"woodpile" poems
I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides -- what a bargain -- no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.
Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.
Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path -
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.
2.3k
what are you addicted to?
What you on?
Oxycoton?
Percoset?
Methadone?
Vicodin?
****
Xanax
Diesel
Dope?
Krocodil?
or...
Just jack and ****
they tell me *** is dangerous...
I have nothing today
and so much things to say
Did your best friend get shot 72 times on
Thursday?
On the woodpile
or
In the passenger seat?
Wife take everything
And leave you
After 30 years?
You homeless now?
Or just broke-in.
Did Your wife die:
An intentional dose of an incidentally fatal
Dope?
Did you husband-
An engineer for Ford Motor company
Get burned alive?
black
Was it you
who
found the ashes?
Did they throw you in prison
For your depression?
You have addictions
And a little help
But no music-
Ipods
are not allowed here
and
You are grasping at existence but
existance
don't seem to know you
no-more
Your still breathing
Though
You haven't failed at existence itself
yet
Impulsive
destructive
What chemicals are they feeding you
In your cages?
T.T. has 17
medications but
she almost got killed last night
Because she's allergic
to aspirin.
Are they treating you with
Risperdal?
Or
Lamictal like me?
Is it helping-
or making it ten times worse?
making
any difference at all?
It's called practice and we are
the test-tube
Jon's heart has been in defib 8-times
twice due to accidental overdoses
by doctors
We can have too-many
anything.
I don't believe in accidents
though
no more.
seen-too many
felt-too much
You self-admitted and
at least your still breathing
this place is full of madness but here at 1-east
we're still dreaming.
pax 2013
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Plant a fertile garden in summer & harvest all of the fruits and vegetables.
PIckle all of the vegetables.
preserve all of the fruits-leave some
Apples for pie.
Place pickles and preserves in the darkness of the root cellar.
Order How to ****** a Farmhand in 10 Days from the book catalogue.
Order the Art of War also just in case
Invite Handsome Jimmy Pike from the neighbouring farm over for pie.
Get Uncle Abe to cover the dirt floor with planks.
As Mama always said a frozen dirt floor is just for the dirt poor.
Bake Pie. Place on windowsill.
Waft the smell
Of hot pie over toward the woodpile where Uncle Abe is chopping wood.
Invite Jimmy to play Gin Rummy the evening when Uncle Abe is mysteriously ill of a stomach complaint and sleeping in the barn.
Show Jimmy Uncle Abe's tongue and groove method of log cabin construction.
Ask Jimmy to show me the **** and pass method of using unmilled logs to **** up against each other without notching.
Spike Jimmy's tea with ***
Show Jimmy the root cellar.
**** up against Jimmy with notching.
WITH LOTS OF NOTCHING.
Fall pregnant.
Tell Uncle Abe and have a shotgun wedding.
Bake another special pie.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:28 PM UTC
Mending my leather mittens
for the third time this winter,
I sew them with waxed string
made to repair fishing nets,
hoping they’ll last
until the splitting maul rests
against the shrunken woodpile
and the *** and ***** come out of the shed.
I find myself praying.
Blessed be those who have laced together
the splits at the seams of this world,
repair its threads of twisted waters.
Blessed be those who stitch together
the animals and the land,
repair the rends in the fabric
of wolf and forest,
of whale and ocean,
of condor and sky.
Blessed be those who are forever fixing
the tear between people and the rest of life.
May we all have enough thread,
may our needles be sharp,
may our fingers not throb or go numb.
May each of us find an apprentice,
someone who will take the needle from our hands,
continue all the mending that needs to be done.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 7:03 PM UTC
The leaf-mottled
copperhead coiled
near my woodpile,
rendered sluggish
and harmless
by the cold,
makes no move
to strike.
Its flat eyes
simply stare,
as if to say:
welcome
to the Garden.
- mce
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
There's plenty of fish in the sea,
but what about the bad ones?
I feel like my skin is made of wool
and I'm always Yoshimi battling the robots,
but maybe the Yoshimis are battling me.
And I've always hated gospel
but it's the most honest shitlist I've read;
and I feel like my mind love to play tricks on me,
like my own personal sugar daddy.
It's my zombie friend that constantly lies to me.
The bells in my brain keep ringing "rill rill rill"
like the disorderly dreams they know best
and I can always feel the knife tickling me until it hurts like
"Why don't you come to my party, Valerie?"
but I always end up alone by the woodpile out back
wishing for the past black out days.
These emotions spread like wildfire
miles away to the sea-saw I once admired from the ground
never getting higher.
And I've always been a two-headed girl but never a friend
and although I know it's a man's man's man's world
I know it now more than ever.
and every single night I morph more and more more
into Mrs. Robinson and I'm more and more and more
terrified every single **** mother ******* day.
I've had my one-life stand
and I'm settling for being confronted with my failures
though I have not confronted them.
And although every one else can enjoy swimming against the current I can't help but be the one breathing under water that ruins the trip to the lake.
What do I mean?
I never know.
I just want to be the king in a purple robe of velvet and satin asleep on a throne but I'm stuck asleep at my own feet waiting for someone to poke me
until it hurts.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:50 AM UTC
i grew up in a patch
of green
low rolling hill
tumbling sky
red maple picnics
cool earth
roses at the chain link
spring's surprise
play dates out front
shoddy wooden hideaway
to the rear
woodpile-beware!
sister scarred
angry bees collect
red-shingled horizon
white shack
rear view
laundry-line perimieter
prison yard
beware
invisible fence line
irish drunks
right side
wife shouts
captures best friend
back-rear torment
pup trapped
evil about
boys and bruised knees
cheek kisses
and sunset
bike rides
snack spot
woods of death
the sky fed me
my roots
tightly woven
spanned, undisturbed
summer mornings
on the run
heat like fire
pebbles, glass
walking on
escape, run, be wild
dreams your navigator
loose teeth
mother's hugs
father's presence
marlboroughs
motor, artistically
deconstructed
colored red
powered escape hatch
off-license
long gone
tree trunk porch presence
dead bird picnic
red-slatted bridge
fruit spider visitor
tiny rodent winter traps
screaming zia
e mamma
adniamo
basta!
communion veil
st. albans bound
pappa, look!
gum stuck hair
and
ruined sleeve
tumbled jacks
fruit loop bed
times
mas*h
glass box
from the carpeted
haven
orange-smokey
scent
beat downs behind
the woodstove
hair-dragged reckonings
begging
cries
anger passed down
mother to
mother
to
brother
pray, midnight
smoke
sleepless-haunted
hell
i grew in no-man's land
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
out in the cold,
my muscles ache
too stiff to bend
too strong to break
there's work to do
there's wood to split
good thing I love
this kinda ****
I feel the shock,
I feel the sting
each time I make
a solid swing
too stiff to bend,
too strong to break
my hands are numb,
my muscles ache
my core is warm
like I'm on fire
but life don't stop
because I'm tired
each day's a fight
i'm gonna win it
I can't slow down
until I'm finished
have to stay warm
there's wood to split
good thing I love
this kinda ****
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 3:28 PM UTC
Dapple gray harbour
…humpback in breach!
a brown ruffed grouse
with apricot cheeks!
Pileated peckers
in caramel trees
the swirling fall mist
and gusty cold breeze
Bonfires and embers
in a harvest-moon sky
the cider house rules
and baled-hay ride
Warm roasted chestnuts
cozy fall stews
scarecrows and pumpkins
those dark autumn blues!
Parkas and sweaters
with cinnamon shades
a hot mulled wine
in the cornfield maze
Pine cones and acorns
on a brisk fall morn
frosty cold breath
and flannels well worn
Ghosts and goblins
…ole hallows eve!
the landscape covered
in dry golden leaves
A grateful Thanksgiving
with family and song
daylight (un) savings
where shadows grow long!
A north wind whispers
the harvest complete
stack up the woodpile
winter’s in reach!
Storm clouds brewing
the foliage flies
let’s spark up the franklin
and scurry inside!
Pull up a blanket
and call in the cat
...it's a perfect time
for a fireside chat!
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 2:20 PM UTC
1 ;Officer Brian Sicknick – Capitol Police officer, injured during the riot; died the next day. He was crushed. ( this is on video)
2 Officer Howard Liebengood – Capitol Police officer; died days later, connected to stress from the riot. He descended into madness and couldn't cope.
3 ' Kevin Greeson – Got so worked up chanting **** Mike Pence " and building gallows that he suffered a heart attack during the riot and none of the other goons stopped to help.. ( clear video of him chanting)
4 ; Rosanne Boyland – bedazzled mom , crushed in a crowd surge.
5 ;Benjamin Philips – got stuck in a mob and overheated died of a stroke participating in the riot.
6 ; Ashli Babbitt – shot by Capitol Police after threatening them while attempting to climb through a barricaded door.
Now ask yourself , if you had so much blood on your tiny little hands would they let you walk for inciting a deadly insurrection. ?
THESE PEOPLE DIED ! and their blood IS on Donald J Trumps spoiled, never worked , New York Country Club, **** Epstein Island V.I.P., 1583 missing children in cages, Veteran and cancer kid scamming, incapable hands.
No matter what some whitewashed report says, those people died because of January 6, full stop. They didn’t die at home on the couch, they didn’t die in their beds. They died because a sitting president whipped them into a violent mob and told them to “fight like hell.” They died because he lit the match posted the tweets demanded the loyal act created the frenzy , and then
tried to blame the fire on the woodpile !
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 12:16 AM UTC
I told the little darlings, as we went upon the lawn
"There are some things to know, if we are, to get along
Don't play in the woodpile, don't climb over the fence
Don't say you don't understand, or pretend that you are dense
Say, thank you, when given luncheon biscuits and tea
Keep your manners about you, just take a que from me
Oh, most importantly, I'll not say it twice
Touch not the cat, children, he's really not that nice."
They didn't listen.....
To a Tiger, children, are like....mice
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
I am under a rusting fountain smoldering
Smoldering, mold, brownish residue
That felt your casual heartbreak yesterday
And last week
And every year
You used to climb the tree over there and look up into a stonewashed autumn sky
When there were no more books to read
You lost your first tooth in his neighbor
All the trees you named after characters from an epic story
That you left behind when you turned 12
Along with your hopes of success as a lone wolf or warrior
You called me into your thoughts just again this morning
I wriggled inside the room trying to get you to notice me
But your body was still and focused, no longer lacking
There was a timeout and a fear of rabid animals
There were ideas about how to deal with terrorists on your home turf
There was a dead snake in the woodpile
There were tiny embroidered cherry blossoms in heaps of laundry for your dolls
There were ugly apples falling onto the deck in September
I can’t help you anymore
Despite my admiration for how you’ve changed
Drop the dead leaves back onto the undergrowth for someone else to pick up
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
I shoved the absurdity into the woodpile
The fire was crackling and raging
Licking the bottom of the *** that is already worn
Demons and ghosts and phantoms of people who went crazy are dancing inside
Why are you moving it, how tiring!
The cat in the room asked
Why don't you join us, how stupid!
Red ***** on the chopping board asked
No, I said, no
I used ridiculousness to pile firewood higher
The fire will not go out in nine hundred and ninety-one days
I'm going to use this fire to cook, bathe and change clothes
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 9:55 AM UTC
I
In the garden with the cherry tree -
where daffodils curb the fence -
cats in long grass stalk the birds
and the rhubarb patch is bursting.
The back of next door's shed.
A white wall of pebbledash.
It's one almighty canvas,
the same size as a goal.
II
In the garden with a trampoline centre -
first love sits poised in morning air -
though we haven't shut our eyes all night,
we're more alive than ever here.
King of the burning woodpile.
Trimmed weeds in a mound.
Neighbours chirping out of view.
Sport scores over a blaring tune.
III
In the garden that's become a home -
close to my place of worship -
guests wave outside the temple,
years and years of well-wishers.
Looking out for hedgehogs.
Feeding a family of foxes.
Like a wave in my brain,
memories come flooding in.
IV
In the garden that was aforementioned -
long after daylight has drowned -
a friend of mine sits next to me
and we gaze through broken cloud.
We've seen everything here:
sun, rain, snow and hail.
This garden knows all my pain
and has helped me to heal.
Sep 24, 2020
Sep 24, 2020 at 1:51 PM UTC
A girl runs to fabled woods aiming
to sing a forest of songs.
Dreaming of applause, she takes up
residence on a woodpile.
For her it’s cheap to repeat verses
from popular chorus lines.
She demands potential, expansion
and radical improvisations.
What happens is that improbable
verses pop up out of the blue.
Secretly she imagines that others
Might like to join in, but who?
Looking straight ahead, she has no
intention of singing a ballad.
She sings oblique medleys that lack
any detectable connotations.
For her, ambiguity and wonder
should sit high on the horizon.
She has never tested sung surprises
on a new audience before.
Her refrains anticipate harmony,
but her voice flies far from it.
Had an audience been present
they’d have labelled it tuneless.
She looks around for kinship and
emotion without keeping time.
She is oblivious to her vanishing
chords and musical silences.
Symphonies resound inside her
head, but her voice is silent.
It doesn’t germinate songs as the
chest of another singer would do.
She bonds with rhythms, oblivious
to the merits of transmission.
They rang out once before when she
had fasted from speech for refuge.
The songs she dreams of are subtle,
Personal, ambiguous and obscure.
She can’t even imagine singing
them to the people she’s closest to.
She sings to the trees about things
It’s just not possible to say.
Her unobtrusive sounds fall far
short of anyone who has ears.
In the silence of recovery, she
hears solitude residing inside.
This is a deep place where tongues
fail because intention succeeds.
Her sounds express nuanced truths
that the trees alone understand.
The forest bathes in this sonorous
invitation echoing beyond the bark.
The leaves applaud, they wave,
flicker and join with the singing.
It’s rare for woodpiles to pulse
with song or breathe with breath.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
“Maine”
I’ve been hunkered down
In the great north woods
And here’s what I will say
It’s harsh, it’s cruel
Beautiful and good
A uniquely different way
It’s the famous rocky coast
With foaming crashing waves
A quiet walk along the beach
In amber autumn days
It’s ice and snow and sitting
Waiting out the storm
It’s stocking up the woodpile
To keep the fire warm
It’s the sun and shadows softly
Dancing through the trees
Voices from the distant past
Whispering in the breeze
It’s ghostly souls from yesteryear
Walking well-worn paths
Generations long removed
When the journey was the map
Maps of struggle, maps of time
Of where a heart once stood
Maps of life’s rambling rhyme
Of what hard work made good
It’s family, friends and loved ones
And what’s been left behind
Hope chests from the “great north woods”
For young ones left to find
And find they will as time goes by
And life is handed down
From hidden, hardened, weathered lives
In shadowed pine tree towns
It’s one more time the wheel goes ‘round
And fills another mold
Then sets it down out in the snow
To winter through the cold
This is part of what I’ve seen
Gazing at the stars
In the silent, distant, northern nights
In the miles I’ve gone so far
I’ve been hunkered down
In the great north woods
And here’s what I will say
It’s harsh, it’s cruel
Beautiful and good
A uniquely different way
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 8:47 AM UTC