"woodpecker" poems
I remember
when you were young and wide eyed
excited at the possibility of the world
and afraid because it was all so big and you,
you were the smallest creature in a forest full of monsters
still, you had big dreams and wanted
so badly to write something
so unique and profound
something to make people understand you
understand themselves
see that we are all one
know that we all bleed the same
slippery shades of water color
even if the canvas is is different
Fear is an ugly thing and overshadows
and overwhelms, *******
the life out of life
and the colors out of the rainbow that
is supposed to shine overhead and keep
the bad the things at bay
it crawls into bed with you at night and
keeps you awake, drilling
everything that is wrong
straight through your skull and
into your soul like a
woodpecker, never ceasing
never letting you rest
there is so much that is so hard
to comprehend and make sense of
and it is so much easier to let the fear
take hold of you, wrap it's fingers
tightly around your neck
a noose growing ever tighter, strangling
while you struggle until
you have no voice left to speak
It left you choking
out fragments
and run-on sentences into a journal
that no one would ever see
that still makes me burn when
I flip through those pages reliving
the story of my life that you wrote
all those years ago
I remember
when you thought that no one could see you,
so you lived your life like a child
jumping up to see over the counter,
making make-shift ladders out of whatever
you could find so that you could grasp
everything that always seemed so far above your reach,
losing yourself so easily
in a sea of people
because they were so big
and you were
nothing
You words are a time capsule
that bring me back to a place when
when we stared at each other in the mirror
and curled our tiny fingers into a fist
wanting to smash the glass
because
we were ugly
But my words are a time machine,
my gift to you from the future
You are small still,
but the world is not as big as it used to be
and nothing ever comes easy
but your dreams are coming true,
you did not give up despite
believing so often that you would fail and
you are making a difference
I am afraid
because
everyone is afraid, but
I stand in front of the mirror
young and wide-eyed,
excited about the possibility of the world
and when I look at you now, I know
that we are learning to love each other
finally.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
See this hollow trunk here,
It houses a parrot family now,
The elder tree let itself be pecked,
A woodpecker carved a home inside,
Then parrots came to the hollow,
It protects their children a lot,
Seldom do they thank God.
The woodpecker seeks the credit not.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 3:06 AM UTC
a twig snaps beneath my shoe,
the sudden sound shattering the calm atmosphere.
sunlight dapples over my skin,
rippling across my clothes,
pooling in my cupped hands
as if i were holding it.
delicate leaves rustle overhead,
my attention to the emerald glow above only broken
by the hum of a bumblebee
buzzing its way to yet another flower.
trees, seemingly protective,
surround me,
their trunks a shelter for such a variety of creatures.
sweet birdsong echoes above.
a woodpecker taps a home somewhere to my left.
a chipmunk skitters across my path
and into the still ferns,
causing them to shudder.
the scent of soil, of leaves, of nature, floods me.
i wonder about the world,
about the mountains and about the sea.
about my friends, my family,
about strangers with lives
just as complex and unknowing as my own.
i ponder myself, my life,
where will i go?
what will i do?
will it all be worth it?
-l.s.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
hawk greets
trees bare
empty paths
water flowing
goose ***** into river
heron takes flight
red headed woodpecker
flits from tree to tree
a happy morning sight
footsteps crunching dry leaves
deer dash off in a rush
white tails high
first morning of the new third month
this in year of the Fire Monkey....
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
So there’s this woodpecker
He pecks all day
Peck Peck Peck
Peck Peck Peck
Pecks his life away
Ever seen him stop and wonder?
At the glories of the world and beyond?
Did you ever see?
Him staring at a tree
And thinking about Joyce Kilmer?
Nope, can’t recall
Any such incident
So why should I stop
And smell the flowers I don’t see
Why should I write a poem
As beautiful as a tree
When no one else gives a ****
I should be hanging around friends
Rolling joints with the money for my rent
I should be the eternal narcissist
Like the one who sits above
But we’ll come to him later
Right now what I wanna know
Is what gives me the right to control
Everything I see
And everything I don’t
Coz frankly speaking
There’s a lot I don’t know
What gives me the right
To play with someone’s life
And blame it on ignorance?
I thought someone could tell me
Someone could answer
The stupidest question in the world
But if I ask someone
Why they’re doing something
They all say the same thing
Coz everyone else is.
Good.
So now we’ve got that cleared.
I’m doing what I’m doing
Because everyone else is doing what they’re doing
And everyone else is doing what they’re doing
Because I’m doing what I’m doing
To sum it up,
None of us know what any of us is doing
Or why they’re doing it.
Looks like we evolved backwards.
At least the apes knew what they were doing.
Sleep. Eat. **** Have *** Sleep.
That simple collection of words got what the people
Who call themselves the brainiest guys in the world didn’t:
Logic.
And I’ll tell you why they didn’t get it
Because they were the birdbrains
Who came up with the idea of a nuclear bomb
Which has really set the bar for human stupidity
No one can surpass that.
Because the ‘logic’ behind the nuclear bomb is
“You give me what I want
Or I’ll blow up your country”
People in the highest position of their respective countries
Spent money exceeding ten times the number of their population
On such nuclear bombs.
Which, in fact, they’ll never use.
True story.
Tell you the truth, I’d rather be a woodpecker.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
The Woodpecker sings,
In a tune we don't follow.
Pecking endlessly,
Like there is no tomorrow.
Words drawn from the heart,
Lost in the long beak.
With piercing eyes,
A little attention it seeks.
Pauses a second to tell us,
The story of his mother's pain.
Forgets not the cragged branch,
Chisels hard, the Woodpecker again.
Oblivious about the emotions it brings,
Endlessly the Woodpecker sings.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
Sugar maple’s immature leaves bounce lively on the breeze
Robins frolic through dandelions and freshly cut grass
Brilliant brightness peeks through clouds warming my face
Families of rabbits skip through budding yellow tulips
Lavender lilacs dance with dogwood blossoms tickling my nose
Baby woodpecker taps at the sycamore branch
Fat bumblebees buzz from cherry bloom to zinnia bloom
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
Rhythmic tympani of woodland symphony,
His search for lunch in Quercus branch
Ads music to a forest glade.
Dawn's chorus would the poorer be
Without his insistent cacophony
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 2:21 AM UTC
Neither Nightingale or Crow
Neither Whippoorwill or Sparrow
Perched on phone lines, never trees
Still those birds have the right to sing.
Target of bad boys’ B B Guns
Splashed with water canons
They fly til they can fly no more
And tremble in the shadows.
Their feathers have a bit of shine
When sunbeams fall just right
But all too often that just makes
Them that much easier to find
And targets them for hatred rocks
Thrown by those who only
Recognize a Woodpecker
And a Robin Red Breast.
Too bad their music goes unheard
Most often it is beautiful
If they could sing with the other birds
The music would become symphonic.
ljm
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
*The woodpecker wouldn't reveal,
the secret kept closer to her chest,
but the telegraphic messages
meant nothing else I gather it thus:
"Don't you give up midway
slog, till you are fully satisfied,
that you've reached there
where, what you are searching is found"
In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus,
goes on pecking making,
the noise louder and louder,
it's now more and more clear-
that in standards she'd never compromise,
never would she lower her esteem
even if her sense of urgency sometimes
creates some discordant notes
that she accepts as her fault
and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.*
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
I wonder if the trees could talk
Would they tell about the breeze?
Would they talk about the sunshine?
Or of their many different leaves?
Would they talk about that woodpecker
That's roosted on their limb?
Or maybe devise a brilliant plan
To rid themselves of him
Would they tell us of their thirst?
And celebrate the rain
Would they talk about their fear of fire?
And how they hate the flame
Would they talk about the winter?
How it robs them of their shields
As the winter breeze scatter their leaves
Across the barren fields
Would they talk about the summer heat?
And the sacrifices they've made
As they hold their limbs high and stong
To cast our needed shade
Would they talk about their Creator,
Who rules from Heaven above
And profess undying gratitude
And their never ending love?
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
The bleating of the newborn lambs
As they prance about the fields
Yellow of the rapeseed
Prepare for summers yield
Birds twitter on every bough
While making up their nests
Tapping of the woodpecker
Pointed beak and coloured crest
Gone the snowdrops and daffodils
Now bluebells carpet the floor
Wild garlic with its pungent smell
You may dislike or adore
Seasons change so quickly
As time passes on its way
No beauty can compare
To nature day by day
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Within a veil of light rain
a redheaded woodpecker
percussively rap drills
his evening dinner.
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 6:39 PM UTC
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
3.3k
The fast tempo of hummingbirds in flower buds
Loud repetition of woodpecker thuds
Buzzing hum from hardworking bees
While robins sing in synchronized keys
All accompanied by the swishing of leaves in the trees
There is no better symphony
Than that of nature working in harmony
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
for Robin
On that frosted January day,
you and I hiked north
along the Mississippi shore
on a trail marked well before us.
Footfall tapestries etched in snow
wove tales of assiduous commerce
of hosts of fur-cloaked cousins:
the playful step-slide gambit of an otter -
rabbit paw tracks by the score.
A bald eagle soared above singing ripples
in quest of a mid-day meal.
The distant staccato cadence
of a pileated woodpecker
echoed off the limestone bluffs
on that January afternoon.
Dusk-light washed the western sky
in pastel gold and crimson hues.
A coal barge heading south
thundered against the floes,
scattering ice across the channel,
then vanished beyond the bend.
And we like bargemen at their tillers,
set our southward course
retracing footprints in the snow -
back to the world of clocks and enterprise.
January, 2011
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
I know it's only been a short time since the first moment I saw you but when I did, I knew
I have watched your mouth carve wisdom into trees, your beak burying its secrets into their wood
It is the most graceful destruction I have ever witnessed
There is music in your rhythm; you are a song I could play on repeat
No hummingbird can create what symphonies your unknown language does
If we spoke the same one I would tell you how much I want to love you
I do, like sand loves kisses from waves and how flowers grow every time the sun greets them
I didn't know how to tell you this
So I took the only opportunity I had available
I decided to risk it all for the chance to be yours
I have hopped from the highest branch on to your back and I am along for the ride, the ups and downs of romance, how it can take you to new heights once impossible to reach
You have given me wings I never thought I could have
While some have mistaken my attempts with bad intention, you are the only one who truly needs to understand
The only struggle here is the hoping that you will feel the same,
That you will see more than rodent in me
Maybe you could realize I am more than just digging holes and rascality
I would fly to the moon just to prove myself to you
Together we could be one for the books, crossing boundaries not yet written in history
I hope you don't take me as too forward
But I didn't want to risk not knowing if we could ever be
I took a leap of faith-
Thank you for catching me.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 5:43 PM UTC
Trill of beak into birch. Dawn spooks
the graveyard into silence. A heart
hardens at God’s withered finger reaching
but not reached for. I trim the hedges
and the whir of weed-eater disturbs
a nest of yellow jackets into tornado,
dust devil, of translucent wings and sting.
I walk among the dead three times a week.
I am learning their language. They relearn
the mundanity of white noise above
and quietly forget, quietly forgive.
This hill is the crest on a wave of coffins,
each one a boat through the world below.
Submerged in a bloodshot morning
I listen to a woodpecker in its throes
of building a home out of the depths of bark.
In the chill, the soft fog rolling, it pecks
and it knocks. The doors to these lives
long closed, I hush. I do not believe God
will visit these grounds to reclaim his clay:
I plant flowers in it between the plots,
each name engraved of marble a blank stare.
The flash of red flushes from budding branches
and I return to work. No one answers.
I relearn the dead’s language, their silence,
relearn every day how to repair stillness.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
the wicked queen of morning
greets you with
clutching shore
little pebbles in the stream
rob red rubies
from dead fish bellies
on a rock
there are some feathers
a broken beak
crunched bones
your attention is cut
with the dead kiss
of a woodpecker
you are bound
to relive the death
of thousands of forests
bound to kiss
the stream’s mojo
laughter
listen—
the stream is still asleep
its floor is falling through
the weight of its slumber
nothing can contain it
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
a lone woodpecker
aerating the garden, no!
stealing the workers
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:45 PM UTC
Just Like A Woman
You focus on the act,
The ridiculous derring-do,
Laughing at me
Cause I chased away
In my rumpled ******
The woodpecker that convulsed
Our house at 5:00 AM,
With a decorative pillow.
Focus on the results, says the
Results-oriented man.
Has Woody ever returned?
No and his fate is still unknown,
He may fly forever neath our trees,
But now he knows to stay away
From me and the risk of my pillowy pillory!
P.S. I may (or may not)
Choose to disclose
That upon my return
The house still shook,
From someone's uproarious, convulsed
Laughing at a city boys country heroics.
10:30am
June29 2013
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
been pecking the pole since the forties
we think,
how delightful.
yet it must be changed and moved
in case it falls down, what would we
do then? he asked.
i decided not to think about that, and
rejoice in the creosote
of the new thing.
may be the woodpecker will
too?
sbm.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
There's a woodpecker
in my chest
tapping on my ribs
tapping on my breast
tapping on my feelings
even when I rest
There's a woodpecker
in my lungs
smothered by the tar
muted and unsung
choking on black shame
swallowed by my tongue
There's a woodpecker
behind my eyes
beating its blue wings
chained under the lies
weeping for passion
under my disguise
I want to set you free,
woodpecker
from the cage inside
my chest
but this conformity,
woodpecker,
forces you to hide
like all the rest
I would let you out if I could.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
Suddenly it stops raining:
The woodpecker doesn’t mind,
he keeps on hammering lofts –
he’s kind of loopy. That’s his nature.
And that’s his beauty.
The poet doesn’t stop hammering
on his keyboard, always looking for
meaning, nonsense and love-at-first-write.
He’s kind of loopy too.
Shall we call him paperpecker?
That’s his nature. And that’s his beauty.
And the paper starts revealing all kind of things:
Bulls in china shops, bilingual pixies,
and look! – on the left a cancerous person
even finds lucky clover –
1up! if this were a video-game,
but life has more than three dimensions.
Hmmm… Let’s put some tea-lights
and drift-bottles into puddles.
Someone definitely will smile and reply.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC