"woodchips" poems
There should be a genre of poetry called waste verse
tasteless and terse like the khaki pine needles that
litter the space underneath your porch.
a neglected place,
where the broken blue bottles and dew
marry in early morning ,
attended by a congregation of woodchips,
beers cans and
guinea pig ****
dancing easy with the morning breeze,
and carried like the currency of an early dreamer's reverie,
morning.
morning.
morning is gluing a teacup together knowing
that it will be broken tomorrow.
and day by day, the absence in form will grow
until that once teacup becomes nothing but empty space, with
its base designated in place of the back porch ash tray.
when i turned back one day, there was nothing left of its body
nothing left of it that i could see but paint dust, a couple of cuts
and some blood covered by a bandaid that doesn't stay on
because feet sweat a little too much.
morning is repetition for comfort
but breaking routine is
starting to feel more appealing
than keeping it,
because I know one morning I will wake alone,
with a rusted infrastructure and fractured backbone,
and have to look upon a screen with thousand texts that read,
"there are other fish in the sea"
well, **** you, maybe he was my sea.
i mean,
he is my sea,
maybe.
there is a genre of waste verse called poetry,
and the simple syllogism of it all
leaves me reeling.
but after i finish my cigarette over the khaki pine needles
beneath your porch and go inside,
"good morning", i say.
"good morning", he said.
i cannot remember what was so important just a few moments ago.
morning.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
**~-~-~
Promise after promise
Fell into my head
I carried them with me,
I took them to bed
So hopeful, I waited;
To hold your forever
Intentions negated
This jaded endeavor
Yet, lies soon took shape
And doubt would take hold
Your dormant coercion
Cementing the mold.
You never came through
You never came back
The woodchips, they faded
The bracelets, I lacked
Trapped under my instincts
My innocence, vanished
The moon was relinquished
My purity, famished
Young as I was
I’ll never forget
The impact you left me;
Your stark epithet. . .
You took something good,
You found something pure
My will cut in half
Rose white, and demure.
The root of my psyche
You’ve yet to discern,
Who plundered my childhood;
My chastity, burned.
Existence forgotten;
Defined from within
I’ll never evade you
You’re etched in my skin.
Scar after scar
Fell into my arm
Your ink swam my bloodstream
Your slander, your charm
I swindled the rabbit
And powdered my nose
Freefalling in choices
Defining your prose.
With tasty white pills,
A hand in my throat
A liver that’s grilled;
The bible I quote.
With no one on earth
To save me from me
I sampled the bottle
From under our tree.
I cannot begin
Nor pretend to describe
What happened to Maple,
Who am I inside?
The loneliest girl
In the entire world
The events I’d mistaken
The chastity; hurled
All that I know
And all that I think;
Is this monster within me
Was born in a blink
But who’d tune in now?
The opinions are set.
My mind is jay walking
The lines of regret.
The holes in my person
The doubt I can’t sever;
My husk of normalcy
Braving the weather. . .
For what you don’t know
Is what you can’t nurse
Assumptions you draw
Are making me worse.
Conclusions concocted
Your story, enhanced
My path interrupted
Dismissed by a glance.
So I’ll say goodbye;
There’s no seeds to sew
For this is my truth. . .
Confession bestowed.
Still treading his words
That flood to the brink;
Harassed, used, and left
In less than a BLINK.**
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
I am from too long grass
that left muted green stains on my knees
From rock gardens overrun with punny yellow snapdragons
which delivered into my care all sorts of fascinating creepy crawlers
I'm from ash grey two by fours
which were all together fun to climb on
but gave nasty splinter when they were mad
I'm from the woodchips and sand
that provided me an elaborate landscape
in which to house my boundless imagination
I'm from the tail of sulfur smoke
that burned white hot through the crisp October Sky
and propelled my rocket to high heaven
or so it seemed to my eger eyes
I am from Thursdays
from green and red rhubarb leaves
and dirt under every fingernail
I'm from hurling half-rotten tomatoes
at the fence accross the ally
and running haphazardly from angry neighbors
I'm from lasagna and jell-o
candels on Christmas eve
and the squirt bottle of water
my only defense against ants
I am from obscure old families
who came over like so many others
and played the ***** in the secret choir loft above the church
I'm from woodwinds and piano strings
and never a silent moment
From reading aloud and reading alone
and from those who did the reading
I'm from the future and the present and the past of a million different stories
And I've always been headed towards
Where I'm from.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.
It’s the way that trying something new doesn’t feel like a monster with you.
It's letting the world have me, arms open, falling. Without censorship.
It’s breathing into the world, past the artificial growth of moist woodchips,
And instead, to toppling trees and roaring forest fires that are sometimes considered overdue.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip.
Sometimes things have to die to be made anew. Like an eclipse.
That’s how it feels with you.
So new that I’m rhyming in my poetry. Like a horror story. . . without censorship.
Happiness is the touch of my fingertip on your bowed-out lip
Or a framed portrait of a happy ending, but drawn only in baby blue.
I’m holding the feeling on my chest and watching you cradle it like a silk slip
Or a baby birds nest. You might drop it
And if you did, I wouldn’t blame you.
That’s what unconditional feels like. Without censorship.
Mine turned yours, then turned sour, with every hour, spent split
And that empty void, of a screen, in between, everything you're deaf to.
The world gives me back, curled up and broken bit by bit.
Happiness is the touch of your fingertip on my bowed-out lip.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:55 AM UTC
Perhaps it’s the chemicals
In the mulch
Or the heat of the sun
Or that it’s Friday
But I want to grip monkey bars,
Just once
Hovering over
freshly baked plastic
and burn my ***
Or scream that I’m it and
slap some chubby bully kid-
run like the cool wind
Thank gosh I am quick.
Impress Kylie with my
Kickball Kick
Or cry on the swings-
the playground’s gallows,
When I learn she is moving
come the fall.
Leaves roll in,
dragged in waves across pavement
Queens of the universe
speed by
late for classes in some far off world where there is no recess
But my time
is kept
by bright bells
The clanging of metal,
distant shrieks,
Tall red beams and
lines of dumb ducklings.
It begins with a voice
And ends with a sliding slam of
a Silver Chrysler door
It is sustained by light thunder
Of feet pounding woodchips
Leaving dust in the seams of jeans
My mother bought me at Kohl’s last week.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
An endless cycle spins around
You dangle your legs off the merry-go-round.
Look down, the woodchips blur past;
Until it slows, your only hope
Is to hang on for dear life,
Grasp the metal pole so clear
While foliage and faces blend
Until the world has narrowed, bit by bit
To the merry-go-round you are seated upon.
Feb 17, 2010
Feb 17, 2010 at 1:27 PM UTC
Tripping up the stairs,
looking out the window
smelling barley, corn and rye.
Trees make patterns
interchanging with birds in the sky.
Sun beats down upon your head
sit, counting ants,
with a stick, poke and ****
throw rocks in the pool.
Boulders scream to be jumped off of
into water of shiny cyan blue.
The smell of summer in the air,
Trapped ***** caught fish
All is still and calm.
It's these simple thing
that keep us apart
my trust in you
guides me through the dark
When I look ahead,
all I see is reflection.
Walls of mirrors
infinite to perfection
It's out of reach,
this dream of mine
over the edge of
i
n
s
a
n
i
t
y
Trees make patterns
against the backdrop of the sky.
Throwing shadows,
casting hiding spots
for those who wish not be seen.
Turning invisible any
seeking shelter.
Screening out sunrays,
dappling lukewarm oases
over woodchips and detritus
like pancake syrup.
Let’s play camouflage in the forest.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
Eight years old beaten and bruised,
He fled from the house, lost and confused,
Running just running without a thought where,
A child seeking refuge in frigid night air,
He ran for a year, or perhaps just an hour,
Till he ran out his anger, and with it his power,
Casting about him alone in the dark,
He found himself trembling in a dead silent park,
A low haunting hoot cut through the night,
The poor lonely boy shivered in fright,
Cold and exhausted, alarmed by the sound,
He hurried along to a nearby playground,
Clearing the woodchips he lay down below,
A bed in cold dirt and a mind full of woe,
He lay there for ages, unable to sleep,
Then it started to rain and he started to weep,
Earth turned to mud, thunder was crashing,
And all through his shelter water was splashing,
The boy was soon soaked, sodden and drenched,
Sobbing curled in a ball, all bravery quenched,
He cursed his mad mother, he cursed the cold rain,
He cursed his bad life, he cursed all his pain,
The night ate his words and he started to pray,
For the sweetness of sleep to bring him the day,
He lay there for ages, wet to the bone,
The soft dirt beneath him colder than stone,
Stiff beyond movement he merely drew breath,
So done and defeated he wished only death,
And then he awoke, the black sky tinged grey,
Gave a cry of relief at the sight of the day,
He rose slow to his feet and shook off the night,
Stood numb in the chill air and waited for light,
Birds were soon singing to greet the fresh dawn,
He joined them with relish, his misery gone,
A golden glow crested, the day had begun,
He fell to his knees in the face of the sun.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
Whack! Whack!
His mother’s heels click down
On to the hard wood floor
He claims to be Cinderella
His father looks down
And his first emotion is fear
For his young son’s life
It won’t be easy
He bends down
Picks him up and holds him tightly
“My beautiful son,
Be back before midnight”
Whack! Whack!
His bat strikes the baseball
For his first home run in Little League
His heart was never in it
But his father encouraged him
To try new things
And his mother is his biggest fan
He starts to notice
How tight baseball shorts are
They’re not very comfortable
Whack! Whack!
Towels leave bruises in the locker room
He laughs at his teammates
Running from his quick wrist
And wet towel
He’s the starting quarterback
And they just won states
He was voted
Homecoming king
Whack! Whack!
His heart duels against his ribs
The first time he kisses another boy
It’s nothing like the girls
There’s a new rush in his blood
His mind is in space
And his stomach in his throat
Whack! Whack!
He brings the axe down hard
Sunburnt metal splitting fibers
Sending woodchips everywhere
His father making him learn
The lesson that only hard work can teach
Nothing worth having comes easy
Whack! Whack!
The hammer comes down on the nail
As he finishes his daughter’s swing set
He watches through the window
As his husband
Hands her the first slice
Of her birthday cake
She just turned five
A number you didn’t get to see
They say when you die
Your life flashes before your eyes
They don’t say
It’s always your past
Whack! Whack!
His mother’s heels click down
On the hard wood floor
He claims to be Cinderella
His father looks down
And his first emotion is fear…
Whack! Whack!
His fists clench
Whack! Whack!
They come raining down
Whack! Whack!
He can’t seem to get away
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man.
Whack! Whack!
Why can’t you be a man!
Why can’t you!?
You were his father!
And you
Were his mother!
You broke a child
When you were supposed
To build him up
So now the world
Had to bury his dreams in pieces
Shattered like glass slippers
You were afraid of him
While we
Would have loved him
His name was Zachary.
Zachary Dutro-Boggess.
I wrote your name
Onto a piece of paper
And folded it into a daisy
Because something beautiful
Had to come out of your story
Your birthday curled down
Over one of the petals
3 days before the day you died
You turned 4 years old
I wonder what you wished for
When you blew out your candles
I wonder what you wished for
When you first met God
Way too young
And he showed you
What love really was
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 4:31 PM UTC
There are small moments in my life
where the waking world
slows to a dialogue.
Asking to let the river come.
To wash away the sawdust
from woodchips
set to a fine puree
in the blending of my heart
sounding off midst thunderstorm
midst sun shower
midst silence
midst hunger pang
midst every hungry lover and everything in between.
A little mental friction
for a lot of features
content to become words.
Sounds that become symbols
becoming a box.
Express delivery
intending to deliver me.
Here, here, it’s here finally.
Talking to flowers
I feel guilty for having starved;
"Wake up little ones,
the bees thank you for breakfast
their queen sending her regards in all in an instant.
Heralding her approach with a question,
"If ever body of water is the same then how come we give them different names?"
My insides swell as the pitcher empties
a cascade of the liquid life force each of our bodies are known to contain.
Despite all the knowing,
despite the constituents of our anatomy being hardly a mystery
I still find myself capable of pondering a stranger's.
Even stranger to think of any beauty before me
as a complex wave function.
trinkling into my sight on waves of light
like water over hungry flora hoping to make something of those same waves.
She's here
the queen's words shining in every droplet
and they say,
"given enough time stars become people, becoming you,
becoming a cog in the clockwork that becomes the reason
we thrive."
Reminding me, though the light may play tricks with my sense,
anything anybody else ever has told me about beauty has been a lie.
This is THE soul reason to even be bothered to write this dialogue down.
So I may lie to you.
An open book so you may be certain.
Have you ever been so certain of something?
It seems all that could ever be true is the royal you.
Sliding perspective's scale over a notch
you become the queen's resolution,
laboring to unify a single mind
and the world becomes you
watering flowers out of guilt.
Transforming what you know to be most real,
washing over you
like seredipity on a day
where everything has gone wrong,
into right
into a dialogue
into you
into everything
and back.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
It’s the sound of old, pop-punk blaring through my car speakers at two in the morning.
It’s the way my breath becomes visible late at night.
It’s the sound of our shoes on the woodchips in the park.
It’s the smell of grape Swisher Sweets in our hair and the taste of ****** tobacco on our tongues.
It’s the oversized hoodies.
It’s the neon beanies.
It’s the energy drinks.
It’s the last minute bonfires.
It’s the deep talks on the swings.
It’s the way your hand felt in mine.
It’s the way you felt in my arms.
It’s the sound of our laughter, dripping with the inevitability of the future.
It’s the feeling of growing up.
It’s the feeling of not wanting to grow up.
It’s the changing leaves.
It’s the morning frost.
It’s the end of summer.
It’s the start of tomorrow.
It’s over.
-trj
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
there was a time when tripping on asphalt
rewarded you a kiss to the broken skin,
a bandaid & a warm hug. the air
often smelled like rain & cut grass
after lunch in the cafeteria
and i always wore
a helmet and knee pads when
i went biking with dad. i felt funny
up until the moment i’d
squeezed my brake too hard
and fallen off my bike.
a thrilling game tag in the front yard under
orange skies of august was
soon quenched by a cold sip of caprisun.
dad sat on a lawn chair
grilling only what could be hot dogs,
meat patties, and bell peppers that i told him i
never really liked eating.
indigo blue only meant one thing:
a long day in the pool
clad in our arm floaties and
goggles and diving into the blue
like we would be doing this
forever & ever.
there was a time when i’d sit
on the pavement
wearing my ballerina sneakers,
watching how kids looked like ants
as they climbed onto the playground,
throwing woodchips at one another.
eating a bucketload of candy
was easier than eating dinner.
when the shadows grew at night
i’d leave the light on for too long
but watching superheroes
over a tub of ice cream was just the cure.
we’d build pillow forts &
take naps in them.
there was a time when the colors
were clear & bright, when movies
made everything feel like magic
and mom’s face was wrinkleless
and dad could stand in the garden for hours
and my brother was busy studying
and i only knew
summer & pillow forts
Apr 1, 2025
Apr 1, 2025 at 7:32 PM UTC
Sitting alone on the woodchips
Steel and planks
Shelter from the rain, receiving no thanks
A roofed box
Where lovers kissed
The lonely reminisced
Promises made
Years wished away
Shelter from the rain
Marks and names
Of love and hate
Inscribed on walls
Hearts and initials
Disfigured by the same individuals
Who professed love under its roof
If it could talk, it would speak such truths
Hearts broken in summer haze
Shelter, of sorrow
Solace at night to the solemn
A meeting place
Once unused, but for trysts and trifles
Now that the sun returns so does the warmth
That little park shelter
No longer filled with the sadness of those who dwelt there last
And now it is filled with child's
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 1:28 PM UTC