"woodshed" poems
Part I
The house is as haunted as its name,
The house really isn’t the same!
The people in it are dead and gone,
The trees and bushes are not cut;
There is a graveyard past the woodshed hut.
The graveyard is covered with leaves and moss,
Leaves that the wind has tossed,
To be tossed again no more;
One day like them in the sky I’ll soar;
Only to be known as them no more.
The rain is streaming down,
And there they are lying safe and sound,
While the rain beside them pours all around.
Low! A car pulls up to the house,
Yet there they are still lying as quiet as a mouse,
The lightning flashes and hits the ground;
With a loud and bellowing sound;
Yet the still it do not hear;
Even though it is loud and clear.
Why can’t you it hear?
Don’t you know its loud and clear?
We are the dead do you expect us to hear,
The things that to you sound loud and clear?
We are the dead and you are alive and you can hear things we can’t,
Don’t you know you’re waking the dead? Go away you little scant.
The rain is coming down in torrents,
Yet there they are lying dormant;
I thought this house would look better in Spring,
But no, not even when the birds begin to sing.
Part II
There is darkness everywhere,
There is lightning in the air;
There the lady ghost sits in her chair,
Look at the car sitting by the house over there.
The skeleton in the locked trunk,
By now hath stunk,
Until he could stink no more. . .
In that trunk sitting by the attic door.
Is he the dead that must be respected like the others,
Fathers, daughters, husbands, wives, and Mothers?
Must we be so quiet as a mouse,
That we aren’t heard in that dark old house?
Must we so soon go away?
And never again here we stay?
There is an air of creepiness about the place,
And they that are buried there do not run the humane race.
They were cold ever since that night,
When their family saw and told the sight.
Yet they so alive alive seem,
To me it is but a dream,
While I sit beside the clogged up stream
This place is haunted, I could scream!
Yet I keep it all in,
I can hear that dead old hen,
Still clucking her evening song,
Almost all the night long.
And while she’s dead I know she’s not,
It was her I loved a lot!
The big old rooster isn’t here though to scare her anymore,
Perching up on his perch behind the door,
He was a Rode Island Red,
And he isn’t here because the butcher cut his head
"I am so sorry," now I said.
*** _________Marian_________***
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
Luna Tickle eats only pickles and ***** up all the brine
When her brother tells their mother she begins to whine:
“Yes I did it! And left no tidbit
Is that such a crime? My brother smells and raises hell
And leaves the loo full of slime.”
Now their mother dear began to fear her children were obstructions
Never listening, since their christening, and wished for their abduction
So she planned a slaughter and called her daughter
Outside to the woodshed, then chopped her neck in two
She put Luna’s head in her brother’s bed and said,
“Now, they’ll be no more Boo-Hoos”
Now you know of Luna and her tragic ending
But there’s more to this rhyme that’s pending
For the Tickle name is quite insane
And was never worth defending
But that’s just what her brother did
When Mrs. Tickle met Judge Knuckle
And almost flipped her lid
Screaming:
“I never liked that kid from the day she began to suckle!
Why she couldn’t be more like me, or her lovely sister Tess”
Twas all Mrs. Tickle could confess that day to Judge and jury
Until brother **** chimed-in and confessed his sin
And did so in such a fury, it was heard throughout and within
The entire state of Missouri:
“I am Richard Tickle and do confess I am not fickle
In fact I am quite pugnacious
If you do not see the circumstances like me
I’ll be forced to be disputatious”
Interjects Judge Knuckle:
“Boy, I’ll have you buckled this instance to electric chair
If you’re not scared I’ll be splitting hairs
In a place where the sun does not shine
So if you care, you’d best beware
Or your Gherkin will be in a brine”
Now Tess screamed out and her mother did shout
In perfect unison:
**** is my love and none the likes of any other hooligan”
At this there was a scuffle
Each dame was muffed and ruffled
They could not contain
All their angst and their pain
And it led to the ugliest tussle
For each thought ****
Was devoted to she
And apparently, this could not be
As we know of the trouble with Luna
So the jury was not out
Or even in doubt
Of these sinister makings and troubles
It was the sickest of affairs
Mass-producing glaring stares
From everyone within the court
Missouri Gazette’s headlines that day
Told of how they did slay
And burn the Tickle chalet
Leaving it in incestuous rubble
The lesson today to this horrific ballet
Is don’t live your life in a bubble
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
There was something wrong with the sky today
in the melancholy cold September sun.
Frost sculpted clouds hung in the empty blue,
bereft, uncelebrated
The swallows are gone.
No more exalting
in our wet summer
unfettered by earthbound grumbles:
now they scythe the skies
to Africa
leaving us completely behind.
A white-spattered woodshed -
over-bold insects -
and perhaps
the promise of return.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
I'm snoozing my best in the morning
Along about sun up,
When I hear someone a-callin'
Wake up, it's time to get up,
I lay there stretching and yawning
So nice to stay in bed,
I see the Sun is shining
Over the back woodshed,
Crawling from under the covers
Cheeks so nice and cool,
When the Sun gets over the chickenhouse
It's time to go to school,
Then sometimes
After I am up out of bed,
The moon comes over
The same woodshed,
If I'm still
And quiet as a mouse,
I'm asleep before it reaches
The old tinhouse.
August 2, 1963
2.8k
What do you do when you don't feel safe in your own head?
Uncomfortable in your own skin, afraid of the demons under your bed
And all the monsters that have been locked away out back in the woodshed
Waiting for the day I said would never come is now right around the bend
It'll be here any moment, why pretend?
I worry more about what was left unsaid
Cautious of the where we're being misled to, not the when
I try not to fear what I can not comprehend
Really couldn't tell you if this is a life I'd recommend
Can't possibly know until the end
So come around again and ask me then
©2024
Jan 10, 2024
Jan 10, 2024 at 5:51 PM UTC
To tell the story of the nice-guy
is to tell a tale of unlost innocence.
There is no complexity that circumstance can’t remedy. There is no effort
to niceness; only a ****** world that blossoms
on genetically mutated ideology, growing larger than generations past.
Tomorrow, in Houston,
a butcher will wake up to slaughter a cow he may have named.
There will no be no tears when he grills steak for the wife he wooed
and the children he prescribed himself.
Three daughters,
from fifteen to twenty-two.
Tiramisu for dessert.
Ten guns in the cabinet beneath the stairs
and innocence buried behind the woodshed.
Pretend now, that you are forgiven.
Mistakes fade like snow angels, regrets
float like chemtrails.
You love you as much as the world always did.
You have not seen friends struck down by powders or lunacy,
you have only lived in the glow of their light. Hearts remain full.
The word swagger hasn’t been hijacked by hip hop
and bluejeans still mask imperfections. Sunsets are memorable,
and so are first dates and last kisses.
Sun won't blister fragile shoulders.
Fields blossom just in time to suit your irregular taste buds,
satisfying sweet corn cravings on Christmas.
Forget your father’s words
or a stranger's hand.
Forget improbability, impossibility,
impotence, importance,
impatience
and improper goodbyes.
Forget the tears cried alone
into ***** filled sheets at midnight.
Forget the effect but remember the cause,
camouflaged like a landmine of good ideas.
Forget the fights and slow-turn walk-aways
that turned words flaccid.
Forget friends ******* ex-girl friends
and amphetamines crashing into hallucinations.
Nice-guys vanish like good ideas,
lost in the shuffle,
looking for pen and paper,
just like house cats die
on the forth of July,
and all that’s left are ashes
on a mantel
alongside fraudulent grins.
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
My granny was only twelve years old
When she got her first tattoo
She was kind of a rebellious child
Back in nineteen twenty-two
She hid that thing for a little while
'Til her daddy finally got wise
He took that girl to the woodshed
With ****** in both of his eyes
He asked that girl, "What did you do,
Don't you know that's gotta be a sin?"
"Now look what you've done to your body,
Has your mama seen your skin?"
Now my granny was a stubborn child
She didn't listen to a word he said
She didn't hide the one she already had
But she got three more instead
Now as my granny got older, so did her skin
And her ink was droopy and sad
You'd think that woman would feel remorse
But I think she was almost glad
Now the art sunk down to her elbows
As it wobbled to and fro
The butterfly tats would take to flight
Everywhere Granny would go
Now another tat was a bloodshot eye
But now it was always winking
On the other arm was a battleship
But of course that thing was sinking
Well that's the story of my granny's art
She lived to be a hundred and two
The day she died it said "Rest in peace"
Not the gravestone, her last tattoo
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
She came to the farm a shy stray,
hid in the woodshed for days.
Food and water we left for her
kept her alive. In time though
very nervous, little by little
keeping some distance, upon
the porch she climbed.
After a month she ascended
a chair next to mine, where
in the spring sunshine we two
set side by side. Not touching
or speaking just biding our time.
One day she reached out a paw
placing it on my knee, politely
asking permission to step onto
my lap. Her fear overridden
by the need for companionship.
She prefers to remain mostly
outside, but everyday she comes
to my door and with outreached
front paws she frantically scratches
up and down on the glass begging
to come inside.
I feed her then feeling safe she sleeps
awhile on the back of the couch,
eventually seeking gentle
permission to sit upon my lap,
on a soft blanket kept just for her.
She purrs with contentment while,
taking cat naps now and then, as I
stroke and caress her head and chin,
occasionally opening her sparkling grey
eyes to study my face, as if to be reassured
it's me touching her and that I'm still there.
In her eyes if that is not devoted love
and gratitude I see looking back at me,
I don't know what else it could possibly be.
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 2:53 PM UTC
Some days we'd lay about the milled plank deck
eyes to the sky
shoulders pinned
deliberating
on the hickory trees
and pillow clouds
and heavenly contrails
the warm caress
of a mid-summer wind
whispering through the hayfields
coondog at our side
sandhill crane still
feet in the shallows
of the Haldimand pond
a soft trickle coming
from the Pickerel stream
creaks from the woodshed whistle
as the Massey Ferguson
putters her way
up the county line
catharsis in place
(in this ethereal space)
just a garden variety day
...with fire ants
and fowler toads
and golden honey bees
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
My granny was only twelve years old
When she got her first tattoo
She was kind of a rebellious child
Back in nineteen twenty-two
She hid that thing for a little while
'Til her daddy finally got wise
He took that girl to the woodshed
With ****** in both of his eyes
He asked that girl, "What did you do,
Don't you know that's gotta be a sin?"
"Now look what you've done to your body,
Has your mama seen your skin?"
Now my granny was a stubborn child
She didn't listen to a word he said
She didn't hide the one she had
But she got three more instead
Now as my granny got older, so did her skin
And her ink was droopy and sad
You'd think that woman would feel remorse
But I think she was almost glad
Now the art sunk down to her elbows
As it wobbled to and fro
The butterfly tats would take to flight
Everywhere Granny would go
Now another tat was a bloodshot eye
But now it was always winking
On the other arm was a battleship
But of course that thing was sinking
Well that's the story of my granny's art
She lived to be a hundred and two
The day she died it said "Rest in peace"
Not the gravestone, her last tattoo
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 11:14 AM UTC
windowsill aster
beneath a ladybug's
dance
spring zephyr
tuned to
the woodshed sparrow's
chirrup
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
I’m just sitting here in the dark, waiting for this life of mine to start.
Wondering before I leave this world, will I leave a mark?
Or is it true, and I’ve been doomed, from the start.
But I’m getting so tired of being so alone,
Take this burden off my back and leave it on the road
Got to leave this place before it swallows me whole
Find a little fresh air that really suites my soul
And I’m headin out on the road,
finding that fresh air, that suites my soul
And I’m headed out on the road, were it leads I don’t know
Now I got some good friends, and there going to go with me
Like good old Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy
We headed out west till we found the sea.
Hoping on this journey we find the meaning of the word free
Cause we’re breaking those bonds of that mental slavery
That were given cause we live in this society
And we are all looking for a little something to believe
But my position on that decision is completely up to me
And we headed out on the road,
finding that fresh air, that suites our soul
And we headed out on the road, were it leads I don’t want to know
Now driving across the land, and sleeping in a van
Sweating in the dessert air, getting that beach sand our hair
Sleeping on misty mountain tops, getting woke up by the cops
Just going what we can, trying to find out how to be a man
Playing music in the street, for a little change and something to eat
Spending all you time and all your cash for a little bit of fun
and a whole lot of gas
When you heading out on the road,
finding that fresh air that suites your soul
And you head out, out on the road,
were it leads you ain’t ever going to know
And you head out, out on the road,
You find that fresh air and it suites your soul
And you head out, out on the road; you find it leads you home
(Zeus's Woodshed)
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 10:29 PM UTC
The old man is made of the hearts of dead spiders from the woodshed
I am my father’s matador
A small spark against a great fire
Showed me you can build a house from broken glass
Better swallow ashes to stay warm
Spiders crawl up my arms and throat
From the firewood in my hands
We rub mud on our faces to see each other better
I write FATHER on his forehead with my finger
He writes SUNRISE between my eyes
I cling to memories from beneath my fingernails
Like closet frozen marionettes
Gun shots crawl out of his jaws at night
And grow like fruit at the end of his fingers
I pick them and leave them on the breakfast table
He keeps fish hooks between my toes so
He can pull me up by the line
But I’m still watching the sunrise from his shoulders
I know he’s made of rain
When he pours me a bath from his bones
A child might play in.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:42 PM UTC
He cast's a long shadow
in the cool morning sun
striding with purpose
the job must be done
Out by the woodshed
quietly does he
make his presence known
by whistling softly
For many years now
he loved what he seen
the good and the bad
and all in between
Over the years
the joy's drained away
making this job seem
harder each day
***** long hours
spent oh silently
crouched in the shadow
of the old growth trees
Waiting for a sign
surely there will be
another visitation
patience is the key
He prepares himself
so stolidly does he
for the visitors
he must receive
Scare them away
any way that he can
keep the homes safe
from raiders of the land
Invaders without conscience
intent on the feed
no malice intended
but will not concede
The problem arose
because of what we
thought was a kind thing
was not to be
Disrupting the law
that nature provides
giving courage to those
by feeding their kind
Soon there becomes
no other way
to deal with the problem
the beast must be slain
So wearily the man
slowly does raise
rifle to shoulder
then he does pray
Pray that his aim's true
quick it will be
no pain for the critter
whatever it may be
Woe be to him
now he sit's silently
crying so softly
alone in the trees
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
Are you still beating your babies?
Are you still punching your kid?
Are you still calling it discipline;
Not the worst thing you ever did?
Is it always a case of deserving
The punishment you mete out?
Where you teach them what is what;
Call them disgusting names and shout?
Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don’t run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.
When you get in the mood to punish
Do dress in a special costume?
Does it have to take place in a woodshed
Or in some special kind of room?
Do you double up your fist and hit
Or do you have special equipment?
Does the physical treatment you hand out
Contribute to your fulfillment?
Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.
In a world of deserving irony
You’d have to wear a disguise
So neighbors would know about you
And authorities could be made wise.
Then someone could call in specialists
To give some of what you give
And teach you eye-for-an-eye truth
About the way you live.
Break out the heavy leather belt
Go cut me a big switch
You kids are ******* me off
You’re giving me a big itch.
Bend yourself over here
Don't run and make me catch you.
Remember this is all your fault.
You’re making me do this to you.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:54 PM UTC
wild dogs inebriated to the last breath
mutual respect john and i share
he was busy speaking to himself
a beautiful woodshed recluse
i'm on one
as assured as the fermented fruit
off the branches of our tree
salt dogs can't help themselves
hauling back brine
like a tidal flow drafting draught protein skimmer
ridding waste from the ocean
the detritus has been enough
tastes good to humanoid bivalves
sessile staring out from
terra nothing
magnetic limestone scrape
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
A princess eats not the crust of bread,
Rarely ever makes her bed,
Knows not the meaning of "old woodshed",
And there lies the problem
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed me your words shot me right in the heart point blank range no remorse so cold oh baby why I loved you I adored you I'd give you the world but I guess that wasn't enough for you because you left me
You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed. Me your words shot me point blank range no remorse so cold what did I do to deserve this the only crime I committed was loving you too much you and yet I still love you even though you
You broke me you took me to the woodshed and you killed your words shot me point blank range no remorse and yet I loved you so much there's nothing I wouldn't do for you if you needed a shoulder to cry on I was there my love had no limits but I guess that wasn't enough for you because you
You broke me you took me to the woodshed and killed me your words shot me point blank range no remorse so cold oh baby why I love you I adored you I'd give you the world but I guess that wasn't enough because you left ......
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
she told me so many lies &
they were all so
beautiful like she was.
she told me
she didn't mind meeting behind the
woodshed in the hours before the sunrise &
after dusk, she didn't mind
passing her guy without a word for the day.
she told me so many beautiful lies &
i told them back with a kiss.
brown skin, cat eyes like those models &
she said she loved me, loved me true
through the window the door
leaves blew on the wind &
sticks rattled hollow against the wall of our shed &
we
forgot
in the moment of things.
miss those days, before pickets &
red-faced neighbors
before
well, you should have seen the headlines &
cat eyes are gone.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
John Brown, you scare me!
You look like a man possessed by a demon.
You look like a man who could **** his son.
You look like a man who believes in a principle,
John Brown.
He drew blood, your son did.
You took him to the woodshed and whipped him;
but then you had him whip you, harder and harder....
now what kind o' crazy-assed thing is that to be doin',
John Brown?
You were a farmer, tanner, wool-trader,
land-dealer, surveyor, shepherd.
Failed at them all, went bankrupt.
But loved your family, held it together,
John Brown.
You lived with black people at North Elba,
seated free black men in your pew at church....
They expelled you, didn't they
--those white hypocrites--,
John Brown?
Your sons murdered pro-slavery men in Kansas,
loud-mouthed, innocent men,
dragged them from their beds, in the name of God,
chopped off their arms, sliced their throats....
You were there,
John Brown.
Somehow you knew
--what were the odds that 200,000 men would die?--,
somehow you knew the earth would be drenched in blood,
somehow you knew rivers would run red with blood....
How did you know? How did you know,
John Brown?
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
he brought me out to the
woodshed
gently opens the back door
but it slams behind us, pneumatic
cylinder busted so it catches my heels
and i slide off the last step
into the gravel and his steel-toes--
he silently brushes through the
prairie drop seed and mexican
feathergrass, nothing but an oil
stained back lumbering amidst the switch
eventide shivelight striking through
the creases in his ears
full of his old tools, horses,
hidden shelves--
and i've gone cold since
we left the house, a
**** frost set out
on my limbs 'cause
i know i done wrong
all the blessed evidence
up and down and that's
before he starts to turn--
ungive.
ungive.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
It was a day of brilliant sunshine,
one that rarely lasts;
And with a sky of deepest blue,
a wonderment was cast.
Just beside the woodshed,
a garden glowed of Spring;
An awesome sight of color,
urging the birds to sing.
Open air and fields of gold,
that graced our tiny town;
Daisies, lilies, and tulips reigned,
as queens of great renown.
Our eyes would delight in early light,
of sheer delicacy and sustenance;
Fanciful thoughts swirled in our heads,
of pixie dust and angels' dance.
And in a childlike vision formed,
a bright clearing upon the land;
Of cherished moments still calling us,
like the sea always meets the sand.
Mar 30, 2019
Mar 30, 2019 at 1:41 PM UTC
The food rots when it is already in my belly
baby mush, cinders from its graceless fire trail –
I dig my tonsils with two fingers but
you will not return to our winter, the exterior.
So, hearts slip backward: a new abode
these intestinal earthquakes applauded in Hell
have stolen fruit I certainly could have froze.
In the woodshed, I discover a scalpel
and attempt to dislodge you from my hipbone
but now my stomach’s been kissed by Satan
I am birthing premature infants from a wound.
Another hour I shall give a funeral
for the apple core, swallow each seed so you
will grow once again safe and sound in my belly.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
She sits or naps there almost every day.
She has other choices she could make.
Ten acres to roam,
Under the cover of large spreading trees.
Maybe the woodshed,
Or the old house near by,
Empty now and full of nice.
The Barn, filled with solitary places
in which to slumber or hide.
The Garages, an open boat, trucks,
several beds there for her use.
But she picks the convertible
roof on my diminutive Red Car,
Like the Little Girl in the "Three
Bears Story", it would seem that,
that canvas roof is, "Just Right".
Or could it be that my sweet
little cat Charlotte, loves that roof
because it's mine?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 5:40 AM UTC