"timberland" poems
*the halcyon timberland rest
a cottage with gliding vines upon its wall
tasted soot and first snow,
knew the land where all grass grows.
I am a piece of mild apple rotting in merry hues
upon skeletons of twirling tree roots.
I peek skywards to the ripen boughs
and the mirthful hopping birds
of gold and yellow, of ruby and dream.
Amidst a silvery silent
sun rays make its glow of gold
with the sapphire ocean's salt.
Hear the wealthy sea soughing from afar?
in quiet burrows the rabbit takes its ample rest
as deep and soundly as dormant butterflies
in the green harmony bushes;
with the subtle, halcyon seawaves' singing...
A fine lullaby indeed.*
l.r
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
How I long to be like you, White Oak
Standing tall and regal
You fulfill your niche as an edifice of omniscience
Wearing proud your burl as if it were a purple heart
But perhaps it is a purple heart,
A Timberland Medal of Honor generated from bacteria and plague
The burl you boast is a bulbous scar
Informing your onlookers “I survived”
I too am still standing, White Oak
I’ve weathered my failures,
Teach me the trade of your bravery, muse of Mother Nature
Show me how to wear my battle wounds like a diamond ring
When they come to slice me open
The exploitation of my innards will taste nothing but familiar.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 1:24 PM UTC
The One with the Timberland Boots
Those gigantic feet
Which I peek
Was close to mine
Though I had to sneak
The stench of my odor
Coming from my ***
Was making me
Insecure very fast
But luckily the stalls divide us
Our bowels and touch
And all things that blind us
Except for the smell
Of course that was true
But with our smells combine
There was nothing coming through
Between us…
The love that we made
That came from pain
Has thus began to fade away
Including me who had to go
But I will never forget
The Timberland Boots
Who sat near me in company
Throwing my insecurities off the roof
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 12:12 PM UTC
In my poverty songbook, I wrote
Fear nothing but to do some wrong
Yet I wrote nothing about being broke
All because poverty made me strong.
From birth, I've sung the poverty song
It's about a unilateral fight against poverty
I know the road to the summit is long
I'll rest at nothing until I dwell in prosperity.
There's a verse in the book about perseverance
It's the main reason for which I wrote the song
In there I thanked God for His grace and Providence
For it's within his grace where we all belong.
In my poverty songbook, I left out a lot of things.
There ain't a single verse about laziness and self-pity.
I instead included a request for a Timberland and wings
These two I'll need to get about and do my hustle duty.
IvanBrooksPoetry©️
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
I found a boardwalk in the woods
leading, seemingly, to nowhere,
In a timberland swamp I knew from younger days;
Decaying and rotten, likely long forgotten.
I wondered how long it had been there, abandoned to its fate:
quietly mocked by the still standing timbers
(as yet spared the sawmills blade),
for its needless sacrifice; as its strength is weathered away - used but unrequited - wasted, faded and unmade.
I followed along its decrepit path
as far as I could make,
and laughed to myself and thought,
"Such is life's disarray."
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
Chilly timberland.
A silent, little mouse squeaks
as a fierce wolf howls.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 9:46 PM UTC
I sit alone along a stony brook.
I weep, for all my lonely sorrows.
I conceive of what my life has took,
And, I wish not to know any tomorrows.
I gaze on down into the flowing water's stream
And as I sit in my tears, I conjure up a dream;
And as the stream accepts my tears,
I try to ponder what this dream could mean.
I'm walking in a timberland,
and it set near a woodsmen’s mill.
And, with the flowing water's rushing sound,
it makes this dream seem real.
I see a miller's wheel, and it's turning high and round;
It squeaking high above my head.
And, when the water flows down down to the ground,
It is then, I see the water is red.
The water is red.
This seems strange but it is true.
And down there in this deep red water,
A soft little white lily grew .
It is as white as snow,
And as white as new
And here it is dwelling,
Inside this deep dark red pool.
Oh poor lily,
Now, it is changing to pink;
For of this cold flowing red water,
This poor little lily did drink;
Poor little flower,
This little lily is heavy from its drink;
It goes down down under the water
The lily did sink;
Into its red red watery grave.
I Reflect back on to my stony flowing stream.
I do ponder of what this image could mean.
A tear falls from a burning eye;
I sit here in my melancholy
And, I wonder why;
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
*Fecund , Sun drenched coppice , Marsh Hawk pursuing eyes , mid-afternoon iridescent Dragonflies , half turn of the ever evolving earthly -panel , a fragile , cobalt soap bubble teetering from parasitic occupation
Felled timberland bridges , Warbler performers , days of pungent Pine -and Water Oak umbrellas
Persuasive vapors commanding the senses from every direction , spun in -the pastureland , seeking the fall of the stratospheric canopy , poetic tales -of the inverted world*
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
Poison
Your love is like poison,
I thought, as I lay sprawled on the cold gravel
Blood and tooth free to travel, and play in the dirt
Gary Wright & his band Spooky tooth fill my mind,
You broke my heart, so I bust your Jaw
Great Album, loved the “70”s
It started around a month, a century, a week? I don’t know? I lost track
I was in the forbidden palace, the gritty, and the grimy.
You know the Joint,Yea the Soul Sickness,
The place I keep running to, The black hole I cling to, live-in and bath in.
I’m one of the lucky few, not to get it
I must have been at the wrong place at the wrong time,
Force Majuer here you come, the Rush,
pulse-pounding sensual stick of dynamite,
looking for someone to light your fuse,
Yea, I’m weak, need a match?
Oh yea we’re the perfect couple,
we beg, we devour, we bleed our disease into each other.
It’s never enough; our enough doesn’t exist and never did.
Satisfaction is never guaranteed
You crave more,
I need more,
you want more,
I desire more,
more, more, and nevermore
I asked you if you love me?.
You told me, you don’t know what love is?,
but we have something special,
As you grind your hips into my lap and lady love entered my veins,
Lust disguise as passion?,
A void filled with love?
But your love is poison,
And I’m dying a slow death,
I watch from the ground,
Your mud-caked high-heeled shoes,
and his new timberland boots walk-away
Yea, the one who busted my face
I pick myself off the ground; brush myself off, stumble into the palace,
Look around my sancutary, notice a barfly, buzz, buzz and buzz right out a broken window.....I order a shot of antidote.
Firewalker
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 5:05 PM UTC
I found a boardwalk in the woods
leading, seemingly, to nowhere,
In a timberland swamp I knew from much younger days;
Decaying and rotten,
Most likely long forgotten.
I wondered how long it had been there, abandoned to its fate:
Quietly mocked by the still standing timbers,
As yet spared the sawmills blade,
For its needless sacrifice, useless decay
As its strength is silently weathered away;
used
but unrequited,
wasted,
faded and unmade.
I followed along its decrepit path
as far as I could make,
and so laughed to myself as I thought aloud,
"Such is life's disarray."
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 6:39 PM UTC
*Home of afternoon coppered timberland
Dancing wire grass and shimmering tin
Egrets in the house of deep blue sunsets
Dove songs riding winter winds* ...
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
Her Saturday is slowly inching away ..
Eyelids grow heavy , timberland begins to darken ..
The music of life slows a beat , thrilled voices drop an octave ,
gradually cascade , methodically erased from creations sweet song ..
Sometimes late afternoon is a silent movie , droning on till the final curtain call ...
Well intended thespians have no stage , the leader of the band is without a public address , the speaker no podium , the lion tamer with no whip to crack , the pastor with no flock to lead to the River Jordan ..
The poetess with her priceless Saturday on paper , tucked away in a shirt pocket , to be absorbed and read aloud tomorrow ...
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
Leaves flee in the dusk
near a fine ending in this evening
bringing a musk
in the air in a fragrant mist.
Surpassing the land
lies radiant shades
held in the midrib or strand
fluttering and drifting in the wind.
Up high in the gentle breeze
leaves take flight and travel
Leaving their safe place in the trees
all embracing the taste nature brings.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC