"piney" poems
Distant blue field
further, still the dawn
warmth of day, falls away
disappears into a
fragrant piney forest
a path - twine and twigs, mossy laid
soft steps, of hoof prints made
in tunnels wooded, dimly lit
gray lichen amid the moss
raindrops magnified, gazing through
boletus spongy staining blue
fat berries, salal and thimble red
sparrow rakes his nesting bed
when all the light has gone away
night slips silent into another day.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
Curled beneath the Christmas tree,
On this snowy Christmas Eve,
Lay my daughter, nearly three
Upon this perfect bed.
Asleep and warm in footed wear,
Tinsel static-ed to strands of hair,
Glistening lights ‘gainst skin so fair,
Halo her youthful head.
There she dreams of dreams her own,
That circle ‘bout her life, her home;
Doesn’t fear the world unknown;
I pray such times remain.
With eyelids’ flutter, weaves tomorrows,
To fill with splendor, not of sorrow,
From her, such vision I will borrow;
And will live my life again.
Nestled lone, in face of fire,
Breathing deep, this sweet admire,
With new eyes see all my desires,
How life has blessed so far.
Then, with scent of piney resin,
Awakens precious Christmas present,
Blue-eyes sparkle, sleepy crescents,
The babe beneath the star.
Dec 3, 2010
Dec 3, 2010 at 5:03 AM UTC
Studying the wrinkled lines
of elder poems
on the topic of
the Four Directions;
however;
the poetics of
haunting bards
and mossy sage
always
spiral
back
to the
acorn of the heart
In this infinity;
a piney cabin
resides
inside a bamboo
forest
and Wonder,
She
sits cross-legged
below the
river rock hearth;
warming her palms
against the
irregular downbeat
of snapping flames
“North, South, West and East;
Trust the Wise Arrows
Aiming True
from Your Heart's
Quiver.”
Sep 16, 2020
Sep 16, 2020 at 8:49 PM UTC
Gilded cage so small and tiny
Even singing comes out whiny
Stinking of fake fresh and piney
Tis the season
Leaking water warm and briny
With good reason
Christmas cheer and glasses toast
Loved ones smile and laugh and boast
I sit perched upon my post
A tinsled column
Invisible reluctant host
A heart that's solemn
A longing for a love so distant
The melancholy is persistent
A smile could erase it in an instant
On a face cherubic
For my heart is not resistent
It's theraputic
So that smile that is perfection
Is mirrored in my own reflection
Without a thought about rejection
Hallucinations
About the subtlest inflection
In Salutations
Surrounded by the merrily intense
With drunkard tendencies immense
A bar with all accoutrements
They pound tequila
Drinking away the sacraments
Oh yes, I feel ya
Merry time with old Kris Kringle
Guests all lubed enough to mingle
Mistletoe hangs and sleigh bells jingle
Gifts homemade
Tables adourned and glasses tingle
Gold brocade
Still I sit all caged and flightless
Blind to joy all sad and sightless
Drink could make it hurt a mite less
I'm going backward
Laying here all limp and lifeless
Broke and fractured
Surrounded by the fake and vexing
Artificial and quite perplexing
Reality they are rejecting
The devil may care
Bellies bare and muscles flexing
Lost underwear
So ******* dancing to the jukebox
Lost alone here in the boondocks
There is no snow upon the rooftops
Ahead they forge
Find a room before that thing pops
It's so engorged
Neighbor ***** all dressed in orange
Wearing gold to make the poor cringe
Stripping time to fill her syringe
I'll be her hinderance
Still too drunk from her last binge
Faulty remembrance
Ridding riff raff from the party
People still drunk on Bacardi
Noxious gasses burp and farty
With toilets makeshift
Worn out makeup on the smarty
She needs a facelift
Time to let the people go
Too tired to keep watching the show
Drinking hard and walking slow
Verbose yet listless
Honey I don't want to know
It's not my business
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
This is the path before my feet
Which I'd like to share
The wet grass, the grey clouds, the pine trees
Poking the sky to run their fingers through its hair
Surrounded by the kind of limbs which always thrive
But do not necessarily care, about a man's feelings
How they have listened to me throughout the years
Until my voice is my own in mind
How their echos and their shadows, have carried me in the past
When I was there, and had more weight to bare
But not this time, which is exactly why
I hope you could see both here and there
Beside the talking pines forever
How I hope to walk, without care
I'd describe it for you if you'd ask me
With a piney laughter in the air
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
the feathers went up in the breeze,
between the tree's skeletal structure,
as though poured from a jug,
the tree laying on it's side
like it had conditioner in it's hair
and stayed there until the the feathers had fully passed by,
although a few got stuck in it's ear.
Treacle is dripping from the ceiling,
but it's not dripping it's hanging in sticky tentacles
like sweet stalagmites not letting go of either the floor
or the ceiling
making my hands stick together
and then my arms to my jumper feels really tacky
and covers my hair and drips down my face tickling it
sticking my eyebrows so when I open them wide
they don't feel like they ought to feel
I go to stretch them out with my hands
but that makes them more sticky and stalagmites
form between my eyelashes as I try to open them
and the treacle touches my eyeballs.
The feathers brushed against
the desert's floor,
scooping up small amounts of sand
with each pass
and depositing the grains through
their fingers whilst they stroked the wind,
as it carried them
across the desert floor.
wet young pine cones
and how did they melt in to that resin
that smelt so piney
and stuck to my hands
I could smell it for days on them
It stuck with dirt but still smelt of pine cone resin
My fingers slightly stuck to everything they touched
It was annoying
It wouldn't stop being sticky
I take a handful of sand and feathers
and eye's closed
drop them slowly on my head like a gentle sand timer,
and detect each touch of the sand
and cascade of feathers down my face
and then wake up in a pool of treacle
and the feathers all stick to me
as I try and wrestle my way out
they keep sticking to my body
until I can fly away.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 8:15 PM UTC
A fading shade; built with care
once bright, now reminiscent
of coming winter.
Time-bent frame; piney dreams
of summer days, gone
now splintered.
Binding rings; stretching link
rusted chains, cold rains
blow bitter.
r ~ 5/12/14
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
cry, hopeless woman with desperate voice
fly, sweet freedom and blessed choice
love, loveless loser of selfish means
above, dove-less skies are so unclean
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
grieve, gentle child with much remorse
leave, grievous man without recourse
shout, silent heart with much to say
about, hordes of hollow heroes lay
highways and byways
rivers and streams
molehills and mountains
hopes and dreams
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
.
So fresh his face,
Nutmeg and ginger
Like mine. I made
Apologies for being,
Being late.
He was more than
Kind, so mannered
Like minded, unwild,
Not unpredictable,
Like my ex.
In the cafe, earthy
Smells wafted at me,
Hints of loss, of sad
Things unsaid, wet
Piney black hair.
Black hair and blue
Unfathomable eyes,
Eyes of a lad I miss,
A wildness uncaged,
Once caging me.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:04 AM UTC
If my physical wellbeing is any kind of indicator
I'd say that I'm wibbly-wobbly, piney-whiney.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
And dreaming of Inisfáil, I was raised on Bolivar Pond.
Sheltered in my wake, I’d coo as the dewy’d morning dove
And fern in my bed, I rose to greet
The song-splayed sounds of light
And work, I made it dropping slow
Bright in the summers swoon, I was adorned in forest eves
By rings that rang from tree to rook, and flung the wingèd down,
Brambled in bay, garland in violet
When blades could ***** and not make bleed,
And I was brindled by the moon’d many shades, that liken
To a brook, and mottled in my main, noted among moss
In that glow, once knighted we must serve
Wood, let me comb in peace!
Colored in the mantled cloth of leaves
And bonny and red, I was the brave and the boon, the deer-
Ants learned me, and herons stood muck, on stands spearing all mite
And the vernal song sang lowly
Swaddled in azure’s unfolding dream.
At each turn was a season, nascent life charming in marsh
Forays that brimmed the hollow rood, in clover yards, I saw
The lilt of bees, sallied in clearings
Brown as the yellowed beech
Colored in sounds that beat the heart.
And forth into the field I sprang unto that shedded loam
And high was the sail that bellowed the raft that raked my pond,
Bullied by the har-umph of frogs
I rippled, rowing cat o’nine tailed tunes.
Windy and free in the hollowed bark round the ****** bay
I trailed the bear sniffing **** heard the hoo of a swooping vowel
And wild in hare, dug the fox-hole up!
Damp fires hailed the rising
Moon, as fire-flies dinted the troutling pools
And nothing I saw in my drowning sun could nettle or thorn
My piney ways, nothing could rot my wood-craving ears
For the kestrel’s qweet-a-quee rang holy
In the skunk-flowered fields of Bolivar Pond.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
The road unpaved, waved winding red
high pines, unfettered buried feet, under needles strawed
Fragrance, piney, warmth of sap, bark bled
Lithia springs ring clear, a tumbled water song
Owl tree softly spoke
lily fawn so slept, caressed by mourning cloak
Sun begins to edge the hills
wings rise, flies the morning fog
Fritillaria bends the light, leaning into
daybreak's mantra song
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
*The contraption they made for me wasn't made of mahogany or pine. It didn't have my name carved on the side or top or woven in between a lovely vine.
The mask I wore was hard and plastic, reaching down my throat, stealing my voice, my choice, my right for air, my only care.
I'm inconveniently sewn wrong. Stitched little ***** with a piece of my hair going nowhere, breaking, splitting, and firing a blank flare. In that me made contraption, that not so piney box. I need to detox.
The mask grips my face tighter, the spider beneath the box is a fighter but not me you see. No no not me. I'm the malnutritioned meal deal for the arachnid to steal. I close one eye grieving the salty cheek, I can feel the watery streak leave it's message bleak across my pale cheek.
This plastic prison wasn't comfortable or maced with satin or lace. I understand for light years beyond my grasp of taste that once upon a time ago I must have lived a life of disgrace.*
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
I strolled among lavendills
in the pithy piney plodding hills
bearing the brunt of burdensome ********
as I garnished grins of whippoorwills.
On a plateau-ish plain of prickly peet
I felt the bog beneath my feet
tickling my toes with ****** tainted thorns,
I remembered gnarling days, and stood forlorn.
Pickled poesy pomagroups
foretold of future ladle scoops
in caligrating loop the loops in styles
reminding me of marching troops.
In shifting shylock shapes of time
with ripping radishes of rhyme
I began my daring dew descent
to the lowly muppet mugging climes.
When, on sordid stony steppes I stood,
amid the brash and boorish wood,
wenting where I was, I brought
a hinting hackle pang of good.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
in cool piney shade
on squat bushes spread
wild blueberries grow
on soft, mossy bed
or under the ferns
among meadowsweet
on berms in the sun
but sheltered from heat
or on a bush rising
almost to my waist
so loaded with berries
it bends down and sways
I'm picking them
plump and cool with the dew
in dappled sun under the pines
morning turns into afternoon
I'm losing all sense of time
cicadas' shrillness,
a chorus of crickets,
the red squirrel's noisy chatter,
a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring,
but time just doesn't matter...
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
Turned in my hand
Pine cone every perfect detail
Like a pattern
Something of armadillo
About you
Love the symmetry
The natural grace
That makes my head
Swim
So natural
Like the way you smile
Like the way I feel
When you smile
Do you ever do
Anything less
Than be piney
Or coney
Sure you don’t try
Sure you don’t
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
Wrapped in your luscious balmy arms
Feeling your warmth, your colorful protection
I breathe you in, smelling the earth’s soil,
Piney trees, and the musty rain from the night before
Seeing the effervescent teardrops of water on the fresh leaves and the reflecting stream that beholds our picture
Hearing quiet tapping as it begins to sprinkle
The air began to thicken as the wind started to rage
Looking into your eyes I see a roar that cannot be contained
A wildfire with a never ending spark
Never fearing our love will be bland
For, you touched me with your soft pleasant hands, promising spice
I could taste the deliciously sweet sharp tang of our affection
With you,
I am home
-EC
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC