saturated and withered again
this self unearthing
worth moulded from
the decaying green man
reapplying for a creative birth
for a visit on the Autumn hearth
filling in its ****** details with broken and discarded
school yard pencils scudded over litter and mud
soon to be worshiped again...
would settle for a respectful gift from a child
for all his wonders in spring
he has envied the witness of harvest
but attention goes to other gods
he pouts out of season for no one here greets him
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 2:55 PM UTC
_In an open hut
There was a hole in the roof
from which sunlight comes on hut.
In every evening
sitting on the wooden chair in front of hole
i thought my past and future
i cried loudly
My soul was dead for two moments of happiness
My tears was red like blood
Who started falling on the ground every evening
By din't of this
Earth crust is like red.
One evening
Again i sit on my wooden chair
suddenly,
Clouds started thundering ...
lightning started shining...
Hut started moving...
Cloud started like raining...
i was lost in my memories
i cried,and tears like blood.
But that evening,
my tears become colorless due to rain drop
Red "danger color" disappeared
for few moments
I feel that...my past sorrowful memories
Are flow like water
suddenly,
A new thought come on my mind,
that is filled with my sweet memories,
Of past and future which gives me happiness._
Aug 4, 2020
Aug 4, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC
Waiting quietly in line at the age of nine
Wet hair clinging to nervous skin
Remembering previous summers
Past attempts I failed to swim
To pass you must bring yourself
To the water trampoline and back to the dock
Then tread water for thirty seconds
By then arms feel like rocks
My friends wished me luck
Before into the water I leapt
Pushed my muscles through the cold
As I surfaced from the murky depths
I reached the looming yellow island
Turned around, feet on the ladder, and kicked
I used that small bit of extra momentum
To keep paddling though lungs constrict
When I find myself back at the wooden dock
Then final countdown starts
Each cell in my body is aching
This is the last and hardest part
Fighting with the freezing lake
The test is nearly done
Just as I am about to give up
5..4..3..2..1!
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
My body seems to be destroyed.
Cataclysms tore the flesh.
Survival logic is broken,
I can't crack a log.
I can't use an aspen pole.
Prop up the rotting attic.
And from juniper basket
I can't build anything.
I can't use a twig bundle.
Melt the grate fireplace.
And count in French Spanish
I can't for no apparent reason.
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 4:57 AM UTC
The eternal strings play
as crows feathers
fall like tears.
But alas,
these will never dry
seeding the clouds with grey.
Every melody is a line of life,
now serenading stone words.
A sunset caressing
chiselled days, years,
then nothingness.
Upon a wooden box,
a crow sings tears
that form on the strings of
yesterdays now played.
The future is barren of you.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
What are you drinking sir?
Oh, inside this wooden mug
several things exist
Stalks from the flowers of rainbow
and some molten clouds of autumn
Petals from the maize shrubbery yonder
and some drops from youth's lunacy of course
All you need
for the upcoming winter
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
Wooden woman waiting outside of a grocery store
in North Berkeley
Made tired by time,
chips of wood had fallen in masses from her body,
entire aspects of her anatomy had eroded away--
most of her nose, her left ear,
her right cheek, her ******* half her stomach
She had been a tree,
torn apart, reassembled
in the form of a female human being,
no sign of life in her sightless gaze
I guess she’s gone now,
after all those years
I went to look for her
and found only an antique shop
with a peculiar name
at the address where she should have been
I would have liked to have seen her
one last time, this statue
that fascinated and frightened me as a child
I’m glad she’s gone, though--
She resemble less and less a woman,
was becoming clearly merely wood
cut into tiny pieces and glued together
She resembled less and less a woman,
and I’m glad she was killed
before she ceased to be art
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Me, on my way to clock out,
He, croaking wooden breaths, a
Splintering throat, crooked as an oar's overbite
Glinting with some
Unbelievably bared promise.
I looked past him, echoed the anxious knots
Of its hollowed brow, scooped and spotted
From overuse, I frowned past him, though he followed.
I spent as long as I could not talking to him,
But forced to deny myself silence
I heard his two part speech
And paid some token focus
To what he had to say
What little I heard, in his hope filled groans
Had nothing of his contented purpose, for
Varnished words are slippery
When we went to the pub he
Leant on the wooden counter and
His roots set, he
Sprouted drunken fruit and
I don't think he's moved since
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 10:57 AM UTC
How pretentious can be the silence
in the mornings of the hot summer days!
I felt nothing no more, for patience
is not limited to formal love and it says:
It was just me. The rest of the world delivers
heavy waves stumbling against my wall,
trying to set right the serpentined rivers
of crying, flowing on my crusty skin of a wooden doll.
The Sun, a dragon that throws flames on his nose,
the Wind, too coward to show his refreshing face,
the Sky, discolored in the distance, it froze,
just the Moon closed his eyes, leaving no trace .
Me and I, were not well together,
but I have found the power to listen to myself,
sipping the sweet-bitter coffee, feeling a bit better,
I was learning again to live, to be an other self.
I knew that one day the blank pages will be coloured,
That the ink stains of my soul will disappear,
That I will forget about the storm that is uncovered,
the call of love will be on my side, without shedding no tear.
I knew that butterflies melody I would hear soon,
Birds chattering happy over the green forest,
That I will never hear poor souls screaming in the noon,
That all this will be simple memories on my wrist.
Now I extinguish my thirst with accords of violin,
Mistrust has deserted from my sleepless earth,
Regrets have become sad songs of flowers on my skin,
In the breeze of the morning, forgetting my wound's birth.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
I'm a boy made out of wood
And with you I know I could
Be painted better than I am now
To befriend an artist like you somehow
My hair and shoes are made of clay
Molded carelessly, messy, you'd say
Fix me, bend me, make me new
But please don't make me into you
Someone made me, someone great
But made of wood, I know my fate
Will be met in a fire, so easy to catch
For I know I'll fall in love with a match.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 10:07 PM UTC
If you build a wooden statue of my father,
I will break it down to pieces to build a home
and light a fire to warm my freezing wife.
If you leave food offerings for my mother,
I will collect and cook them to provide a feast
that will feed my hungry son.
If you commemorate a pond for my ancestors,
I will draw multiple buckets to cleanse wounds
and offer water to my thirsty daughter.
If you ***** a golden statue in my memory,
I will instruct my predecessors to smelt me down
into small pieces and spread wealth to my family.
If you wish to remember good souls and actions,
celebrate them by giving to those in need.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
the 3pm sun is streaming through
the window with
glued-on paper flakes
illuminating the furniture
casting dark shadows
against light wood
and i'm tasting snow
on my tongue
and thinking that this
feels like freedom
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
A bridge is a curious thing to cover.
mile after mile of naked road -
then a wooden box over stream or ravine.
Why not cover the road instead
leaving the bridge unclothed?
But where's the charm in that, you say?
So perhaps it was fashioned for Currier and Ives
or to embellish the music
of iron shod hooves on oaken planks.
Or maybe was built as a kiosk
for fading feed and carnival posters
and jackknife glyphs of amorous initials.
No, all our covered bridges, imagined or real,
guide our passage over deadly waters -
holding us fast on the road
and safe from drowning.
March, 2007
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 4:17 AM UTC
"Perchance I was immune,
Or just dictated to be.
"Hearken," says the distant tune
Of my heart's running beat."
"Alone was I in this mini hideout,
Isolated from anguish and pain.
Strange how the dark comforts me,
Compels me to believe I'm sane."
"My old man seems present,
But he is not there
Does not seem to be himself
But a monster from my nightmare."
"Each time he tattoos a bruise on me,
I hear him curse my name.
Mothballs were my only comfort
Hanged clothes were the very same."
"The pattern repeats by itself,
Bluster transcends the boundary.
Even in my nicest, loveliest sleep,
In deep quietude you barge in."
"I desired to abruptly end it all
Inside this fancy closet.
Is life all solitude and dreadfulness,
Or was my life just an accident?"
"It breaks my heart to know
I always seemed invisible.
It were my last words.
Bid farewell, wooden wall."
It were my child's last words.
Forgive me, wooden wall.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
Anguished lavish
laureates has driven
me slightly mad
tangerine lemon rounds
Erudites of oolong parties
flying on the wreckages
of forgotten sideral castles
ice cubes crushed in the psychadelia
Nuances of never tomorrows,
slicky dew drops
glistening
jadded wells of deep thoughts
callin'
green algae lakes
emerging
Pale planes oozing
silvery Neptune forks
n'waves flyin'from above
witchery wands in love with wondrous comets
Thou sparkling dispersive
master machine mind
feedin' on
oak wooden spoons
tightly, tenderly
sippin'
magnified tinder
from thy glances
daemons of thy unconsciousness breathing
me *******
flow and ebb
thou chest ebb
and flows
bonvivants bountyful beams
The inflamable black
powder burnin'
to take off
like a swift rocket
like a swell day's
endless delight
*The gold
The pink
The brave new horizons*
Openin' grunges and volcanic
desires
pinnin' lovers, gluein' them to-
gether in a desperate gloom
of unforgiven erotica
And The Poems
who make you tremble
as a luscious cream on the top
of Thou Vicious Beauty
fenderstrater jaguars silent roar
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
***the damage
has already
been done
by the time
brass tacks
rise to
the surface,
and all the pretty
maidens are stacked
like Russian wooden
nesting dolls,***
**in an insatiable
hunger, yearning
to possess
the most toys**
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
Is it odd that I hate tree stumps?
I mean, really, is it just me?
Is there something wrong with me?
I walk past them on the roadside
And something seems to break free.
I feel tense and taut;
A green branch pulled tight
On the saw edge of a gardener’s knife,
Peeling back one fibre at a time.
I can’t stop it to save my life.
It makes my skin crawl
To see the corpse left jutting up
Like the last tooth of a diseased crone,
Like a tag on the skin of the earth,
A drying scab to make the mother moan.
Couldn’t they just dig it up,
Or is that too much to ask?
Not enough to slay the ancient tree,
But to leave it lying on the ground;
Like leaving the foot of an amputee.
It makes me so mad
That I wonder I don’t complain,
But then I know a letter will be ignored,
As the death of such a mighty sentinel
Is a thing our conscience can afford.
It’s not like it was alive…
But the sarcasm doesn’t matter,
And the funny looks I get while I weep
Sink like the teeth of a saw,
Cutting through the body at my feet.
Am I the only one who hates tree stumps?
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
If you were a coloring book,
I would be mad,
That after opening the cover,
There's no spaces left for me to color.
If you were water,
I would freeze you,
Immobile,
And gently stroke my fingers across your surface.
If you were wooden,
You'd be the finest sculpture,
That I would burn with every touch in every crease,
And leave ashen.
If you were an egg,
I'd take the utmost care to not drop you,
And the only place I would break your shell,
Is at the bottom where I'd fit perfectly.
If you were a string,
I'd tie you up tightly around me,
So that you could never leave me,
And I could always feel you on my skin.
If you were lava,
I would gladly burn off my flesh,
And I wouldn't hesitate to go inside you,
Because I'm used to feeling you down to my bones.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC