"teak" poems
An age old chair, in seasoned teak wood
carved, a perfect work of art, nothing less than
a masterpiece, and a reminder of so much past,
sat regally before our wondering eyes, tempting
on the central court yard of my ancestral home,
where generations lived.
Wanting to sit like my grandpas of yore
I found a carpenter, perhaps the last one for this work
who understands the air that surrounds the chair.
We discussed the concept,
design and the kind of wood
it has to be made,to create a replica
to bring back the grandeur of times past.
But then, found not an easy task it is
"Do you deserve it ?" the bearded
carpenter, was so blunt in his skeptic stance!
He puzzled me with his questions
Yet we were keen to give it a try.
The adamant carpenter relented
after many sessions of questions
and answers, perhaps my passion
did the trick, his eyes made me believe.
He promised to make me a chair
(The kind none would dream in this age)
as if it's a mission divinely assigned,
"You need to change a lot to deserve it"
he insisted, suggests a series of
purification rights "for your confused soul"
"To fit in to a chair like this , fulfill
all it's demands"in my ear he whispered
as if I am the chosen one for an ancient throne.
An antique chair shaped by the imagination
of my distant ancestors, now changes me
and without slightest resistance I submit;
would I ever know what is happening?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
Don’t you like a chocolate?
A foggy morning jog; over the windward side of the snowing hill,
Accompanied by the silence of my lovely girl.
Suddenly a drop; falling from a sky high teak,
Soaking her rose-bud cheek.
Eyes on her cupid’s bow; Were thirsty ‘coz her lipstick frost,
Needing for a lip to moist.
That was the time; I lived up from the day I saw,
This angel, with a dropping jaw.
Came close we two; almost locking a tight lip kiss,
But what made that a chance to miss?!
Confused, my girl; Perplexed by my bizarre act;
Peeping places, I was looking at.
Why did I stop? A Choco Donut shop at left,
The reason for my eyes to shift.
Piercing the bread, I licked the sauces off the knife
What else do I want in life? :P
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
*The old cottage over the hillock
Winding and cobbled road to the top
The teak and mahogany in splendor
Vintage style overlooking the modernity
Lion door knockers awakes the silence
Surrounded by antique furniture
In retrospect, says about its eloquent glory
Giving competition to modern architecture*
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
Her name is Chang Champoo,
translated as ‘Elephant Pink.’
Met on the street in tourist Thailand.
9 years old.
6 months pregnant.
A beggar in an urban landscape.
Hungry,
grabbing sugar cane from my fingers.
Desperate for food.
Destined for an early grave.
“Where are you from?”
A question to her mahout,
in Thai hauled from fragments of memory.
“The border.”
Seemingly obtuse but not really.
Only one nearby.
Burma.
Elephants,
born in captivity,
used in logging,
now unemployed.
Teak forests of old but a distant memory.
Did I only fuel her belly
buying over-priced sugar cane?
Or did I also fuel
rampant exploitation
of disadvantaged animals?
Not everything in life
Is black and white.
Sometimes it is grey,
This night it was Pink.
How could I refuse her sustenance
when confronted by those
mournful pachyderm eyes.
The question lingers…
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 1:55 AM UTC
I think I see the mighty hills of Darjeeling.
What magnificence, it is that they bring!
Bold as a King, so high its peak.
Where the oaks grow densely and so do teak.
I think I hear a whistling of Toy Train,
Elevating the twisted track, so slow they gain.
As small as an ant climbing up the King’s feet,
Singing and moving while sounding so sweet.
I think I observe a little streak of falling tear,
Fall from the eyes of Darjeeling, the valiant emperor.
I looked amazingly at the hills of Darjeeling.
All hail Darjeeling! Our benevolent King!
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
I don't see those guava trees today neither the little white teak flowers but I see them as images somewhere at the back of my head everytime I see my love. He makes me homesick even though he has no earthly connection to those images, I see them all through him, he makes me a hopeless romantic and a child I have long forgotten.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
chiaroscuro moment
molten chords
in golden glow
titian ringlets cascade
from linen shoulders
as your hands bring liquid color
to idle black and white
chorded words of three parts
Not easily broken
Ebb and flow as breath over water
a shift in timbre
resonant teak fettered in silver
*heady scent of resin and balsam reeds
echoed drones the cantored dance begins
Taking flight the quiet arias rise
coursing low over open moors
Eyes veiled green
a fog shrouded shoreline
We leave transient prints
In damp sand...
Sonorous notes
From kilted pipers
A flash of tartan on thistled field
Drummers pulse the motion of life
You raise the standard
This ancient song is yours
and mine.
Open eyes to desert sky
Burning blue and empty
As fresh pages fall un-inked
on thorny ground
Only the ache of a melody remains
Lost refrains
broken notes in my DNA
Inspiration drifts away
*I used to have a recurring dream of me, and two other friends - in a recording studio with the complete sheets of music in front of us - which we were singing...and when I wake up...I can never remember the song.
03/2008
© 2008 TL Boehm
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
This shady-bar
gave you more ***** than mixer,
cheap spirits & rot gut elixirs flowed,
some did lines of flake on the teak.
By eight, most dates were sloppy drunk,
buzzed, frazzled to the gills,
schmoozing the feline-walk,
talking **** listening to
Floyd or Skynyrd.
It was a circus of sorts.
Back in those days
we called the cops 'fuzz',
they'd make their rounds
every couple of hours,
it made it look like they were
using tax-dollars wisely,
but we students knew better,
******* establishment.
The parking lot was a mix
of racetrack & boxing ring.
Cars jammed, roared,
cruised, honked
their way
through the fistfights.
Once, I saw two sweet-babes,
real rough-cats scratch and claw
themselves to near death.
The flowered-blouse
on one was ripped clean off,
one of her ***** hung out,
it looked bruised.
Blood streamed down
both of their faces,
ruining their mascara.
When I look back,
it's quite amazing
any of us survived
that freaking place.
Now come to think of it,
the last time
I saw my buddy Marcus
was outside that
nasty-drinking-establishment.
He was ******* amongst
the drunks & excrement.
I really wonder how he survived,
if he made it out of that city
in one piece,
alive.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
Pickaxe handles
jitters the species.
But cheek by jowl
there's an always ardour
in teak panelling
Can I follow her down
and love her for now ?
There's perfection
in preserved 1970's, Formica,
bubble wrap with squeak;
on a wholesome ligne roset tableaux
the height of sophistication
always the French language magazine
Paris Match,
as I plunge the Johnny Hallyday
fork deeper
hoping longer.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
tiny ones emerging in propagating boxes
towering giants stand in tropical forests
timber is yelled when felling a tree
thousands chopped down everyday
talented craftsmen designing cedar chiffoniers
teak wood makes a lovely dining suite
thick layers of sawdust on a workshop floor
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
IT WAS STEAMY HOT WITH FANS SWIRLING ABOVE,
THERE WAS NO TIME FOR THE MILITIA OR EVEN
TO MAKE LOVE, JUST CONTINUE WITH THE
PIPELINE DAY AFTER DAY, FROM ONE CLEARING
TO THE NEXT ACROSS VAST TRACTS OF LAND,
DUST TO DUST TAKEN OUT NOW GRAINS OF SAND,
LOCAL LABOUR BROWN AS TEAK DOES NOT
FLINCH WHEN I START TO SPEAK - JUST
WATCHFUL AND DOWNTRODDEN BUT WILLING TO
LEARN, MAYBE IN THE NEXT LIFE IT MIGHT BE
MY TURN TO FACE HUMILITY UNDER JUNGLE SKIES,
WHEN IT'S ALL OVER , WORK IS FINISHED AND CONVERSATION DIES;
'ON THE ROAD TO MANDALAY WHERE THE FLYING FISHES PLAY,
THE DAWN COMES UP LIKE THUNDER FROM CHINA ACROSS THE BAY.'
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Leaves are falling all around me,
containing such color and beauty.
The smell of the air is crisp,
Like dew on mountain trees.
The temperature outside decreasing,
As does my care in the world,
When I'm drawing smoke,
from such tobacco that is sweet.
It is now my favorite season.
A season I have branded "Pipe Season".
A pipe made of corn,
A heart made from passion.
A hobby I consider gold.
I'll continue to love this pipe of mine,
Until I'm eighty years old.
Rich clouds drawn from flaming leaves,
Leaves seasoned like cucumbers resting in salted vinegar.
The chilled breeze of Autumn flows smoothly,
With my vanilla flavored taste buds.
An odor like heaven enters my nose,
I grow fond of my handheld chimney,
Sitting at my palm as I admire it as a work of art.
Surpassing the Sistine Chapel,
Through my teak colored eyes.
Now I feel that Autumn is here,
This pipe has inspired it's elegance.
But what will become of it when the Winter arrives?
This moment will eventually end,
I fear.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
O'er shingle tossed on raggèd shore,
In awe I gaped that vast array
Of gleaming waves, a teeming store
Of natures bounty in the bay,
Reflecting with each crest and trough
Mosaic fragments of the sky
That echoed on the high-flung bluff
'Neath where stood I.
If God e'er laid a dint or breach
For beauty's sake, this land divine
Is refuge when the storm winds preach,
When rains flow like communion wine;
Each pebble strewn, yet seemly placed
In knitted weave, as tho' on high
A seamstress sewed her pattern, traced
To pleaseth I.
*Oh any heart but mine rejoice
To taste this salted spray;
The longing of mine own device
Lays far beyond the bay.*
To stand beneath the mizzen-mast,
Upon an isle of polished teak,
Surrendered to the winded flax
Wild-dancing round with every creak;
From port to starboard, fore and aft,
No land, nor ship, nor blot on high,
Wouldst dare encroach the mindful craft
That carries I.
What yearning heart has heard her call,
That siren? Oh the sailor's sea,
In beauty does she rise and fall,
Enchanting is her melody;
Too deep her eyes of coral blue
Wherein she takes, as is her wont,
Unwary souls to charters new,
The Lordships and the débutante.
*And unto her, when wearied age
Makes breathless every sigh
And bones become a prison cage,
Will answer I.*
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 11:33 PM UTC
Tear down the rotted timbers riddled through
With smoke of ancient fires,
Winding through the grain as
Natures grave robbers,
In, out, leaving trails
Boring holes smooth and sharp.
Pull down walls, drafting with
Yesterdays winds, growing smaller
Each day as tiny fragments
Stretch free of tight structure
Losing to fall
Drying to blow away in a strong breeze.
Purge the fearful roof of its
Rafters, clean the mold and dust
From its underside, grown so fierce
And tight till adherence appears
To have been in the original plan
Set as the concrete in the foundation.
***** the mighty teak and oak, taller
Than before, cross with bracing if
Steel and metals new, resolve
To glass the holes as windows,
Build upon the strong foundation
Stand to the winds, roof shelter from the rain.
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 9:11 PM UTC
Underneath the spotlessly clean and polished antique teak deck
Lies the engine room
and it is a wreck
a bit like me.
Look under the wrappings and that's what you'll see
a body that once looked like something like me.
Life's engineer has not been anywhere near
since last year
or the year before that
my batteries are flat and I'm wasting away
sailing a ghost ship
and what do you say?
"it'll be alright
you'll be okay
today is the day you will shine like the deck"
Well
break a leg
break your neck
but the deck isn't me
it's just an image portrayed
of what I'd like to be.
On an orange box wearing bright blue socks
can you see
The madness of me?
I just want to be left alone
to my own devices
The spices of life can be mine
if you just give me time
if you just let me be
let me clean up the engine room and then I can see
what I'm doing.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
In that dusty timid light of dawning day
Of which I am familiar
Her eyes are every color under the sun
Her hair is tussled, teak, and tawny
The bricks of the unspoken boundary, built by a hushed breath
I can almost taste the horizon of her sand dune skin
But then
She smiles
And opens her kaleidoscope eyes
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:52 AM UTC
lover, I fear the future.
I fear you, a century behind me
I fear the lights that appear
under your skin and guide my fingers
down and across
till with an ear against your neck
I feel the shudder of ancient wings.
lover, I fear your insides,
the plum-colored honeycomb
of tissue and pulp,
sympathy and deep hives of unrest,
in the lull I gaze towards the ceiling,
lover, I brave it all when
above my head, hands clasped
like a pilgrim, I rail
against, against, against—
vanilla, teak, tobacco,
I perfume my sheets with you.
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 2:00 PM UTC
I'M FROM AYUTHIA IN THAILAND, MADE OF TEAK,
I HAVE SO MANY STORIES IF I COULD SPEAK,
I'VE SEEN YOU LAUGH AND HEARD YOU CRY
AND EVEN WATCHED YOU WAVE GOODBYE;
STANDING HERE ON THE TV, THERE'S NO
BETTER VIEW IT SEEMS TO ME, THAT MAYBE
I SHOUD WRITE A BOOK - DON'T FROWN NOW,
I KNOW THAT LOOK, KNOW YOUR MOODS, KNOW
WHEN ANGER EXUDES FROM HIDDEN PORES AND
PETULANCE SHOWS ITSELF FROM UNKNOWN STORES;
THERE HAVE BEEN THE GOOD TIMES BUT MY MOOD
IS FIXED, NO WAY OF SAYING - EMOTIONS MIXED,
JUST REMEBER THAT I'M HERE FOR YOU, BROUGHT
WITH LOVE - A GUIDING LIGHT FROM HEAVEN ABOVE.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.
i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.
i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.
i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.
and i am more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
the wind sings a song
of howling sadness today
catching at the corners of
the old teak farmhouse
as the sky cries in long
exclamation points
and puddles of loss
form on the ground...
we stay inside away
from the worlds pain
cocooned in warmth
the blucat a sleeping
hearth stone...
me making soup a
nd scones
to the sounds of my clan
the click of knitting needles and building blocks followed by demolition...and laughter
this is love.
this is easy,
everyday love.
under a grey and
brooding winter sky.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Marching ants, vibrant sunflowers, flowing waves of birds,
Everything was not as complex as a flock of herds,
Life was never that easy as it is hasty,
The flow of events turned out to be nasty.
Spilled coffee on the teak,
Life was flowing at its maximum peak,
Movement of every single entity around me,
Could feel the flow of every drop of blood gushing through thee.
Burst car tyres, bent rim, shattered glasses,
Life flashed in front of me in few moments,
Mind has lost its synchronization with the brain,
Things have slowly started flowing down the drain.
Teardrops, like the perennial raindrops was a sight,
Life was turning, running like a turbulent flight,
Dropped the coffee mug, shattered, scattered,
Kept everything every second of the spent life aside.
Marched forward away from the abnormalities of those formalities,
Far away in those jungles high above without any tragedies,
The smile was back in those peaceful surroundings,
Missing was NOW the hustle bustle tangled bounding’s.
End was near, not yet close but not so far either,
Torn clothes were better than the ripped soul I had,
Puzzle was complete so was the destiny's marching orders,
It could have been easy if those sane moments could've been pondered.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 7:03 AM UTC
When a poem isn’t a poem?
When the contents remain in my journals
Next to my lastest book 50 Shades of Grey
Unread, untouched, in need of a good editor my anthology
Each page form an ear, each smudge!
Weaken a page, chilling and aging
Egging not to be published
One small scented four leaf clover
Developed a teak of grease between a page
These are my stories
Of confession and addictions
Dead birds smothered in gravy
Dead men who never said I am sorry
Ladies who worried about their inner strength”
With each title; with each unbridled/biblical tones
My penmanship, your hidden poems
Through strength I brought forth in my journals
Hidden! Suffocated! an anthology
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC