"pinewood" poems
_~a jump-rope chant~_
Black silk handkerchief,
what ya’ gonna’ hide?
A pox that knocks on the church’s side.
Preacher won’t preach where my daddy died.
Angel forgot which soul to guide.
Both arms wrapped in moccasin skin,
open the gate and let her in!
Snake-bone hag with watery eyes,
count to ten when the baby cries.
One for the moon,
and two for sin,
three for the teeth with the rusted grin.
Four for the girl with the copper cough,
dancin' in the attic with the light turned off.
Five, six,
skillet ticks.
Seven, eight,
shut the gate!
Nine, ten, count again--
bathe him slow and cool the skin.
held him close till the fever broke;
air curled white from pinewood smoke.
Chewed the haw and bit the sage,
wrapped his bottle in a bible page.
Ghost stood watch on the porch out back,
shadow thin and eyes coal-black.
Sayin', "I’m fine, don’t mind the cold,"
"died last spring but ain’t been told."
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
When I took my first step, I should have fell backwards.
It would have meant failure.
But it wouldn’t mean being here.
On this neverending staircase.
I walk up and up, hoping to find a door, or a hallway, a path.
Yet, just more steps.
Each step is a milestone which in the end leads to…
Another staircase.
Scared to move forward
but scared to look down.
Looking down may cause my madness to spiral out of control.
It may cause it to continue..
to lead me beyond the staircase.
To a pinewood box.
I can’t go back.
Secretly I know what awaits me at the top.
The very top.
You.
With a grin that matches the Cheshire cat’s ten fold.
I climb the steps.
to my past.
to my past lover.
to the reason for my insanity.
My neverending staircase.
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 4:54 AM UTC
One last time I drive past the pinewood
On the fogged road washed with rain
My eyes misted up in melancholic brood
If here I would ever come again.
The winds passing through pine chains
Bid me a whispered farewell
Sulk in silence the clouded mountains
In parting grief somber and pale.
In time afar on a forlorn night
If my dreams soar on wings
Bathed in milky moonlight
They would fly to Darjeeling.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 5:01 AM UTC
A clay *** holds your happiness.
It's halfway tall,
reaching up to your thigh,
Narrow, blown up in the middle, narrow.
Simple lid with a spherical dot for fingers to grasp,
and a black drawn line
that curls from base to lip,
and over.
Insides encumbered by sweet darkness,
shaded glory,
because outside,
gleaming.
Spiraled gold that must have dribbled off the sun's ice cream cone
leaked through the bottom where the end had broken
and flavor escaped
to land on your mirthful urn.
Blue so clear,
the sky surely lost a piece of itself
as a crack appeared
and a fragment cascaded downward
to shatter along your pleasant chalice.
And in between,
are lines of green
that could have only originated
on pinewood trees
in a forest so dark
that monsters beware.
Bordering a little town
where children played
and only truth was called,
never dare.
Because there is red on your delighted decanter.
Spattered droplets
of coagulated sparks.
Jaded needles saturated,
with pine fresh essence
emanating from your zesty flagon.
And a single spot,
Barren.
Bereft of treasure.
Parted from cerulean.
Robbed of Viridian.
And severed in the roots of a blushing Amaryllis.
Occupying there,
a white blemish,
a shape of infinite corners
immaculately defined
and so small,
you will never find it on the canister
that harbors your smile.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
You can be my pinewood forest
and I'll wander through your mists
ducking through
your hollowed out trees anytime
I'm your huckleberry
bushes growing
under your treetops
and you can eat my berries anytime
Recall that
huckleberries only grow wild
and so do I.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
A moon disc moves around in space,
beaming white with shades of time
as the pupil of a cosmic eye,
an aperture of the mind.
Its clouded iris billows,
evolving mountains in the sky
as textured fields of cirrostratus
caressing what's divine.
There's a copper sclera of diffraction,
as concentric rings of luminescence
enjoy, for tonight, partaking of this essence.
Do the pinewood teeth serrating mountains
not speak for want of a tongue?
I know they sigh sometimes with longing
when they're moved before a gale.
I hear your storm has started calling,
as the wind whispers me your tale.
The rain's a heavy harmony,
strumming straight on panes of glass,
and those rivulets of running water
walk patience to the brink
as the eddies of a circling mind
whirl cogs which make me think:
*I see your face in scattered strangers,
your form behind the rippling of skirts.
I hope your restlessness will soothe itself
and you feel at home, here on this earth.*
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
On a frigid night I am
the lone resident in my house.
Not a whisper sounds from
the mouth of the biting air outside.
Alone in my house I am at ease
for there is nothing around
to interrupt this time left to me.
I can see things differently,
like the face of a Picasso painting.
With a lessened tension I
have a deeper sense of recollection.
My thoughts are a ceiling fan,
constantly spinning and circulating
the sentences of these lines
like the air throughout the house.
As I listen to the warm air
rattle from the vent in the wall
I am reminded of the days
spent with my dad working
in the basement workshop.
My purple, gold and white
Pinewood Derby car for Boy Scouts
was a piece of work to be proud of.
It may not have placed, but
it had a special place on my dresser
for several years to come.
It’s memories like these I
know I’ll never forget because
even after thirteen years
I can recall it like it was yesterday.
The smell of freshly sanded wood
and sore fingers after long hours
of hard work perfecting the shape
was worth more than all the
money a rich couple could
spoil their children with.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 10:06 PM UTC
She laid beneath
dew and cloaked pine
her hands slight with curve
toes in agonizing arch
eyes barely reflecting
the soft green moss
that entangled auburn strains
the pitter patter in the distance
echoed a stillness in the wood
it surrounded her winter body
even though the estival air
was dank and heavy
as I stared
my eyes reflected back
a story of winter
laying with summer
in harmonious still lust
a statue captured
in this moment
is hidden in pinewood
I remember thinking
“How beautiful”
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
We were pirates then
dueling swords of picket wood
on summer days when backyard pools
were Caribbean seas
We swung from frayed and creaking rope
tethered to the stolid limbs of shadegiving trees
plundering the ships we made from cardboard
and splintered pinewood crates
We laid siege to sandbox fortresses
with cannon fire from garden hoses
muzzled by the ends of our thumbs
Our shipmates were the tabby cats
and german shepherds we dressed
in tattered sheets pillaged from
lines strewn across the lawn
and patches held by rubber bands
covering bewildered eyes
We were pirates then
dueling swords of picket wood
on summer days we buried
in coves hidden along straits
we marked on weathered maps
Surviving still and sometimes found
in the darkest corners of the night
and the cloudless wonder of the day
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
Our reflections on a brass doorknob .
A skeleton key would slowly turn each tumbler ..
Dusty pinewood flooring , antique trinkets ..
Propane space heaters and fresh coffee balm private , erstwhile collective memories . A matriarchs kitchen , well water aroma and cross stitched towels , her flour tinged cotton apron , cast iron skillets and brass tea kettle with porcelain service ushers spirited times of conviviality over a simple oak dining room table ..
Hand made breakfast nook curtains , the majesty of tall Water Oaks
with foraging bantam hens and roosters ..
Dirt roads would tell of visitors long before they ever arrived ,
fishing for shell crackers at the old bridge with cane poles and and dough ***** , leftovers from cat head biscuits at breakfast ...
Pecans and crabapples fed young anglers on shady Summer afternoons . Feeding tall grass to black angus and hereford cattle through barbed wire fence , collecting afternoon eggs and walking the furrows at Dusk ,
days I'll never forget ..
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Put me in a pinewood box,
And set me near the tide,
Let my body float to sea,
On the waves I'll ride,
In my heart I'm a pirate,
I'll fly the black flag high,
I'll settle for no less than-
The earth and sea and sky,
I've had my fill of normal,
And I'll never settle for,
The things sheep are seeking,
Inland, far from the shore,
Just give me my ***
And a ship with a crew,
We'll set sail for Horizon,
And seek out Skies of Blue,
But if here I die,
Don't bury me under-
The ground I so greatly detest,
Please know that I know best,
Just put me in a pinewood box,
And set me at low tide,
Watch as my body floats to sea,
On these waves I will ride,
A pirate whose been glorified.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC
5/20/1994
I'll forget your face--
even those hands I fell in love with.
The soft way they grasped my hips
as your head nestled into my chest.
I always admired how petite those fingers of yours were,
when compared to mine, they were inch worms wiggling between the earth.
6/20/1994
I'll forget our first--
even our first kiss that was always our biggest thing to laugh at.
That little parlor, was our first kiss,
To find out how it would be with ice cream in our mouths
Little droplets of your favorite ice cream, vanilla cranberry.
Surrounded the bottom part of your upper lip,
slightly puckered, bending over the table towards each other.
I started to laugh before we even touched,
accidentally getting some raspberry on that sundress you love so much
Our lips didn't touch that day, but I still consider that our first kiss
7/20/1994
I'll forget our last--
Even our marriage, I can no longer remember what day it was on.
Although I replay that moment in my mind almost every single day,
trying so hard to keep it stored inside me, that even today I prayed to remember.
Your admiration for Swan Lake was obvious that day;
no wonder you had to dress in a black dress, and brides maids in white
8/20/1994
I'll forget the tiniest and the most important details to our wonderful life--
Even the ones you thought I never could:
we live at, 197 oakwood lane, or is it pinewood road,
we have three children...I love them very much
9/28/1995
I'll forget everything--
Except what I promised to always remember.
Dear, to me every day is our wedding day
It's the only thing I've been able to keep
Thanks for playing along with me,
It's been magical to marry you everyday,
to feel as young as we were back then.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 6:34 AM UTC
When she smiles, I smile
When she laughs, I laugh
When she cries,
the tears also flow down my face
She sees and I feel
I see and she feels
Together we are yin and yang
Apart we are little
And easily subdued
Together we are strong
We need no one else
Man or friend
Enemies beware
Hair like golden rod
With cloud teeth
She floats around the room
Dancing and sining
With pinewood locks
And deep brownie eyes
I join in
She's my better half
And I hers
I am the calm after her storm
And she is the first ray of light in my morning.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
I aint no ***** I aint no tinker; like a tinker would think. Im just an old cow poke with no leather to sink my teeth. Been riding for days aint came across the first drop to drink.
Sure is nice of you mam to let me in by the smell of my stink.
You see; I lost my cattle about a few miles back. We got seperated by a sand storm. Boy this coffee is about as thick a pinewood sap. Mam, please dont take offense; I sure do appreciate the gesture. I suppose a cool glass a water might do the trick.
Now as I was saying, I was on my way up from Wyoming to drive a herd for a bargain. Well I guess I would say I got started early this morning.
I got me a ranch out in Laramie. Well actually a buddy of mine does. We started up and then it began storming. I haven’t seen him since. Mam could you do me a favor if he does. If he shows up; could you tell him I have gone to gather up them horses.
Could you ask if he could stick around, what matters is that we’re safe and that’s important. We can regroup in a couple of hours. Head on back on up the trek, make up for lost time and try to save our appointment. If that ain’t no burden to you misses?
-RSC
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 7:23 AM UTC
I look out the window and i see you walking closer towards me.
Snow is falling, covering the world with a beautiful white blanket.
I sit by the fire, waiting for you to knock on my door.
I breathe the sweet air my pinewood fire is scenting... And smile...
Merry Christmas to you...
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 6:18 PM UTC
The world outside today seemed to be too much for me
the walls keep closing in, i can’t find the room to breathe
i’m left there alone
hollow eyes and aching bones
i’ve laid dormant from dawn
to dusk but now i see the sun
night is gone, another day done
as i lay locked on the bedroom floor
my shoulder blades press into my thin rug
protruding vertebrae finding wood below
the rain smell hanging from poisoned oaks
gray skies hover
endless cloud cover
all pinning me down
these days all I can do is suffer
but the birds outside my window
in a chorus they say
you don’t have to fear today
But the birds outside my window
they sing me awake
it’s okay, it’s okay it’s okay
the sun, the trees the summer breeze
they nudge me saying please
it’s been three days since you’ve eaten, Louise
you’re nothing but fuzzy brain weak knees
get up, just get some coffee
but I remain paralyzed
glass eyes towards skys learning
pattern of ceiling fan turning
whirring and churning
all the heavy humidity away
but my skin will not evaporate
no matter how much i will it to dissipate
i hate to have my body stay
while my mind starts to disintegrate
but the birds outside my window
in a chorus they say
you don’t have to fear today
But the birds outside my window
they sing me awake
it’s okay, it’s okay it’s okay
light leaks in from the swayingcurtain
the storm is passed, weatherman’s certain
and though the sun cuts the grey asunder
in my mind there still lies thunder
my cobwebbed lungs refuse to work
as the heavy thoughts continue to lurk
but breaking through murky background
i hear sparrows start a symphony sound
and with their rounds and rounds of chords
their song did rise more and more
and my eyes came into focus
loosing that notion of hopeless
i started to feel almost human
only songbirds’ tunes to pull me in
closer and closer to some reality
through blinding light i start to see
the pinewood outside begins to dry
my rusty heart decides to try
I reach my head out the window
with eyes shut, panes clutched
i drink the sun’s glow
with all i have, my ribs force a heave
and i find that, finally I can breathe
but the birds outside my window
in a chorus they say
you don’t have to fear today
But the birds outside my window
they sing me awake
it’s okay, it’s okay it’s okay
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
I’ve said so much
and like every word,
gone as the memory of a baby,
the things I wish to be
are as distant as an old pinewood floor;
The one I walk on no more
You heard what I said,
but you said actions are what people remember
How did I make you feel?
It's not so easy to be memorable,
all I can hope is that the past was real enough;
most times smooth, sometimes rough
When the rain falls
I take the time to count my regrets
Blessings are for other people
I don’t know that I did anything right by them
I can’t seem to shake this feeling,
about what it is my worries are stealing
I don’t think you’re waiting anymore
I know I’m not
That’s the biggest lie I’ve told all day
It’s hard to believe I can live like this,
knowing through an open window, what I’ve seen,
was the rain that once washed our hearts clean
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
It seems to be so close, yet
nobody has ever touched it because
it is reserved only for one person
in the whole universe
who fails to reach out when
there is no time,
- of course there is, but isn't it easier
to paint a picture where
blame is the invisible colour
and the audience is just
a secondary, talking mirror
with a story about the
fleeting miracle
in an pinewood box, located where
only the bravest can find it, but that is
entirely impossible to execute from a
collapsing castle of hopes
stretched out horizontally to reach the ends
of worlds with diverging objectives, thus
the happily ever after is only reserved for
one person, who is brave enough to
open a treasure.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
As I tap my fingers against the pinewood table, the strands of my hair droop in front of my face. My eyes start to become blurry of tears, I see nothing but the smudge writings on my paper. The room is cold, I can see my breath, I feel so empty. I can no longer see the sun above the hills. I wipe my eyes and tie my hair in the messiest ponytail. I grab my bag and stuff the unfinished papers in it. I throw on my black leather boots with the worn out shoestrings. The door swings open, all I see is pine trees lost in the musky dark. The stars lead me on. I take steps after steps, the dry twigs and dead leaves crackle beneath my boots. I try not to make a sound. There's a light wind blowing in the air, it tickles my face. My callow green jacket doesn't keep me warm enough. I walk faster and see an opening. Out I come, I see the empty road. From left to right there's not a single vehicle. I raise my arm and throw out my thumb. There's leftover tears still on my face, my hair still in its ponytail. The wind becomes colder, my scrawny legs in my black tights can't keep up with the coldness. My arm starts to weaken and I begin to cry. My face is even colder. I sit on the jagged ground with my legs crossed, weeping quietly. Suddenly there's a vivid light heading my way, I become blinded by its beauty. The light comes closer to me, it makes a complete stop. I see that it's a vehicle. A cobalt pick up truck. I stand up and wipe the dirt off me. The door opens and welcomes me in. I don't hesitate. I hop in and never look back. I sit back and let a smile crawl on my face, I don't care where I'm going, or who I'm with, as long as I'm away from the pain.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
where
does
poetry
dwell
in
a
lilliputian
red log cabin
in
the
pinewood forest
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 3:06 AM UTC
Life is just some work in the offing
The banging of nails in your new pinewood coffin
The last drizzling drops in a bottle of wine
And the final knockings on the edge of all time.
For twenty five years you can wallow in pity
Get ****** in the city and think yourself pretty
Walk through the streets like a neat Walter Mitty.
After another twenty five years you start going to seed
You find that you need a hand up the ladder
Nothing is sadder.
But you struggle along trying to right any wrongs
Your reading tastes change along with the style of the songs
That you listen to now
And you know most of the why's you're just not sure of the how.
Then comes the descent
One day you stand tall the next you are crooked and bent
And everyone looks younger
But you've done all of that and you no longer hunger
For the sparkles of youth and you know that's the truth.
Because that's just some work in the offing.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
as i walk
through
a pinewood forest
where the
august light
drifted through
my mind
and
be sure of it
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
*Crows have gathered in a brown field
sprinkled with frosted glitter
Sunshine wanes and flickers with
burst of artistic vigor
Woodland song , bluejay gay revelry along pinewood rows
Water oaks crowned with mistletoe
Christmas Day adorned with the blessings of home* ...
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC