"woodpeckers" poems
Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.
The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.
The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.
As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.
Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
The silent whisperings of the wind
The Enigmatic dances of the trees
They are welcoming my presence
After a long time I am home…
Woodpeckers are laughing with me
Warblers are making a fuss
A white moth came to greet me
After a long time I am home…
This place is God’s own
In the silence I can feel the soul
The music in the air is prayer
For making me alive and be here
On to the bed of fallen leafs
I want to rest my aching beliefs
Harsh journey I have been through
A beautiful world its suppose to
The Lianas are the playing ground
Where the childhood dreams rebound
The faint memories comes alive
After a long time I am home…
I know I am not alone
She is there if I ever get blown
Into the comforting lap of her
After a long time I am home…
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
The glistening sun sets,
leaving a silhouette of hanging trees,
a decoration on pink faded walls.
Humming cicadas and chirping crickets,
play in a symphony of the night.
Bike rides and park games in darkness,
softball games in the bright field lights.
Each crack of the ball and bat create a chaos of teammate screams.
Lost every game, but won each time.
A refreshing water runs on slippery rocks,
swimming among fish and ducks,
Soaking bodies run home,
Baggy shirts, gym shorts,
Adults and children mix in a weekly party,
Beer bottle caps and soda cans clink to the ground.
Love and laughter surrounds a crackling open fire,
Warming bodies and hearts.
Little feet race to where the sidewalk ends,
the grass grows thick.
It is here where teams are picked and knees are scarred.
12am games are played,
cans are kicked, ghosts roam graveyards, and flags are captured.
Waiting to go home, hours and hours of waiting
Hours of talking of all different ages,
Country music and guitar melodies play throughout the street,
a lullaby of our childhood.
Television reruns at 2am entertain tired minds,
Couch and floor beds of blanket forts,
Carried up to bed to sleep in comfort at 4am, the chirping birds, already wishing a good morning to most, but goodnight to this home.
The raccoons rattle and the woodpeckers poke in a serenade to sleep,
In a neighborhood of blaring nights and silent mornings.
Each week, the time flew by.
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
Walking step by step,
my mount makes his way through the deep green forest.
Mayapple leaves and redbud trees, visible.
Slowly making our way down the trail
Meandering here and there,
Watching the deer munching young spring leaves,
Staring at us as we stare at them.
Its easy in the saddle,
No stress, no calls, no incessant interruptions.
You can take in nature, rest your mind.
Relax in the saddle, hang your feet out of the stirrups,
Pat your equine friend on the shoulder,
and just be.
He will flick an ear, or swish his tail, sidestep,
or shy away from some unusual object once in awhile.
But mainly, just easing down the trail,
listening to the babble of the nearby brook,
watching the sunlight filter through the leaves.
Squirrels and red-headed woodpeckers
chattering angrily at our passing.
I don't know that there is anything quite so peaceful.
Just moseying like an old cowhand.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 3:44 PM UTC
She has a pretty house
With a mansard roof
Punctured with dormer windows
And guests climb
Up the steps
Like rapping woodpeckers
Weighted down
With their baggage.
She opens her door
And they file in
Sometimes weary
From their journey
Sometimes angry
From their travails.
Sometimes complaining
Sometimes malicious
Sometimes happy.
She entertains them anyway
Souls in the night
They are all searching for something
Das Ding
Some are armed with Bruntons
So they might navigate a path
In the dark
But the stars know where
You are
Better to be still
So they can shine their light on you.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
I’m trying to recall a poem or a prayer that I recited
while walking through the woods of my hometown.
It occurs to me that I’ll never get it back.
I suppose such things are meant to be transient,
spoken out loud and left to drift,
But I am determined to capture some of it.
So. Here in the woods
Branches droop heavy and black with berries.
I pluck to gather them and make of my hands
two cups from which saltwater spills.
I see a vision of the old and the new,
the here to come and the hereafter,
overlaid on the thick pine stumps.
That which has passed is not yet gone.
Like trees, we grow on the rotten bones of giants.
There is no king of the once and future,
Nay, nor queen. Only the rough tumult
of life that continues, and abates, and continues.
Here on the holly branch the spines sharpen.
The red berries have not ripened from black.
On the thorns I see blackberries still **** and red,
not yet sweet with concentrated sunshine.
I see the skulls of snag trees, the knothole eye sockets
where woodpeckers find their mealy dinners
and feast on the beetles and worms –
which shall in their turn one day feast on me.
So it goes, as it should be, as it will.
My vision shows oak giants long passed,
toppled and timbered an age before my time.
A thousand years hence they shall rise again.
Fear not; the axes of men wreak havoc,
but may only interrupt the flow, not halt it.
Again I stoop to pluck the fruit
And form two cups of my hands
From which juice flows like water.
The ocean licks the sweat from my skin
And I see a vision of the old woods,
the old ways, the elder magick
That will grow from seed tomorrow.
Hew my limbs in history, bury them in timber.
Let the barrow-mounds be a nursery
Where the thornbush harvest grows.
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
In your bleeding cross-section I count
three centuries of wooden wisdom
since that mother cone dropped
on soil no one owned.
Black bears scratched backs
against your young bark. Ohlone
passed peacefully on their path
to the waters of La Honda Creek.
In my lifetime you groaned.
Your bark filled with beetles.
Woodpeckers drilled, feasted.
Needles, whole limbs,
you shed your clothes,
stood naked. I cut your flesh.
You walloped the earth, creating a trench
two hundred feet long where you lie.
As you fell in your fury
you destroyed my tomatoes,
smashed the daffodils,
snapped a dogwood.
Better you crush my garden than my house
which did not exist nor any of this town
when you first advanced one tender green.
I want to believe the sawtooth less cruel
than another winter of storms.
All good fathers must fall.
Your children surround you,
waving, blocking the light.
My children count rings,
hands sticky with sap.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 4:15 PM UTC
My Beloved,
Let's meet in meadows of yellow shiny buttercups,
dandelions,daises,lilacs and coloured butterflies,
Let's run till dusk in threaded fields of hundred golden wheats,
lay down under the little lantern light of million fire flies.
Let's hold hands and walk in parks,sit on a wooden bench,
and make a rainbow wish upon the destined shooting stars,
Let's dance cheek to cheek,bathe naked beneath water falls,
and watch enchanting faries use their magic glittered wands,
As feathered silk white swans pirhouette in sparkling streams,
as we get lost in secret casting spells of everlasting melodies.
Let's wake up to the music of a golden harped string fire ball,
warming our blue skies ,with every early rooster's dawn.
Lets run to open fields,to the shade of old mulberry trees,
Make a picnic on a carpet made of crispy bronzing leaves,
share a velvet peach,and eat pulped ripe strawberries,
taste red satin cherries, as woodpeckers drum their beats.
Let's write the sweetest verse and many loving words,
listen to the sound of waltzing crickets and chirping little birds.
and when the sun go sleeping,the crescent moon starts peeping,
in the ebony black sky,Its then we realise there are billion miles
of distance between the 'You and 'i',It is there I find your heart,
as your heart searches for mine,in the place of never ending time.
It is our special place,where whispered thoughts join in one space,
where my blood pumps your ardent name, deeply in my veins.
It is the cherished place, where we travel, in many many ways,
It is the place we live and love as one,yet not seeing face to face.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 4:34 AM UTC
If, in the golden Bengal,
At the crack of dawn,
The rainbow from beyond the skies
Gently alights upon the wings of a butterfly,
Smiling all the while
Then what shall befall
As the day softly wanes,
In the twilight beneath the veiling horizon,
When evening tenderly embraces the earth?
Wandering all day through the villages of Bengal,
Across the vast wetlands, fields of rice,
From door to door, along the wild paths,
Through shaded groves and verdant forests
Amidst the gaps of flaming Krishnachura trees,
On that very path,
The midday red fairy peeks through with a playful glance.
The dark Mathura clouds paint the sky,
As the graceful Giriya ducks spread their wings,
The vermilion-touched woodpeckers tap away
While the sunbirds sing their melodies,
By the edge of the waterlily lake, beneath the banyan tree,
A contented farmer's flute releases the joy within every heart.
And none other than the blue fairy
Leaps out of the monsoon pond,
Only to descend into the courtyard
Woven by Bangla Mother's enchanting, tender touch.
So too shall the golden sun descend at twilight,
With a gentle smile amidst the evening's enchantment.
At the close of day, it will offer to the moon in pure bliss
Its crimson garland of red water lilies!
Aug 22, 2024
Aug 22, 2024 at 12:10 AM UTC
willows weep at the doorstep of a ravine
back home, where I grew up,
a long time ago in Michigan
Cardinals and Redheaded Woodpeckers commonplace
Cherry trees
Mulberries
my favorite grew ripe and sweet,
better than cherries, then.
As the valley creeps away in my memory
the magenta berries remain
in my head.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Why did Noah take nits?
Let's pull this ark to bits,
God let Noah take two nits,
Plus two mosquitoes, each proboscis,
Gave humans encephalitis,
What is worse than this?
Why they bring malaria, blip!
What is worse than this?
As well as Noah's two nits,
God let Noah take two rats,
With two fleas on board, that's that,
So Noah brought bubonic plague,
While lovely unicorns floated away,
Then on all those wooden decks,
Noah took two woodpeckers, by heck,
So that was the end of Noah's Ark,
Lucky he wasn't eaten by sharks,
So, why God, did you plan all this, mate?
I know Noah was human to make mistakes,
Taking rats, fleas, mossies, and nits, great!
Was taking two nits more than fate?
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 9:53 PM UTC
toasted snippets of crispy information
lie on white plates rapidly cooling
while lips dry into deserts
of steel-toe apathy
stale bread waits, uneaten
growing fuzzy colonies of mold
that scream in delight at your
dipper-dapper disinterest
breadcrumbs blaze new trails through
forests of great-grandfather clocks,
looming ominously as they sing
tick-tock with woodpeckers where
a manic imp bakes loaves for
several forevers in an attempt
to escape its inevitable
decomposition
grasping at salvation and
fumbling for words that slip
from buttered fingertips
better luck next time
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Rapid melodies
Repetitive drum rolls
Progress being made
Listen
Do you hear the Woodpeckers song?
Teaching balance through
Repetition in pecks
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
I'm tired of this fake reality.
This non existent world I call home.
This fantasy where whales fly with the wind while woodpeckers swim with the waves.
A place that Impossible scenarios call home.
Exhaustion takes me there every night.
I've studied this place and I know how it works now.
It's not a home for impossible scenarios but a place for false hope.
It takes your memories and creates fantasies that'll never turn into actualities.
I've noticed this so I've stop trying to go there.
These nightmarish places disguised as fascinating fantasies are no interest to me anymore.
I'm leaving this hellish place behind but I'm not going to leave without something.
I'm not going to let my nightmares runaway with years of my dreams.
I will drag something good out of this situation because my teacher told me to write a celebration.
When in reality
For me at least
That is almost unachievable.
Key word almost
All I have ever wrote is depressing poems crafted by a beautiful mind using sinful words.
So I ask myself:
How is this possible?
How does one take a hellish situation and find hope?
How does one go outside their comfort zone?
What am I going to do?
I've tried before.
It only stuck me in second place at my freshmen year slam which ***** because I finally know I'm much more then some ******* second place at a freshmen year slam.
I just wish I knew that early.
So I wouldn't have to have these emotional scars, and physic.
They have returned, day after day, week after week, year after year.
But I am done.
I'm going to find something good in these nightmares if it kills me.
I've taken these emotional scars and taught myself to deal with them.
These scars that are unseeable can't restrain me anymore.
You see, I finally now how to give celebration to these corrupted dream catchers that live inside my head.
These Permanent EMPs that block dreams and not nightmares.
These things that have created unwanted dates with unwanted "dreams".
I've experienced anything and everything there.
So if I'm gonna pull anything from this hellish place.
It's experience.
I've played this game of life hundreds of times and I finally know the level nows.
I know where not to go.
I know what not to do.
And I know who not to talk to.
You see these things are just thoughts from my broken guardian angel trying to warn me about the bad things in life.
The things in life that broke her and made her unrepairable.
She does not want that for me.
So thank you broken guardian angel for stealing my dreams and making them nightmares.
I've only just realized that these nightmares are metaphors for hard life lessons.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
A ****** of Crows delights in death.
Now they can come out, in novels and
poems and such, ominous and black.
For a moment, or many, a Crow is the center
of the universe. Perched on its pole, an eye
sees and its pupil becomes more.
Telephone-pole cities sprout from the earth,
each Murderous populous digs with hollow
claws, making their wooden crosses bleed.
Woodpeckers poke holes while Cardinals
warble nervously, the network is failing.
Communication begins to falter and cede.
Rotted from within, cables splice and
beams splinter. Crows, whose claws were
too embedded, struggle to break away.
When the last of the Crows have flown
away, gone, the earth flat is barren.
Tiny antennae peek out between the dirt.
A muster of Storks delights in birth, bearing
little yellow Finches to their new home;
easily foreseeable babes born to grow black.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
wife beaters and boxer briefs
for wife beaters and boxer briefs
we share an affection affectation in common,
for these understated, statement accoutrements
indeed I’ve caught her bare chest
hiding out beneath, via my side view mirror, revealing,
what hints lie beneath
my armless hair-shirt more than once
she loves the freedom of the stolen land grant
she's claims only to have borrowed
her deed and title, she says was
god given
she seems to enjoy as well the
impertinent attentions of this suckling pig,
driven by the hints of her pertinent robusts,
which have proven poorly resistant to the woodpeckers, ahem,
lips
but my boxer shorts she ignores,
as the differential in waste size,
about a Subway foot-long
so no wonder why
when she asks if I own any suspenders?
***who me?
Yes, you, Mr. Sinner?***
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
There are few bottlebrush trees here,
A couple grew in front of our house,
The entrance to our house they guard.
When it is season for them,
They bloom very lavishly,
Even striking is one's stem.
It was pecked upon by a woodpecker,
Thak-Thak-Thak, Thak-Thak-Thak,
The stem's bark finally gave away slowly.
By the end of October '06,
The hollow was readied,
The woodpecker moved in.
It gave shelter to the two birds initially,
The male & the female woodpeckers,
They stayed there for a complete season.
Saw their family grow,
From just the parents,
It even had chicks now.
The chicks grew fast under parental care,
I even listened to their infant chirping,
Saw the parents flying to get forage not so rare.
Then one day a snake slithered,
Until that hollow, it climbed,
The woodpeckers made a lot of noise.
They both screeched repeatedly,
But their cries were useless,
They could not scare away the snake.
The serpent then came out after few hours,
Now the crawling was sluggishly lazy,
Its mouth smeared with gooey young feathers.
The family had been destroyed,
An eerie silence shrouded the hollow,
The woodpecker chicks were dead.
Soon, an eagle had hunted the snake,
Hovering in the sky it spotted it,
Grabbed it when in the sunlight it basked.
Now the woodpeckers were gone,
Probably in search of a new tree,
A new tree where a snake won't come.
As for the tree's hollow,
It made a new home,
For a parrot species this time.
And time knows that change will descend,
Even the parrots will desert the hollow,
They will leave in search of the better greens.
Maybe a family of owls will come in the end,
It will be a long-time home, the hollow,
For owls are known to fill all the vacancies.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
We are sorry but the physical(campus) flat earth school is closed on account it was pushed over the edge of the Earth by 5 sasquatch(bigfeets, squatches, skunk apes), a wooly mammoth, and Mothman. We asked superman for help but he was in physics class on another planet.
Just read this and we will send your PHD. Congrats!
fill my feet with air
put me on a square
use our soles for patches
i think we make great matches
how's a compass work?
what's a compass for?
what's another dimension?
what's behind this door?
get me off this plain
toxify my brain
use our bones as easels
paint pictures of the weasels
how's a paintbrush work?
what's a canvas for?
what is inner descension?
who's inside that door?
---------------------------------
des·cen·sion
/dəˈsenSH(ə)n/
noun
1.
an act of moving downward, dropping, or falling.
"a smooth descension back down"
2.
a flock of woodpeckers.
Sep 18, 2021
Sep 18, 2021 at 7:20 PM UTC
A woodpecker in a tree
Talking to you and me
Bobbing its head
In search of daily bread
Wouldn’t it fun to be
A woodpecker in a tree?
Bobbing away
Throughout every day
Hopping from tree to tree
Tapping tunes for you and me
I wonder what’s its name
Maybe he’s just playing a game
Another woodpecker in a tree
Just happens to be
Talking to you
I wonder what you’ll do
Two woodpeckers in a tree
Happy as they can be
Each bobbing their head
Maybe they’ll be wed
Baby woodpecker in a tree
Mom, Dad and you make three
Happy all the day
I love to watch you play
3/29/19
www.brucelevine.com
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 8:45 AM UTC
Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,
Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.
Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.
Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget
your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.
Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.
Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter
Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish
When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack. Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.
Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack
Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors
Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Sitting watching the winds dance through bare ***** trees, their branches swaying methodically
The leaves twirling in graceful loops down through the stubborn branches getting caught on the jutting appendages
Lands with a soft pat on the dried grass below, flicking into a comfortable position, nestling into the leaves
A mourning dove cooing in soft burbles of sounds intermingling with the cry of calling crows
A woodpeckers tap-tap-tapping up the trees and flitting through the browned leaves their strangled songs ringing
The hawk circling lazily above the treetops with wings outstretched in a long line, undisturbed and smooth
A squirrel scuttles through the leaf litter and digs a home for the nut it holds in its quivering mouth, front paws scurrying
The family of turkeys cluck a quiet conversation to and fro with feathers ruffled from the chill wind
That wind carries the promise of winter in its icy clutches with the scent of polar clear in its currents
My reddened cheeks tingling from the sun warming them out of their frozen stupor, egging them from the shock
The sunlight dimples across the perfectly fitted leaves littering the forest floor below me, dappled from the shadows
Fuzzy grey outlines pattern the weeds lining the bases of trees, the stick thin traces of branches divide and crack
The air is coloured with a warmth undescribed, brown and red and orange licking the edges of everything like flame
You can almost taste the seasoning of fall mixed with the oxygen, spiced like pumpkin and cinnamon sticks
Rough bark crackles beneath my curious fingers, tips brushing flaking tree, the very skin that holds in the feelings (sap)
Blue sky peeks between fluffed clouds fresh from the dryer with the sheets still mixed with them
Pink veins behind closed eyelids faced towards the orb of light in the sky that heats the ozone around the earth
Autumn eating fire surrounds the people too oblivious to notice this indescribable beauty.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
How much do I love you?
When you are asleep in our bed,
Takes ten minutes for me to
Slide inside, you to undisturb, you would,
Laugh at my pantomime, my Charlie Chaplin ballet,
If you were to accidentally awake.
When your dreams disturbing,
Groans and shrieks, moans and mumbles,
I greet you when your eyes final-fix upon me,
With no questions, only kisses for both,
And a new poem for you on top of our coverlet.
I love you resting me, when you, beside me do rest,
Then, together, we are always at our best.
I, your soldier, woodpeckers, deer, sent on their way,
Today, five geese invaders, ahonking, dispatched,
Lest my woman's dreams become enmeshed.
How many compositions have I written,
Rhythm and rhymed to your contented breathing?
Amazing grace that every day when we are on
Our island redoubt, there is no doubt.
There is us, always us, and for each restful breath,
Encased is a new and different way,
To answer this question that I pose to myself.
Tho first of many interrogatories that will pass from my heart,
Yet, when mine eyes open to see the sun of your blonde hair.
I have only answers, no questions, no doubts.
September 1st, 2013
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
I've traded the butterflies in my stomach for birds
woodpeckers,— they seem to be of the groans
I have around
you.
tap, tap, tap
There goes the sound of my love for you,
flying south to the warmest parts of
my heart
Truly I am bird shy in expressing my love
Is this truly
love?
Butterflies are birds now
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 2:42 PM UTC