"coppiced" poems
I would like this life of endless
Greyhound time schedules to cease.
What self-inflicted alien abduction
tore me from the valley of my birth,
leaving me to wander empty streets,
each the branch of a coppiced maze?
I grow weary of quotidian fastfood buffets
downed with the aid of espresso baristas.
My legs have lost the muscle-memory
that strode the river cliffs with no regard.
Time to end the sleepwalk of forty years;
rejoin the forward guard of Iroquois.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Once dense thicket, coppiced
To bear a cornucopia filled with
Indian’s Summer rare blood moon.
The All-Hallows summer extends
As Samhain comes closer
Recognizing, celebrating the ever coming.
Wide leaves writhing and crunching from
Deciduous oaks as they bare to nothing.
Crushed grass and brush uncover a
Light trail leading to preserved boscage.
Through the dense brush
Untouched water thickens
From frosty moons bite.
Seizing gossamers flight
The soft breeze harshens
For long nights moon is soon near.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
abjectness is a form of inroads
toil the Woodlands Trust
all hail no coppiced beeches,
my first sighted R.S.P.B Avocet
the perplexed scale comparable
to competing blank stares,
endorphins withstanding,
clueless and unconscionable
instinctual pomposity
suffers Nature's either
way.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 4:16 PM UTC
Well yes I do carve walking sticks
Not two or three hours
But more like thirty or fourty
But then I saw the connection
Between my poetry and wood
Each takes me into another world
Of rhythm oh so good
Where I hear you ask
Can this connection be made
A poem and a walking stick
This man is surely mad
But think dear friends about a how
poem does evolve
You start with just a single word
Then watch the poem grow
I walk in the woodlands
I walk the forest ways
And I see things
That you might miss
In the coppiced hedgerow lays
And so with my trusty folding saw
A wooden stave lies in my hand
Perfectly straight or warped
Wood, oh wood so grand
And so just like poetry the plan
Then starts to form
With penknife and a wood rasp
A walking stick is formed
Sandpaper grades decreased
And long hours pass
Eventually that rough hewn stick
Attains the sheen of glass
Yes I carve sticks with rustic pride
Never do I miss what the cuts might hide
When I write it is with love
I can edit a poem
But not a walking stick
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC
Swaying in the soft gentle breeze,
succulent green leaves glisten and glow,
catching the sun's golden rays, filtering
through the coppiced canopy above,
reflecting off droplets from heaven;
Bringing the verdant vibrant woods to life.
There's many a story these woods could tell,
If only trees could talk;
Long in the night they'd stand and share,
of the songbird’s sweet call for loves lost,
the snowy owl's nocturnal adventures,
the vixen’s screams of ecstasy, or pain.
And let us not forget, the forest fairies fair,
coming out to play on such a glorious morn.
Sunbathing atop a toadstool fly agaric,
Admiring the glistening golden spider's web,
Downing the nectar from a rain soaked leaf.
Washing dainty toes in the morning dew.
But don’t expect to see one.
For they are as timid as the fawn,
yet as brave as the lion.
As delicate as lace,
yet as strong as silk.
But they are there, rest assured.
Keeping the magic of the woods alive,
protecting the spirits of the trees,
and allowing the secrets of the woods to live on,
For evermore
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 8:55 AM UTC
brought no bell,
or call-to-arms,
no rush of Prussian
blood to head
the ball into an
empty net, no change
in current sea levels...
no harm befell
the coppiced shoots
of brutal resolutions,
proving atheist
relationships are
worth their weight
to any fool...
and
no-one but
the very best,
would deign
to chance a
second guess
of getting into heaven
on this first day
of the year.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 5:19 AM UTC
The population's being coppiced
laid atop funeral pyres
and those men with matchsticks
for a brain
are the ones who'll light the fires.
If I could
I would get while the getting is good
touch wood that I don't become deadwood.
There are some for whom the sun always shines
and we are the some
some of the time
but
most times we're not.
They put pictures of houses where houses should be
homelessness is not a priority and
seniority counts for nothing in an
'all for myself' society.
Dystopian?
Dismal?
that may be so
but the shambles we're in
is just so abysmal
what do we see?
no one's breaking free
we are trapped in the krap
and we're sinking in deeper,
You should
keep a diary
wire me the updates
rate it on trip advisor,
one proviso
stare at the truth 'til
it blinds you.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC