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Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Roses are red and wood violets are blue.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets too.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.

I'm sorry I left, that I never came through.
I'm bringing you flowers—seems all I can do.

I just had to walk. I just had to think.
I just had to find my way back from the brink.

So I'm coming home with the smell of fresh dew
And rosebuds I've stolen like I once stole you.

Roses are red and sweet violets are blue.
Oh, I love you, Babe, like the dawn loves the dew.
I love you, Babe, like the dawn and the dew.
I'm bringing home roses and violets for you.
I'm bringing home roses, wood violets and dew.
CA Guilfoyle Jul 2012
Vine maples alight
paths dappled green
forest fronds reach for skies unseen
in deeper wood comes the black of day
red cedars fallen to decay
oxalis spring - softly flowered white
sway, leaning into the light
wild berries burst upon a mossy floor
drink sweet the red wine poured
mouse and bird drunk in their delight
will cozy sleep this woodland night.
"Hello this is the Plum Wood Police Department.  How may I help you?"

"I'm calling because there is a dead woman in the woods by highway 77.  She has no face or eyes."

"Who am I'm speaking with?"

"This is the killer.  I cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with me.  That way I can always look her in the face.  **** the world everybody killer."

"Sir can you tell me why you did this?  **** he ended his call."

Plum Wood was a small city with a low crime rate.  When officer Daniel received a call from a killer telling him there was a dead woman in the woods by highway 77 it was surprising.  Officer Daniel placed the phone back on receiver and took a deep breath.
He slowly exhaled and then called all aviable officers and Detective Thomas.
"Hello Detective Thomas this is officer Daniel.  I just got a call from a man telling me there was a dead body in the woods by highway 77.  He said he was the killer and that he cut off her face and removed her eyes and took them with him.  That way he can always look her in the face.  I tried to get his name and to tell me why he did this but he ended his call.  I think he was using a cellphone."

Written by Keith Edward Baucum
Horror, scary,
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a back and glistening wave.

I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.

I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.

I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.

I hear the carve of oars,
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as both oar lock’s turn,
you slip the shore,
I hear the carve of oars

Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks
180928F

They didn't get along
Michael Briefs Apr 2018
Artemis of the wood,
sweet skill of deadly
silence,
her accurate aim and steady
strength
finds the subtle seam,
between
all things.
Her swift sentry,
airborne,
elegant and true,
flies with focused
ferocity.
The soft,
wet earth
surrounds and
welcomes;
her realm of the hunt.
The scent
of the fallen leaves,
cool and colorful,
subdue
my soul.
The forest hush is all that
remains...
Poem inspired by picture at https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10213076227916353&set=a.10208174166607884.1073741828.1113041505&type=3&theater
Savannah Oct 2018
Floral pattern grazing wood floors,
Into my tea sunshine pours.

Birds chirp and sing,
carnations sway and swing.

To my fortunate delight,
this is how I write,
early morning prose.
K Balachandran Oct 2018
Two lovesick wood ducks,
On a large, blue lake alone;
Till darkness separates!
James Khan Dec 2018
Lutheran pessary up the old Spiritus Sancti
won't eat the yeast
but fur meant as faux fealty
brews a salty communion, count backwards
from twenty-two to twelve,
from Eden to the stars, consumed-
your dragon, your woman, your sun, your Son...

it's always winter
if only dogwood blooms.
Annotations help sometimes.
Dogwood is a winter flowering species, hardy and resilient. Wormwood is the heraldic star of St. John's nightmare, otherwise known as the Book of Revelation.
It contains 22 chapters that can be broken into three distinct phases. Revelation 12 is midway, a turning point of the book and perhaps one of the most memorable encounters with corruption versus hope epitomised in the many-headed dragon and the pregnant ******.

The scene from Revelation 12 is immortalised by Blake in his famous painting of corruption consuming virtue. Chapter 22 is Eden restored.
'Fur meant' refers to the act of fermenting and and also the garments of ecumenical Christianity. In this piece, I've referenced the Protestant arm of the Church.

Oh, did I mention the Marilyn Manson song? If not, it has some relevance here as the track Revelation #12 alludes directly to Antichrist Superstar which, as we all know from Sunday School contains the references to the hydra and the star in its guttural chorus.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash the woman's weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, that formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a somber black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Carina Sep 2018
Trapped in a cage with golden bars of light
Of ancient habit and direful duties;
Below the water crashed into the bight,
The whispering waves baiting with beauties.

But her shadow lurked around the coast,
Dashing her to the beach like drifting wood.
Preventing her from what she wanted the most
To reach new shores from where she stood.

She wanted to travel and sail the open sea
Beyond the shingle, seaweed and shells
Closer to the horizon where the birds flew free
Or to the arenaceous ground in diving bells.

And coming back to where she started
She found her seaside changed since she has parted.
Or did the widening horizon change her perceiving?
For returning was not the same as never leaving.
Dedicated to all those wandering souls who like to seek new horizons, who love travelling and experiencing the world with all its wonderful facets.
Brandon Conway Sep 2018

September 16th 2018 1:34 pm

The war started between the illegible instructions and chunks of wood. I decided to enlist, well, more like volunteered. I arrived at the camp today and met a few loose screws. They don’t have time to train us, we are being shipped out as I write this in my journal.
I hope to god I survive this thing so I can see her face at the end. She will be ecstatic to see me alive, I know she has her doubts. We can not let the engrish win.

September 16th 2018 3:17 pm

We have arrived to our camp. It’s a pigsty. Styrofoam specks cover the yard like snow and cardboard chunks are blown to bits just over the trenches. No time to settle in. Just enough to down a cup of dirt coffee before we charge in. It’s been storming all day, everything is covered in mud.

September 16th 2018 3:56 pm

Stage one has been complete. We have a wall up. This should help stabilize anything that comes after us. It was no easy task and we have been told this was the easiest part.

September 16th 2018 4:32 pm

The foundation has been completed. There were casualties. Henry, a brave man, lost a hand and had to be evacuated. We can hold them back if our aim is true. I hope there are angels watching above.

September 16th 2018 4:33 pm

There are no angels watching, only devils in the disguise of pictures with the number on the wrong side and the finished side flipped around. The foundation had to come down. Back at square one.

September 16th 2018 5:56 pm

The foundation has been rebuilt. Correctly, I hope. More men have been lost. I know this is dark, but one had a flask on his body that hasn’t been emptied. It is now emptied.

September 16th 2018 6:29 pm

The wheels have finally been installed. We are now mobile! Thank god. We can now trek over anything that gets in our way. It’s still pouring rain. I wish I could find another flask.

September 16th 2018 6:53 pm

Hooks and roll and top have all been fitted and examined over. We may have done something right for once. There’s hope that we will win this thing after all.

September 16th 2018 8:48 pm

We stumbled onto a cache of cold ones. We lost sight of our goal for a while. We are back on track marching forward.

September 16th 2018 9:17 pm

The last wooden peg has been hammered in, the last ***** has been ******* and locked. This is it, it’s finally over. We won!

September 16th 2018 9:18 pm

“It’s about time” was my only reward.

It’s ok, I came out stronger than what I was. I have scars I can tell my kids about. The blisters from using hand tools and the knowledge on how to decipher Chinese disguised as English. Useful talents I’m sure.

September 16th 2018 9:20 pm

Finishing off that cache.
Today I put together a cabinet island.
Ilion gray Jul 2018
I hope you're there the day the rain falls down from earth to sky
and I hope you remember
that night we watched the ocean dance with the wind
and I explained
How the  waves
make love to the leaves
while they're
still holding the trees hands
You told me how
You counted
Raindrops dripping
On the wood
behind the window
Outside
In
The Wild
Of your childhood-
I fell in love
with the rain, with
You that night.

When I was a boy
I thought that I
Held all things-

                                        I did not.


Now that I am a man
  I know
How at times instantaneous...
mountains can rise
between a woman
And a man
That eclipse the sun
Yet sets fire to the sand!
Jesse stillwater Jun 2018
a breath of fresh air
tickles still-waters
a lone swan's quill
let fall, takes flight
  carpe  diem ―
nigh weightless,
buoyantly skitters
across the water,
laissez faire;
barely dimpling
the shallow peace
on a lake in the wood

a wild feather's
mindless pirouettes
emanate from
the steeping silence
lapping  its
superficial  refection  

the true nature
of wildness,
unspoken freedom,
an untamed
wilder – ness
skims the skinny waters
seeking their own level;
leaving no trace
of  ever being  containable
 
like a breath of fresh air
reinvigorates
unconquerable souls
touching in the
conscious moment ―
a gentle passing breeze
arousing a rogue gust


Jesse Stillwater

01    June   2018
Thank you for stopping to read my soul scribbles :)
CK Baker Jan 2017
cedar planks line the dim lit hall
morning snow begins to fall
sepia print in a chip wood frame
embers spark from the franklin flame

rustling sounds from bunks below
records play in a tight alcove
bacon grills on the iron sheet
gloves are warmed by baseboard heat

bean bags tossed on colored ****
papka placed as a punching bag
red brick wall with mounted poles
windows filled with glacier bowls

whiskey jack on the southern rail
a frozen patch of wine and ale
pine cones fall in gathering white
brothers bathed in firelight

sleighs are on the table top
canyon road is at a stop
northern winds that bite the face
lines are up the gondola base

cornice clipped on gully goat
the rubber man appears to float
alpine depths are on the rise
peaking sun through parting skies

triple ropes and nordic luge
honored guests from baton rouge
gelande jumps on rainbow drive
nostalgia’s light and warm reply
Dolores Jul 2018
The feelings muffled by the pain,
Like a smoldering bonfire
Covered with damp leaves.

The dimming flame of affection,
Like the pieces of wood
Emitting sinuous smoke.

The infatuation hitting suddenly,
Like the bitter smell of carbon
Inspired with its blackness.

Quenched by
The heavy rain
Of experience.
Randy Oct 2018
Hiking here and there.
Strange things I've seen.
None more mysterious as
Stairs in the wood.
Have you seen yonder stair?
Such a sight, dare not climb.
Drawn to its strangeness.
Mystery abounds.
Here in the woods.
It should not be.
Straight from a house.
Or so it seems.
Some have seen the other side.
And lived to tell but a few.
Many never return.
Most have trouble.
With horrors unknown.
Broken, sick, and weakened.
Many stay away, some know why.
Tell the new ones this way go.
Time on top is not the same.
Farther it goes, we know not where.
Some are white, some are brown.
No matter the color, touches only the ground.
Makes no sense, these sights of sights.
Stairs in the wood.
Misplaced and strange.
Will ever be an understanding?
Of these flights, just one or two.
Most stay away, stories they lived.
Lost kids too they take.
No mercy these stairs give.
Hardest to see, perils not fake.
Don't assend, strange things do come.
Again, return unscathed only some.
Out of all the weird here in the wood.
None such as these, stairs in the wood.
Based on true stories.
am i ee Sep 2015
when the oh, SO smart phone
writes,

puppyhead barks,

wood! wood!
Ashley Chapman Sep 2017
Sandwiched in layers of liquid crystal display,
Encased in vats of plastic,
                          
                            we
Voyaging in data-spheres, plumes of digital play.

Mindless,
         In the soup of silicone,
                            
                            all
Myt­h-makers,
         Pouring over electro-spawned
         networks,
                            
                            fall
Workers,
          In the buzz of bits and bytes, of
          megabytes and terabytes,
                            
                            down
Everyone
          Far from the wood, the brine, the
          mud that caked us,
          In tighter and tighter
          digitised  projections,
                            
                            click!
‘Like me’,
‘Share me’,
‘Leave your comments.’

Messages smoothed out in polymers,
Beyond reproductions of ourselves,

                           enter:

Deeper, delving in the mire of dream-conscious,

Now a waking voice,
          Hardened, digitised, recorded in
          bubbles, in drives, in clouds:
                        
Numb numbers of numbers numb,
                          mirror.

          A platform slotted home:
The motherboard!
          To record the echo in the hollow
          of our Being.
Wrote this a while back. It was published in The Tunnel Magazine, which was great. Anyway, hope it gets a wider audience.
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