"knothole" poems - Hello Poetry

I sat by his bedside the day my father died. The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control. He fought kicking and screaming the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning. That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands. At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light. My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown. He turned to me and asked, “That’s a big city. Where are we?" Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares. It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade. On that night compassion ruled the day. I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity. In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked, “How did this ever happen?" If only I could have told him. Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns. By morning his lifeless dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree. All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are. Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.

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Feb 16, 2017

Feb 16, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC

DanielTucker

The Day My Father Died

I sat by his bedside the day my father died. The cancer that had riddled his body and soul now had complete control. He fought kicking and screaming the night the men in white came to take him on his final journey like a great wildebeest struggling to get up on its front legs after being taken down by young lions. The way so many had said he probably would since he fought his way tooth & nail throughout his life from the very beginning. That night I sat on a chair at the foot of his bed staring out the huge ceiling to floor window of the medical centre at the many worlds hidden beneath thousands of rows of stationary lights and fluid winding rows of transient lights in-between and thought how the light of this window is just one of many thousands. At that moment it seemed more like just one tiny speck in the vast star fields worlds above this city of light. My father had spent most of his life just a short six-mile drive from here under the scattered lights of his hometown. He turned to me and asked, “That’s a big city. Where are we?" Dementia had claimed his mind ten or more years earlier. It slowly wound its way around his brain like a cocky snake handler being choked by a boa constrictor unawares. It seemed like it all caught up to his body. But it was good to see much of the bitterness and bad blood between us dissipated over the past decade. On that night compassion ruled the day. I could not say it then but it has been many years, where it seems compassion has forged with objectivity. In a lucid moment he looked around the hospital room bewildered as if he were a little boy who just woke up from a bad dream and asked, “How did this ever happen?" If only I could have told him. Sometimes the truth cannot be spoken or heard. All I could do then was sit by his bed and lean in close to his ear and sing softly his favourite hymns. By morning his lifeless dilapidated body laid in the fetal position. His once ravenous mouth now forever frozen looked like a knothole in a twisted cedar tree. All I can do now is hang my head and think of how weak and frail we humans truly are. Like compassion forged with objectivity, weakness and frailty forges with fleeting moments of strength. We forge heroes out of these moments to tower above the pedestals the former is made of to somehow minimize the pain of this often denied truth.

27

a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in, where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball; never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all. Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted, an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still; an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in. Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ― A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed, for a nest of new beginnings ― just read: Lydia ... ♡ ... followed by a scribbled empty heart The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes, hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament; scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out, from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress, aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in The final unread words silently said: *"We lost our way, it all went wrong, it all turned bad" ..."This is the outcome when someone you love up and throws you away" ...“I’ll reach out from the inside I’ll rise up again and do without” ..."You went out into the world with an untamed hankerin’ ― like a carefree restless gypsy breeze and come back worlds apart"* The Unsent Letter, just whispered words to the dust in the wind in quivering ink: ...*"how can I ever unremember you...? a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock..., an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart, fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"* just signed: ... ❤ August January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡

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Jan 1, 2017

Jan 1, 2017 at 12:20 PM UTC

wildisthewind

The Unsent Letter

a storyteller's perspective, steppin' off the ordinary edge, into the unknown An unsent letter lay on the rustic log cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light comes in, where it laid fallen, half *** crumbled, yet never a wadded ball; never an unspoken thrown paper stone, a befallen regret was all. Silently atilt and leaning against the canted wall's slant behind the gathered dust a squeaky hinged burl wood door A timeworn tarnished copper wind up clock roosted, an old lip smirched coffee cup time stood still; an empty bottle of gin sat near the bed post headboard where the ink stains and blotted spillings let the memories in. Stained pages torn and bent like fallen paper wings returned to the unread sender … postage due, south a heaven sent ― A sullied envelope, gnawed and mouse chewed, for a nest of new beginnings ― just read: Lydia ... ♡ ... followed by a scribbled empty heart The time aged brown tattered tablet paper left behind stifled like the unread heart it holds upon the threadbare pages of smudged tear’s ache and spilled gin The weathered rock hearth fireplace filled with spent ashes, hand rolled cigarette butts, traces of an aching lament; scratched up old vinyl records lay ***** and tired out, from a time of sweeter fallen fences, a musical bliss, and a lost angel's abandoned red slinky party dress, aside a busted off black velvet high-heel stuck sullied in a hollow knothole in the ancient barn-wood floor a sparkly pearl pink jewel entangled in a spider web An unsent letter lay on the rustic cabin floor A cold wind musta’ blown through the cracks the light gets in The final unread words silently said: *"We lost our way, it all went wrong, it all turned bad" ..."This is the outcome when someone you love up and throws you away" ...“I’ll reach out from the inside I’ll rise up again and do without” ..."You went out into the world with an untamed hankerin’ ― like a carefree restless gypsy breeze and come back worlds apart"* The Unsent Letter, just whispered words to the dust in the wind in quivering ink: ...*"how can I ever unremember you...? a thrown stone sinks wordlessly as a rock..., an old wood bucket with a rotten hole the heart, fallen forgotten, rock bottom as an empty well"* just signed: ... ❤ August January 1st, 2017 ... august ... wild is the wind ♡

51

Oh look! A tree! It's beautiful! Nature! Green! The breeze blows! Look at those leaves! Look at the beauty of God's work! The magnificence! The wood! The fruit! The flower! The knothole! The...gum? There's gum in the knothole? There IS gum in the knothole! Doublemint! Pennies and figurines too! Who would do such a nice act? Oh... Right... Him... The one hidden within. He must really be misunderstood. I wish we could meet him So we would know the real him.

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Feb 18, 2016

Feb 18, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC

hans-dytian

Tree

Oh look! A tree! It's beautiful! Nature! Green! The breeze blows! Look at those leaves! Look at the beauty of God's work! The magnificence! The wood! The fruit! The flower! The knothole! The...gum? There's gum in the knothole? There IS gum in the knothole! Doublemint! Pennies and figurines too! Who would do such a nice act? Oh... Right... Him... The one hidden within. He must really be misunderstood. I wish we could meet him So we would know the real him.

26

I’m trying to recall a poem or a prayer that I recited while walking through the woods of my hometown. It occurs to me that I’ll never get it back. I suppose such things are meant to be transient, spoken out loud and left to drift, But I am determined to capture some of it. So. Here in the woods Branches droop heavy and black with berries. I pluck to gather them and make of my hands two cups from which saltwater spills. I see a vision of the old and the new, the here to come and the hereafter, overlaid on the thick pine stumps. That which has passed is not yet gone. Like trees, we grow on the rotten bones of giants. There is no king of the once and future, Nay, nor queen. Only the rough tumult of life that continues, and abates, and continues. Here on the holly branch the spines sharpen. The red berries have not ripened from black. On the thorns I see blackberries still **** and red, not yet sweet with concentrated sunshine. I see the skulls of snag trees, the knothole eye sockets where woodpeckers find their mealy dinners and feast on the beetles and worms – which shall in their turn one day feast on me. So it goes, as it should be, as it will. My vision shows oak giants long passed, toppled and timbered an age before my time. A thousand years hence they shall rise again. Fear not; the axes of men wreak havoc, but may only interrupt the flow, not halt it. Again I stoop to pluck the fruit And form two cups of my hands From which juice flows like water. The ocean licks the sweat from my skin And I see a vision of the old woods, the old ways, the elder magick That will grow from seed tomorrow. Hew my limbs in history, bury them in timber. Let the barrow-mounds be a nursery Where the thornbush harvest grows.

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC

K_E_Cummins

The Old Growth

I’m trying to recall a poem or a prayer that I recited while walking through the woods of my hometown. It occurs to me that I’ll never get it back. I suppose such things are meant to be transient, spoken out loud and left to drift, But I am determined to capture some of it. So. Here in the woods Branches droop heavy and black with berries. I pluck to gather them and make of my hands two cups from which saltwater spills. I see a vision of the old and the new, the here to come and the hereafter, overlaid on the thick pine stumps. That which has passed is not yet gone. Like trees, we grow on the rotten bones of giants. There is no king of the once and future, Nay, nor queen. Only the rough tumult of life that continues, and abates, and continues. Here on the holly branch the spines sharpen. The red berries have not ripened from black. On the thorns I see blackberries still **** and red, not yet sweet with concentrated sunshine. I see the skulls of snag trees, the knothole eye sockets where woodpeckers find their mealy dinners and feast on the beetles and worms – which shall in their turn one day feast on me. So it goes, as it should be, as it will. My vision shows oak giants long passed, toppled and timbered an age before my time. A thousand years hence they shall rise again. Fear not; the axes of men wreak havoc, but may only interrupt the flow, not halt it. Again I stoop to pluck the fruit And form two cups of my hands From which juice flows like water. The ocean licks the sweat from my skin And I see a vision of the old woods, the old ways, the elder magick That will grow from seed tomorrow. Hew my limbs in history, bury them in timber. Let the barrow-mounds be a nursery Where the thornbush harvest grows.

42

Somewhere way down a long line of cars and roads on the opposite end of broken down gas station near a bedside tavern. You were lost near a bushel of birds. That chirped when you walked by. And there was a cloud directly above you, white. Puffy. Lost in the blue blue sky. Only it wasn't. It was shading you from the sun. And you walked under an oak tree with a knothole in it. Whispered your dreams in to it's trunk and walked away. An apple fell from an oak tree. Somewhere along the way you stumbled over the curb and forgave it for bloodying your elbow. The sunlight kissed your skin and suddenly there was nothing. Like superman, the sun made you strong. And the radiance of yourself by the river as the logs drifted on. Moon sparkle and bathe. There was purity. There were answers. So said the squirrels as they squeaked about you in the branches. I had another cigarette and forgot all about it. -P.S.

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Jun 12, 2013

Jun 12, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC

TheKingGrizz

Bathe

Somewhere way down a long line of cars and roads on the opposite end of broken down gas station near a bedside tavern. You were lost near a bushel of birds. That chirped when you walked by. And there was a cloud directly above you, white. Puffy. Lost in the blue blue sky. Only it wasn't. It was shading you from the sun. And you walked under an oak tree with a knothole in it. Whispered your dreams in to it's trunk and walked away. An apple fell from an oak tree. Somewhere along the way you stumbled over the curb and forgave it for bloodying your elbow. The sunlight kissed your skin and suddenly there was nothing. Like superman, the sun made you strong. And the radiance of yourself by the river as the logs drifted on. Moon sparkle and bathe. There was purity. There were answers. So said the squirrels as they squeaked about you in the branches. I had another cigarette and forgot all about it. -P.S.

22

You have become like the specter of my youth A knothole seeping deadly fumes Surrounding me, embracing me Leaving me intoxicated and defeated In a pile of filthy belongings Tethered to this pole of existence Wrapped in disregard Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers You are my memory and the end of all complacency The beginning of a new chapter In a volume to be published Bound in leather Taken from cows raised in pastures Decapitated and sawed open Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies Supported by a hook From which brain chemicals drip And neurons fire Through a convict with his blindfold on Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim Rattlesnake’s discarded skin You take from me coconut’s milk Fuel for foddering the future And willingness to triumph in battle I leave your kingdom Hopeful for patronage Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms Floating on what seems a sliver In your filthy sea’s apathy I bide my time, until delivered Until my tawny encasings unravel

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Oct 25, 2010

Oct 25, 2010 at 11:00 PM UTC

sansara-justinovich

The Package

You have become like the specter of my youth A knothole seeping deadly fumes Surrounding me, embracing me Leaving me intoxicated and defeated In a pile of filthy belongings Tethered to this pole of existence Wrapped in disregard Postmarked for the gates of Valhalla Addressed to sirens of the flat rivers And dropped at the feet of irreverent lovers You are my memory and the end of all complacency The beginning of a new chapter In a volume to be published Bound in leather Taken from cows raised in pastures Decapitated and sawed open Removing vital organs from lifeless bodies Supported by a hook From which brain chemicals drip And neurons fire Through a convict with his blindfold on Moist cigarette, dangling off his lips Air breathed by love’s guillotined victim Rattlesnake’s discarded skin You take from me coconut’s milk Fuel for foddering the future And willingness to triumph in battle I leave your kingdom Hopeful for patronage Seeking refuge, perchance amongst palms Floating on what seems a sliver In your filthy sea’s apathy I bide my time, until delivered Until my tawny encasings unravel

34

Walking in the woods, I fell Down into a knothole that lead To another realm, unlike our own ‘Twas a wondrous realm like a twilit dream Where the dazzling sky at night engulfed all And satyrs who were young like me Beckoned me to their sordid ****** Fountains of wine poured into streams, And wood nymphs danced and bathed in falls Deliciously drunken and sweet, calling me To pick their flowers. We caroused and we aroused As we fired our slingshots into the sky And watched the night shimmer with the Comets we launched up and away. I fired mine, foolishly unaware That my target was the moon so full I shattered my joy to pieces And brought this realm to darkness The satyrs howled in fear The wood nymphs withered away The fountains of wine turned into blood And I was left drowningl Until a glorious golden hand Went from the moon’s place to Shield me, carry me back to reality. I awoke in a sweat and a shiver 'Twas always night in the Satyr’s Garden Be it drenched with stars and ecstasy, 'Twas night, and night to remain.

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Mar 4, 2010

Mar 4, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC

juan-carlos-gomez-1

The Satyr's Garden

Walking in the woods, I fell Down into a knothole that lead To another realm, unlike our own ‘Twas a wondrous realm like a twilit dream Where the dazzling sky at night engulfed all And satyrs who were young like me Beckoned me to their sordid ****** Fountains of wine poured into streams, And wood nymphs danced and bathed in falls Deliciously drunken and sweet, calling me To pick their flowers. We caroused and we aroused As we fired our slingshots into the sky And watched the night shimmer with the Comets we launched up and away. I fired mine, foolishly unaware That my target was the moon so full I shattered my joy to pieces And brought this realm to darkness The satyrs howled in fear The wood nymphs withered away The fountains of wine turned into blood And I was left drowningl Until a glorious golden hand Went from the moon’s place to Shield me, carry me back to reality. I awoke in a sweat and a shiver 'Twas always night in the Satyr’s Garden Be it drenched with stars and ecstasy, 'Twas night, and night to remain.

30

How do you find me in these places? Lost in my paradises where I'm never seen. You follow me into the rabbit hole of my daydreams and Fall with me into the arms of tragedy, Into the arms of Gods caressing the mortal souls of Human lovers. I'd take you anywhere, We blink and open our eyes to the ocean around us. The sails pregnant with the gust of lovers lost. We stare out into the vast open and never cringe, Not while our fingers cross, Not while we travel vast and open together. We could get lost, Dive into the ocean and freefall to the bottom, Physics simmer away as we float towards the center of the earth. I hold you close as the light guides us into the abyss. And we could aways come back, Clasped so close as we slide upon the tectonic embrace of mother earth. The magma heart swallows us whole, And all there is is light, And all I hear is your voice. I walk towards the light and look out at the world from the knothole of a tall, proud oak. I saw you climbing the limbs, I watched in awe. How you shocked me. One step ahead, even in dreams. How do you find me in these places?

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Jan 1, 2014

Jan 1, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC

TheKingGrizz

How do you find me?

How do you find me in these places? Lost in my paradises where I'm never seen. You follow me into the rabbit hole of my daydreams and Fall with me into the arms of tragedy, Into the arms of Gods caressing the mortal souls of Human lovers. I'd take you anywhere, We blink and open our eyes to the ocean around us. The sails pregnant with the gust of lovers lost. We stare out into the vast open and never cringe, Not while our fingers cross, Not while we travel vast and open together. We could get lost, Dive into the ocean and freefall to the bottom, Physics simmer away as we float towards the center of the earth. I hold you close as the light guides us into the abyss. And we could aways come back, Clasped so close as we slide upon the tectonic embrace of mother earth. The magma heart swallows us whole, And all there is is light, And all I hear is your voice. I walk towards the light and look out at the world from the knothole of a tall, proud oak. I saw you climbing the limbs, I watched in awe. How you shocked me. One step ahead, even in dreams. How do you find me in these places?

23

*Fly high aerial sailors , imploring the news of Spring b'side morning flowers and grassy knolls , windamere mornings across the diamond studded snapping shoals , from the knothole of a hardwood tree , from a schooner in brilliant blue seas , from the golden edge of a garden periphery , from the starlit bridge across all eternity* *Busy bluebird perched on my farm bell Sing of stories only you can tell Sunny days along seedling pastures Tales of love and pure rapture*...

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Mar 16, 2017

Mar 16, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Our Bluebirds ...

*Fly high aerial sailors , imploring the news of Spring b'side morning flowers and grassy knolls , windamere mornings across the diamond studded snapping shoals , from the knothole of a hardwood tree , from a schooner in brilliant blue seas , from the golden edge of a garden periphery , from the starlit bridge across all eternity* *Busy bluebird perched on my farm bell Sing of stories only you can tell Sunny days along seedling pastures Tales of love and pure rapture*...

6

Your stocking welts & black seams Seem to be the only thing I think about, Why must it be that way? Why can’t I get you out of my mind? & think of other things Besides the lingerie you wear Every night, or almost every night When I look like hell & You are a glamour girl All dolled up like a Barbie doll In black seam stockings & lingerie You make me believe in goddesses & The enchantments they spin— I’ll stay under your spell willingly Like a drowning man or a burning man Or a floating man, Or whatever kind of man is Adam to your Eve You so like a magician with 1,000 doves up your sleeve, But the dinner gloves come off, Slowly, one then the other, The wait is like forever, The moon getting stuck in the trees & I see you is stereoscopic 3-D Just like everything else these days; Through the knothole In your bathroom wall Can you see me? I am the Invisible Man of your dreams, Culled from the depths of Freudian reveries, I danced with Cthulu at the ball of mysteries, Can you see me, really see me? Any serious doubt on the merits of surrealism is a fruitful discussion. The phrase, “The window walked through the door, ” For it’s simplicity opens up in one a queasy sense, Can such things occur we ask ourselves, Knowing full well (and concealing crippling doubt over the same) That such things cannot. I wish I had a tool that I could use To make you step out of your sleepy corridor And open the shuttle door. I’d like to see you **** descending a staircase. I want to see your seven faces. You are one of the most beautiful things alive And the reason for war. I saw you drowning your several faces in the bathtub, Dying the marble the color of flesh, Sipping champagne & smoking a cigarette.

0

Jan 24, 2018

Jan 24, 2018 at 4:28 AM UTC

johnny-noiπ

Reasons for War

Your stocking welts & black seams Seem to be the only thing I think about, Why must it be that way? Why can’t I get you out of my mind? & think of other things Besides the lingerie you wear Every night, or almost every night When I look like hell & You are a glamour girl All dolled up like a Barbie doll In black seam stockings & lingerie You make me believe in goddesses & The enchantments they spin— I’ll stay under your spell willingly Like a drowning man or a burning man Or a floating man, Or whatever kind of man is Adam to your Eve You so like a magician with 1,000 doves up your sleeve, But the dinner gloves come off, Slowly, one then the other, The wait is like forever, The moon getting stuck in the trees & I see you is stereoscopic 3-D Just like everything else these days; Through the knothole In your bathroom wall Can you see me? I am the Invisible Man of your dreams, Culled from the depths of Freudian reveries, I danced with Cthulu at the ball of mysteries, Can you see me, really see me? Any serious doubt on the merits of surrealism is a fruitful discussion. The phrase, “The window walked through the door, ” For it’s simplicity opens up in one a queasy sense, Can such things occur we ask ourselves, Knowing full well (and concealing crippling doubt over the same) That such things cannot. I wish I had a tool that I could use To make you step out of your sleepy corridor And open the shuttle door. I’d like to see you **** descending a staircase. I want to see your seven faces. You are one of the most beautiful things alive And the reason for war. I saw you drowning your several faces in the bathtub, Dying the marble the color of flesh, Sipping champagne & smoking a cigarette.

46