"woodsman" poems
Seed
Sow
Shoot
Sapling
Tree
Chop
Sawn
Cut
Log
Fire
Embers
Ash!
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
***The blazing
flame of the
dark lantern
was shining
brightly
as it reflected
in the
Woodsman's
auburn eyes.
Lost souls
take no
pleasure in
being found.
Little pieces of
glowing embers
were swiftly
carried away
by the autumn
wind in the
melancholy air
of old memories.
Like a
starry breeze
of dying fire,
whispering into
the stalking
night,
singing its
mortal melody
to the
wayward pines.
And so he
slowly disappeared
in the moonlit fog,
more lost than
he could have
ever realised.
Deeper and deeper in
the unknown...***
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
A valiant woodsman of God’s green earth,
An ever gentle soul,
Treads nobly through the forest’s edge,
To conquer hill and knoll.
Morning chill, punctuates warm breathe,
Condensing on cold steel,
A rising sun greets a friend of old,
With beckoning appeal.
The singing birds, call quick to arms,
Warning to those that hear,
The woodsman’s made his presence known,
To this they must adhere.
The ageless warrior nestles down,
A clearing by a brook,
From iron sights, he takes a bead,
A short but lasting look.
Ten points in all, the target grunts,
And directs a gazing eye,
A trigger’s squeezed a slight indent,
The woodsman breathes a sigh.
A crack of thunder, a flash of light,
The beast is crashing down,
The woodsman offers praise to God,
The forest makes no sound.
A resounding victory born this day,
Upon much hallowed earth,
And from majestic creature lost,
Does spawn a sacred birth.
The woodsman leaves, more quiet than came,
In humbleness and awe,
To tell a tale of conquest sought,
To share of what he saw.
Oct 22, 2010
Oct 22, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
She was a sapling,
Small and shaded by
The branches of
One hundred year old oak trees
Maples and Evergreens
Wilting without sunlight,
The rain never reaching the dirt around
The places she buried her roots
The sky was a dream
Clouds she could not see
Through the thickness
Of birds’ nests and tree forts
Nestled in the arms of
The great plants surrounding
The seedling, starving for sustenance
I was a sapling, dying alone
In a petrified forest
Surrounded by what seemed
Like no hope for hope
No chance for survival
Then along came a woodsman
Or so I thought
Ready to put me out of my misery
Cut me into kindling and
Burn me into my next life
But a woodsman, no
Instead he was a farmer
Come to hack and saw the trees around me
And cultivate my species
Nurturing and sacrificing
He cleared the air around me and
For the first time I found myself
Breathing in
He cut away the branches
Prison bars that held me
Back and down for so long
Released me from a doomed fate
I had nearly begun to accept and
Because of him I drank the tears
That fell from heaven
And for the first time
Felt alive
And then one day I realized
A farmer you were not
But instead like me
You were another tree
With vines that grew towards
And with me
You brought me back to life
You know
Reminded me of why it is
I wake each morning and
Lean towards the sun
Soaking in her rays
And living
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
How many millions have you got
I expect you lost count
It's a hellava lot
Not forgetting the splendid yacht
An artist scans a landscape
A comic distills a joke
A shopper looks for a parking space
An addict drags on a smoke
I do what I want one thing at a time
Cumulus nimbus are flying high
Follow my nose with a healthy dose
Of common sense and instinct combined
A vicar rehearses a favourite prayer
A sailor waits on a breeze
A writer sees a story there
A woodsman searches the trees
A rich man still believes he is poor
A lost and lonely is thinking if only
Patting the chair and tapping the floor
We all go chasing a bit of fun
Fulfilment comes in different ways
Like writing a poem every day
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
I don't mind working on my own
It gives me time to ponder
While my body works away
My mind begins to wander
Dusty serenades the treetops
Pesky teasing squirrels
I sit on a tree stump
Pleasing little scribbles
Cut down, saw up
Cart, split stack
With a certain satisfaction
It seems to me
There's an ounce of poetry in that
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 5:52 AM UTC
my island is refuge
your island is refuge
for they bear the same name
ours
some call it sheltering
for surrounded by spits of land,
resting tween tines of two forks,
but storms come. do damage.
the island recovers, inevitably as
humans and nature do a joint tented revival meeting
a project, new slip covers, fresh paint job,
we joke to ourselves
but on the heel of the isle
where our sturdy bungalow faces the
moody waters, the white capped breezes,
your chair neath the tree with the swing awaits, asking,
“when will the woodsman come,his tides flow away, away, to
why not here?
so many stories have I, poems to dictate,”
that silent observer says “his presence is required on this isle called
ours”
the currents announced as well,
an American blessing
“ready willing and Abel
to carry, to gift renew,
to the isle of refuge”
6/39/18. 8:08am
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:23 AM UTC
The Tripped and sullen Woodsman
Frustrated and calm, he stands with trees
Ominous branches, each one a soul on limb
Stranded, echoed with leaves
The trunk either thriving or poisoned at core
With his axe the devil decides
A cut and your body will do the same
And when it falls, a mortal will die
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
2. The Abby Well
Rahu, old sage of Wu Tai Shan,
Stood by the Great Doors of the Abby.
His dog slept at his feet.
The wood gatherers were descending from the mountain
Their carts piled high with kindling.
They stopped to draw water from the Abby well.
One woodsman spoke up.
“Hey old man, why is the armies of the north
Encamped on the west wall?”
“I have not been so informed until now” Rauh replied.
“Let me ask my dog Ketv.”
The dog arose and stretched its back.
“My dog is also ill informed.” he said.
“I thought you were the sage, old man.”
The woodsmen laughed.
“Is it your dog that speaks to you?
Let me hear his wise advice”.
“He will not speak except to me.” replied Rauh.
“The old monk’s dog barks at the moon. What does it mean?”
A woodsman mocked.
Refreshed the woodsmen left laughing and barking like dogs.
Soon thereafter Ketv began to sniff the air becoming very excited
“Go fetch the wandering monk of Wu Tai Shan,” Rayh implored,
“And I will stoke the fire and prepare tea.”
Soon the wanderer came into sight, thin, clad in rags,
With weathered skin and shining eyes.
“ You need not have sent Ketv to lead me back” he shouted from the Abby gate.
“I can not deny a dog his duty,
I can not lead those that will not follow.
Come here and bless this shrine with your wisdom” thus spoke Rayh.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 11:42 AM UTC
my heart, my heart, my heart --
how do you speak with no vocal chords?
how do you ache with so few nerve endings?
how do you move suns and moons with such small mass?
the enchanted axe removed each limb,
one by one, bringing nick chopper down to size,
and gave him a body full of tin.
however, in attempting to heal his wounds,
the tinsmith failed to replace his heart,
and the tin woodsman was no longer
able to love the one to whom he had given his heart.
and he continued to live this way for years.
===
how i envy the heartless,
how i envy the ones who feel pain, but not
the pain of the heart, the pain of the soul.
there are times i want to rip my own heart out.
the gravity of such a decision
was hardly noticed, the way gravity
is hardly noticed -- a force we do not fight.
so, of course, i said it -- "i love you."
and in that moment the earth moved
beneath my feet. i felt the tilt of its axis;
i felt the weight of the world; i felt it all.
and of course, my frame was far too slight.
i felt a piercing pain, i could not move,
and i feared the worst. there are very few
maladies that cause paralysis and sharp pains
all over the mind and body. but
this was nothing new, this was nothing
i hadn't felt before. to have a heart,
to feel a heart, to know a heart,
is to feel unimaginable pain.
my own words have become my enchanted axe;
my own heart has removed each limb
and replaced them with tin. and yet my heart remains.
is that a better fate than having no heart at all?
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
Whilst walking down a hard chosen path,
a boy did spot a leaf.
For in the wind it flirted and danced,
then stole away like a thief.
Give chase he did, this rural lad,
so trusting of the plant.
His mind a race with only one thought,
"To lose it, I simply can't."
A smile on his face, he made with great haste,
he jumped and grasped at the sprite.
At last he caught the petal of gold,
and cupped it from taking flight.
"Have mercy my lord!" the sprite did call out,
"Do handle this flora with care.
A wish I will grant to you fine sir,
If my life you choose to spare."
The boy gave a laugh. " Fear not little sprite,
on my journey I wish not to tarry.
I am called Tom, but a simple woodsman,
the son of one Doreen and Harry."
"And what of your wish? young master Tom."
said Leaf, yearning to be free.
"The trees you come from are mighty and grand,"
said Tom "I wish for their seed."
"To home I'll return with this gift of yours,
placing each in the soil by hand.
Then the years will pass by under my watchful eye,
till a forest of gold does expand."
"A paradise for all man, animal and plant,
shall be your gift to me,
But to make this dream sweet waking life,
I require a bag of said seed."
With a smile of delight, Leaf dispersed into light,
forcing Tom to shield his eyes.
A moment then passed and he peered in his hands,
to see a sack seven fistful in size.
Inside Tom did see, seeds of amber and sunset,
enough to build what he planned.
So he set off once more, now assured of the road,
to bring life to his paradise land.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought
the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise
the man had only a Swiss Army knife
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw
this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai
villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman
many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got
even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned
appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down
not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands
but perchance healed his heart
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
against the turbulent wind
and waves that know no end,
i suppose 'tis good to sail.
guided by ephemeral clouds
all the sea-hosts ask how,
"did you expect not to fail"?
at night will i set to dreaming
and restore myself, for good evening
is merely a farewell to the sun.
with pen in my hand
and bruised heel shall i stand,
unaware of from where
the breeze comes.
Oh! my body it breaks,
against words and mistakes,
and i cry out to curse
the day i drew breath.
and yet i draw on...
but from the water
yes i saw you from the water!
the white wake that ripples
from your chest.
swallowed by a sea of glass
are your prowess and your wrath,
as you are mocked
and cast to the ground.
yet onward does it go
now that you have been laid low,
no woodsman comes
to cut us down.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Now where were we, Wolfie
before the woodsman intervened?
Your hot fetid breath upon my neck
suggesting things obscene.
I was eager and no innocent
to try new things, I’m Keen.
That woodsman fellow was such a bore
thinking that he could keep me pure.
I knocked him out, then I made sure
he won’t disturb us anymore
So paw my scarlet robes aside
and see the treat that waits inside.
For one night only with no repeat
find out if I am good to eat.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC
Even the pine trees and the cedars of Lebanon exult over you and say, "Now that you have been laid low, no woodsman comes to cut us down."
-Isaiah 14:8
the little bird tried to fly through the screen door and I
thought, if only there were more air out here.
if only the pines in their firm feet didn't wave your hands at me.
if only there were still water
in the creek.
they spent a week like this,
driving from port town to port town.
writing down the names of truck stops.
drawing sidewalks
with chalk.
we held hands and crossed into mexico with
tongues that flick across red lips.
we spent three weeks like this, trying to weep.
but the desert drank us up
and everything was thirsty
and everything was dry.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
Peering in to the forest,dark then clearing,appears a horseman riding
bringing tidings of a battle won,
fought on some foreign field
and bought by death under a foreign sun.
There is no rejoicing here,no celebration,we wait to hear news from some distant shore,for we are parents of the sons who won the war,and what for we ask?
to bask in everlasting glory?
Bring me back my dead,rebuild for me another story of no war,no battles fought,no victory was ever bought without the shedding of our blood.
Good men die or live and we who gave them life,the father,wife wait to hear,
wait and fear
the knocking at our door.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
Ever since I met you
You did it from the start
You played God with my emotions
You ruled my soul, my brain, my heart
I don't know how it happened
But, what gave you the right
To take over my being
Right from that first night
Without you I'm not finished
I'm not first inside my mind
I now am always second
Or even much farther behind
I know God has all the power
He made the apple and the cart
But, God comes in behind you
when it involves ruling my heart
I know that I just need you
Every day more than before
I love you more each morning
I guess that's what love is for
But, tell me what exactly
Lets you play God with my head
Controlling how I'm feeling
My thoughts are yours instead
I've been yours from the beginning
You turned me completely outside in
I can not live with out you
I'm like a woodsman made of tin
Without you I'm not finished
I'm not first inside my mind
I now am always second
Or even much farther behind
I know God has all the power
He made the apple and the cart
But, God comes in behind you
when it involves ruling my heart
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
19 jan
He is the opening cords of every song.
He is the sound "sh."
He is the tree held up by stakes,
He is the stakes being whittled down to size.
He is inside the rough, back-and-forth motions of the pocketknife as it scratches off the bark.
He is the red, callous hands of the blade-wielding woodsman.
He is the brown,
the deer,
the drowning,
the dirt.
He never leaves footprints,
but he always leaves early--
He is the soft light of dawn,
never here for very long.
We remember him but we do not
yearn for him, we do not live for him.
He is the dead, brown shrubbery pushing through the melting snow,
all bent, no direction,
no preconceived intent.
Oh, but he's reawakening, it's almost spring,
he's growing above everything.
We take out the stakes and he does just fine.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
Compulsion is a sad thing,
making all of emotions deafeningly ring.
So you must understand. There's things I can do, and things I cant...
Though I have to say, that don't excuse why ate your aunt.
You must understand, that when you have these enormous fangs.
Sometime you get these inexplicably ravenous pangs.
All I seem to want to do is eat,
the very first person that I meet.
Believe it or not, but I am sorry for these rather large eye's
Which were used to make mocking disguise.
I know the shock must have been great.
The aftermath I knew you'd hate.
Though the woodsman cut me open with an axe,
I honestly don't find the judgment lax.
He did what he had to do,
so who am I to ever blame you.
But though this tale maybe done,
there are plenty of children left to chase and to run...
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC
Have you ever heard that growl
That comes from some beast's mighty bowls
A rumble from way down the street
That makes you shake from head to feet?
Have you seen the woods at night
So dark it's seems there's never light.
Have you walked right down a trail
Dressed in red, so small, so frail.
Have you ever felt such fear,
You wish to see your mother dear,
One last time before the beast
Takes you in and makes a feast?
Food from the basket in your hand,
Have you ever seen such teeth on Gran?
Or claws so thick, they're rip and tear
Just by passing through the air?
Have you ever heard it told,
Where beast keeps Red within his hold?
The woodsman fell asleep that night,
But never had the beast to fight.
So Red was eaten with the bread,
She'd saved for Gran, who'd been long dead!
So now, I think I'm willing to bet
That you haven't heard that ending yet!
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
a voice that won't subside
in the air i can barely breathe
just a pre-disposed slab
in a vacuum
"Bring back my ******* life!"
i scream while sneaking drinks
between tasks and sleep
never know what its like to be
amidst smoke and woodsman's chores
or else im bored into another man's dream
huffing compressed data
in a fugue state waiting for
tirades and the afterglow
please take a seat until then
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC