"deadwood" poems
deadwood haiku is
exactly what the **** it
sounds like, **********
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 6:35 PM UTC
In the solace
Drifting transient
Before the dawn
Quiet light
Scattered sentient thoughts
Dreams lift on gossamer wings
Effervesce on heady winds
Like milkweed fluff on a summer day
From the narrow path
I stray
Lost in thoughts
Consuming
Stones thrown from distant shores
Placid surface
Fractured
This undertow defines my mind
Spinning evidence of chaos
Purpose slips away
From the narrow path
I stray
Fogbound vessel
Aimless deadwood
On a restless sea
Storm tossed
Lost and anchorless
Victimized by riptides and eddies
Uncharted course each sunless day
From the narrow path
I stray
TL Boehm 040508
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
A pine cone swept in the timber
in blow with wooden needles
that a lantern was the wiles of birch
along the frills of enlightened where spores till
this deadwood manufacturing transport
with a pipe cleaner's lore of trees
whether they intertwine on the carpet again
in loom to manifold in the soil.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
While we are all just atom snowmen,
sometimes I have to be
the arsonist of your emotions.
To make the atomic bits, flick out, vibrate
in order to light this ether atmosphere,
see what you really are,
to give me that warm feeling inside.
Sometimes I have to be
the stone that breaks your window.
The irreversible souring your view,
of your perfect, affectionate, color.
I take a breath of your summer field
and forests and farms
and exhale it as winter, deadwood and cold air,
your horses all un-made,
into glue, cat food, and violin bows.
Sometimes I have to be
A spiked cocktail.
Sipped on in words
finding again better, that familiar sweetness
but finding yourself, not yourself, anymore.
All just because you left your love wanting
alone on the side of a bar
and I found it.
Sometimes I have to be
that step you don’t expect at night.
Of course I’ll act like an accident,
letting the idea slip through
a gas leak flooding the room
silently, imperceptibly, changing things,
I’m good enough you will never know it,
and it’s you who’ll spark it.
Sometimes I have to be
father of the utilized disease.
A cough gives it birth,
a bark and a hack makes it airborne
incorporates a bacteria culture into yours.
This DNA affixed of word nucleotides,
embedded in the head of a virus
which will, just sometimes, exponentially, continually,
manipulate.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Cold the day begins in earnest
Gathering the mist at sunrise
Magpie screams as thin beam strikes him
Keen of eye and black of feather
Crow in thicket calls his brethren
Mist arises deep in valley
Fallen petals lie in tumult
Beaten down by squall that shook them
Bramble, precious jewels wearing
Berries black that shine like glory
Blowing over endless hillsides
None may tell the north wind’s story
Dancing in the sighing branches
Casting leaves of oak and willow
Ash and beech and long-shanked rowan
Bough and twig and fallen acorn
Squirrel hoards for bitter future
Whispers tales of coming Winter
Green is now a fading memory
Leaves lie crimson, brown and golden
Ripe and awful apples moulder
Boar lies sleeping fat and sated
Mushroom blooms on rotting deadwood
Nightshade sways on tumbled walling
Fern grows dense by water running
Down by where the gravestones standing
Tell of those whose lives are ended
Clad in moss and superstition
Watching over generations
Bends the old and twisted yew tree
Shakes and laughs with storm-wracked holly
Waiting for the day of reckoning
Biding time through mankind’s folly
Hears All Hallows Eve a-beckoning
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
Tamaker
I won her on a whiskey bet,
At a place called Rusty's Shack,
In a poker game in Fargo
With three deuces and a Jack.
I took her from a mountain man
Who had bought her in a trade,
For a rifle and a jug of Rye,
Off an Indian renegade.
I had no yen to keep her;
I meant to set her free.
I never thought she'd want to stay,
Or that she'd follow me.
I told her she was free to go,
No longer be a slave.
But the squaw refused to leave me,
Called me her Paleface Brave.
And when I rode out of Fargo,
Headed for Cheyenne,
She followed every trail I took,
No matter the terrain.
I couldn't seem to lose her
No matter how I tried.
By the time I got to Deadwood
She was riding by my side.
We rode hard through a valley,
Forged across Powder Creek,
When I fell from my saddle
Three miles from Miner's Peak.
My saddle pony stumbled
And landed on my knee.
He broke his leg and I broke mine
Unable to get free.
If I hadn't had that Indian squaw,
A maiden called Tamaker,
I be wearing a peg-leg now,
Or living with my maker.
She patched me up and catered me
With herbs and Indian lore,
Until my health and strength returned
And I was whole once more.
And when we finally reached Cheyenne,
Still riding side by side,
We found a cowboy preacher
And I made her my bride.
The squaw I met at Rusty's shack,
Won on a whiskey bet,
Became the lady of my dreams
And we're together yet.
Jul 29, 2011
Jul 29, 2011 at 7:28 AM UTC
In a derby and suit, riding tall in the saddle,
A stranger paraded one day.
He rode through the street of a town in Nebraska,
Astride a magnificent Bay.
Though stately and proud he was oddly attired,
Where cowboys and outlaws abide.
And the gun that he wore, of an uncommon bore,
Hung uncomfortably high on his side
The attention he drew from the unseemly crew
Of misfits (an unsavory lot)
Was cause to give rise to a keen viewer's eyes
Trouble might be more likely than not.
Thugs are known to have fun by the threat of a gun
To a stranger perceived as a dude.
They often get rough and hostile and tuff;
By their nature they're rowdy and rude.
So it weren't no surprise when there came an up-rise
Of cat-calls and whistles that day.
While others just smiled, some were getting quite riled,
As the stranger dismounted the Bay.
He seemed not to care, ignored every dare,
As he entered a bar called "The Shed."
He called for a brew, then changed it to two;
Said,"Take one over there to Big Fred."
Now everyone knew that Big Fred was the worst
of hooligans staying in town.
In Sidney, Nebraska there weren't any faster
When it came to shooting men down.
The bar keeper trembled and shook as he ambled,
Across the floor toting the beer.
The mug was half empty when he finally reached Fred,
Who now gazed at the dude with a sneer.
The bar room grew still and the tension seemed loud.
You could feel with a god-awful dread
That a message was meant in the beer that was sent
By the strangely dressed dude To Big Fred.
"So it's you," uttered Fred. "Thought by now you'd be bound,
To a Deadwood strike, off mining gold.
I had thought you'd forget memories I now regret;
I hoped that trail would finally grow cold."
"It's the Masterson code and the gambler's creed
To even all scores with a rat."
And by those word every Sidney buckaroo knew
That the stranger who spoke them was Bat.
Fred reached for his iron with a lightning fast draw
That never quite cleared the leather
And no one even saw Bat Masterson's draw
That silence Big Fred forever.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
When she says I’m hanging up
Stop her before she hangs up
For her click of disconnect
Might never again get you
To hear what she couldn’t state
Create a disconnect
Between you and her
When you can only see from far
She’s drifting a deadwood
Receding to a distance
And your cries on this shore
Is merely mouthing a silence
Of a dumb heart within a locked door
That crafted its own fate!
When she says I’m hanging up
Stop her to save a killing
Disconnect!
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
*Standing old deadwood
firewood logs for keeping warm
when cold air move in.*
Тадеус
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
I imagine
your nightgown limps sadly against your trotting legs
The light becomes
choppy
Trapped between your gowns effortless sway
piouretting from
room to window
towards the moon
back to bed
where
snowflake kissed sheets grow
unbearably cold underneath the night sky's icy breath
Close the window
"Dont, pelase, don't..."
shivering,
The gown
a peek-a-boo
into skin that can't form goosebumps any more
peachy silk coating
flowers
stay still
plastered smiles across all of those
good God fearing faces
A fabric
Unfitting
for a mind so
chaotic and chemically smeared
In a funk,
a different time,
a different place
I've removed myself from the watches' ruthless reign
I'm a glazed donut
that look in your eye,
Where does it end?
a black pit,
a bottomless barrel
some
puny animal shot down in the middle of the woods
eyelids dry like pork rinds
Perfect loops decorate the top of your cut thighs
"Who's here to pet my hair?"
my hair,
as shallow as the shore's waves
unlike the deadly tsunami festering underneath it
Pet my arm.
Graze it with your soothing fingertips
Warm sparks fly madly
dancing atop
a cold log
deadwood that never made it past the beaches of your boundless regret
"I didn't realize it'd grow this quickly...
when I,
mentally shoved the flames of my disease inside of my mouth."
"I thought it'd...burn out."
"The pit of my stomach now filled with the flashing signs of panic and
puke"
All across the side of your bed
spines don't fall into any more
a dark room
"Who's here to make the noise to fill the empty caverns of my bustling brain?"
A dark room
Words fall into it
Stumbling across the bumps of your
nauseating hips
"Who's here to scream back?'
Laughter sounds so far away when I'm here in my timeless prison
Sun creeps out of the curtains
light falls like broken piano keys into you
mucous made mask
and puke
I couldn't find God today
and the Devil was swimming my cereal bowl
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC
They were always within each's grasp hand in hand
Sewn in eternity twine. Wondering the forsaken road
Of deadwood fences,they were a distortion of the before
When they weren't always observing in sight upwards.
Blurred realties of gazing on the paradox of what they
Always walked towards. These two little ones so tiny
In stature but heavy in soul. One would not leave the
Others needing, to never letting each go.
Perpetually stagnant on this long road, no crossroads
To change views. But still they look up in blurred necessity.
They still want to walk in hand, sewn to each others
Path, and so they dwindle into the distance Never letting go
Each other yearning upon the others palm, just two little ones
On the path of deadwood with fields of plentiful nothing.
Distorted they look up to vacant spaces where they wish to
Be, but walk dirt roads that never end within each others hand.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
I killed the Santa Claus that died last Tuesday
He was a *** on 6th and 33rd
Ran over him in my bosses beat up limo
Headed for garbage; headed for out of town
Picking up airports on Christmas eve
Twenty-four hours, it isn't a breeze
Falling in potholes and falling asleep
Hunting down deadwood and making a dime
I killed the Santa Claus that died last Tuesday
He was a *** on 6th and 33rd
Ran over himin my bosses crummy limo
Drop off the garbage; Headed out of here
Now I got an ounce, that's 27 g's
Of the finest coke/blow on the street
Look out for me I'm a loaded gun
I've been on the street, not a ton of fun
I killed the Santa Claus that died last Tuesday
He was a *** on 6th and 33rd
Ran over him in my bosses beat up limo
Headed for tunnel; then headed out of here
Now Santa Claus ain't no peace cop
And sometimes I don't give a dare
But, you can imagine reaction
To killing a Santa Claus around here, and
I killed the Santa Claus they found last Tuesday
He was around like light on a tail
Ran over him in my bosses beat up limo
Headed for trouble; Headed out of here
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
Cold burns the beauty from the scape
and buries the breath of God;
still waters collect death yet still thrive wild.
You sit there,
mountain basin as your chair,
picturesque—a wilted flower in your hair.
Nineteen burned away
like deadwood from an ancient grove,
still partly due to the paternity of your tyrant
and the benevolence of your father.
I can only admire for so long, before
I cannot bare desistance from your glow,
the heat from the center of your being, the cold
from the ice-capped genius of your conscious.
Tomorrow seems as a promise and so it may be true,
the opportunity to begin anew and labor on
the next step forward in tragic existence, leading beyond
to tragic finality; heavy breath and pounding heart,
awakened to foresight, a gift from the woeful ****
of knowledge learned to the entropy of physiology—
within a mote of hope reaps meaning from ontology.
As once the Earth, chaotic and unfeigned
tamed thus through speech of blossomed order,
gave rise to rival ebb and flow; yin and yang
unbeknownst, pervade each other's border.
And thou resist this myth of sagacity,
yet act the role of honest ancient heroes
to refrain thy rest from saltwater depths,
quelling cowards, liars, and unwise youth,
punished in life and thereafter, still—
cold burns not the beauty of the truth.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 1:31 AM UTC
In lifeless patterns of repetition,
the congregation of the dead assemble,
eddying around the Light of Truth;
lacking reverence, they sadly tremble
and cringe during the Sunday Service,
seeking loopholes from accountability;
after all, regular attendance grants
the sacred status of Church nobility.
Meanwhile, frustrated ministers hurl
their verbal rocks, in futile attempts
to **** out their spiritual deadwood,
unaware that their righteous contempt
reveals their inability to love others.
Some lacking understanding may wander in,
since membership dues may be optional.
Come join the Church Petri dish of sin
to learn new zombie techniques of gnawing
on the flesh of religious, blind souls;
with Bible clubs and tongues of hell-fire,
receive your training and go on patrol.
Most folks know that ‘iron sharpens iron’;
so come and let us beat you mentally down;
since we’re unable to mature any further,
let’s make sure that you leave with a frown.
Learn secret methodologies for developing
a critical spirit and a unloving tongue;
come fill the vacancy of front-row pews;
come and join us, while you’re still young.
.
.
.
Author notes
.
Inspired by:
Prov 21:16; 2 Cor 4:4; John 3:19-20; Eph 4:17-19
.
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
.
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 7:17 PM UTC
I’m lost.
Where is my home?
Where do I belong?
Where will I find peace?
I’m lost.
My path is worn and I trip over
deadwood and dried out brush.
The wind is blowing away the
remnants of a life that once was.
I’m lost.
I think I want to go this way.
To a place where I will have it all.
But will I still be lost?
Where am I?
Why can’t I find my path to happiness?
I yearn for newness but am afraid of the unfamiliar.
I long for a full-filled life, but do nothing to fill my soul.
How can I find it when
I’m lost
To a life that is afraid to be lived.
Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
Thank you Boxed-in Home Office
For a decidedly devilish diversion
An unexpected beguilement
Conveyed to a time and place
Almost misplaced in memory’s stream
With Wm. S. informing S. Dakota
Whispering to writers
Of language nearly lost
Discourse both dandy and dangerous
Characters familiar
Plot’s circle elliptical
Storytelling respected
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC
The rich man might just believe
He can buy all he ever wants
But he didn’t do it all alone
No matter how he flaunts.
The factory that bought him
His mansion and his yacht
Exists because he had plain folk
To build him what he’s got.
The litter bearers took him
Wherever he wanted to go.
The farmhands used their strength
To *** fields and make them grow.;
Mechanics and the engineers
Are who made his fine wheels turn.
So, why is this such a hard lesson
For the rich among us to learn?
Without us they are nothing,
Just overdressed blowhards
With rich antecedents and
A stacked deck of cards.
Not every poor person would
Know how to handle great wealth
But maybe could try if it weren't
For their talent and great stealth.
Something happens to rich people
When they deal with the poor.
They forget about their Bible
And what that teaching is for.
Some forget the Torah and
Yet others forget the Quran
As if those who speaks of decency
Are a political also-ran.
So I should be forgiven if I
Wish they fail at their work
And they have to toil in the field
Like those of us they call jerks.
I wish their wives had to
Patch their household clothes
Then pray the place they live in
Is not subject to be foreclosed.
We once had a government
That worked hard in our favor
To rescue us from carpetbaggers
But now they’re a much nastier flavor.
After almost a century of work
To build a nation for the common good
Programs are being thrown out by
A batch of Congressional deadwood.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
See him beyond the hedgerow,
that lone, loquacious stallion,
what's whickers abound
and abide in their binds.
He stands still,
eclipsed by the glimmer
that peaks through
the leaves of the stark
oaken shade amidst
the misty copse of
someplace.
O! How fair,
the wandering mare
that so happens whereupon
his supping in thought.
The stallion speaks
with a mouthful of bromus,
which he wrought from the soil
that filled the hole
of a deadwood bole,
supine upon the moss,
uprooted.
His heart had begun to wrench,
as his tail went carried away
and his mounting hoof—
a furious commotion
along the graze—
was so the glory of his day.
This whisper then ran down
the lady's sensual mane,
and ev'ry sinew tightened
to enlighten his
stare.
t'was there
among the light that
there'd ne'er be a doubt
in that fertile thicket,
now seemingly bare . . .
and that
alabaster stallion then
went wandering about,
his canter apace with
his ebony mare . . .
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
I've lost everything I
owned more times than
I can count.
All I had left was
the clothes on my back.
In some ways, there was
a sense of relief.
What else could I lose?
That answer came hard
and fast like the night.
I could lose my health,
my sanity,
my friends,
my sense of peace
and love,
I could lose my
creativity and
the muse
She could end up at
the Deadwood, bellied-up
to the bar, tickling
some young English major.
I could lose a lot more
than I thought
Well, here I sit
in a three-bedroom
house that fell out
of the sky,
a few pieces of clothes,
some food,
coffee and cigarettes.
I have a blue and
orange cast on my
left leg.
I have the cast
because I fell and
broke my ankle
on a debauched
lonely winter
night.
I had surgery
ten days ago.
Now I have
more than I
bargained for, a plate and
screws galore,
and a nice healthy
****** addiction.
Sep 25, 2024
Sep 25, 2024 at 3:35 PM UTC
There was nothing hidden inside
No dreams ,
No compromises
It couldn’t be more over .
Sages of broken promises
Down from the mountains
Lost in the rough country.
Hoping for answers to the questions
That have no answers .
Beneath a handsome , lonely old tree .
She couldn’t quite **** him
But, she died a little herself .
Fear was stuck so deep in her heart ,it could not be dislodged .
How to move her anger
past her fear .
He kept her from something
she knew was her pride .
Sowing seeds of despair
Crying tears of regret
So tied up but can’t quite
cut the rope
In love she trusts ,
Driftwood
Deadwood
Broken branches of
Damaged comfort.
Desolate darkness prevails
Black widow answers
To the cinch of the rope .
From another lifetime
Inside a clock that leaks the future .
There is a language
That rolls down from the mountains
That is calling her home .
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 7:33 PM UTC
A few dried leaves
He makes a fire.
*The fire in him
All his dreams
Cinders now!*
Twigs of wood
A small spark
Is all he need.
*For breathes the belly
He must feed!*
The past is dim
Nay the past is blank
All left is now.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
He makes daily
A meal measly
With deadwood.
*When is next
He doesn’t brood!*
A roadside meek
Lives on pick
Yet don’t die.
*When the fire burns out
Ashes will fly!*
None bothers his fate
High up they wait
For him to die.
*When his fire burns out
Vultures will fly!*
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
Watching one single leaf, while it flutters through the air,
upon cloudy blue skies, my reality starts to tear:
as beauty; this I need, to live happily; indeed,
I don't need riches or fame,
I don't need to rule,
or have a much uttered name...
All I need is to enjoy, simple beauty and peace,
to be able to create, using art as my release,
all emotions, bad and good,
only carvings in deadwood...
All I need is to enjoy, the work of my hands under the sky,
as I live peacefully, while decades pass me by.
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC