martin Mar 2012

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

BT Sanders Oct 2010

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.













Isabel Sykes Feb 2014

He lived in a cabin
At the base of the mountain
His face grey and weathered
His posture awkward, angular
He was chiseled from the very rock

Hair like wire
Coarse and the colour of rust
Sticking straight up from his head
Like a shoe brush
And he walked with a stick

Each morning he'd be seen
Knelt by the stream
Fishing while his eyes darted
Left, and right
Black as the water

He seemed to melt into the backdrop
His clothes like bark
His bare arms gnarled and knotted
Like the trunk of a tree
He had sprung forth from the very ground

And when he died they say
He returned to the earth
His breath became the wind
His tears the rain that watered the land
And his smile could be seen
In the flowers that grew

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.

The blazing
flame of the
dark lantern
was shining
as it reflected
in the
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
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...

Paul Rousseau Mar 2012

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

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?

LJ Chaplin Sep 2016

He remembers the night they first met,
Alone in the woods,
Cradling her in his arms,
She was just kindling then,
Fractured and frail.

He took her to his cabin,
Where his only company
Was the chill that hugged his bones
And the gentle whispers
Of creaking wood.

He laid her down on the hearth,
A bed of coal and shredded paper
Soothed her splintered skin
And she nestled deep into
It's embrace.

With a match in hand
He knelt beside her,
And with one strike
He pierced her skin
And she was transformed.

Her heart raged,
A blazing beauty
That filled the room,
A sweltering spectacle
That would bring the Sun to its knees.

The Woodsman watched in awe,
Perplexed by the way she swayed,
The way she devoured the icy air
And exuded such radiance
He had to look away.

The butterflies in his stomach
Further fanned the flames,
And she reached out eagerly
To hold his hand
And entwine her fingers with his.

The Woodsman knew it would burn,
But playing with fire never seemed so enticing,
To feel her scorch his soul,
Feel the rush as flesh and flame
Seductively entangle in an unforgettable inferno.

And when the black night thickened,
When shadows ceased to dance on the walls,
The woodsman will always remember
When he danced in the flames
And made love in the embers.

© L.J. Chaplin
Chris McNeilan Jul 2015

Every so often without warning all of the hatred and pain I've gone though culminates into an extreme rage to where even if I am the happiest motherfucker out there I become a high energy ball of absolute fury.

This of all feelings is the hardest to contain. It takes much more time and  diversions to force me mind into relaxing and to stop focusing on all things that elevates my sense of anger and vengance.

Even if rationally I know that inciting revenge upon another solves literally nothing and will never satisfy the strife you feel within, it takes control.

I am here writing this right now for sole purpose of attaining the inner peace I had just prior to the flash of blind yet justified destructive and malicious thoughts. I know my incredibly intense ferocious internal possibly borderline insane sense of righteousness would only lead me further into the depths of absolute darkness and self hatred.

That is why I strived to have a strong Willed mind, one that will never faulter under the most formidable of scenarios and forces. Although some may blind side me and toss me into a void of degradation, I have the experience and aptitude to ascend back into who I really am sincerely.

Just venting my mind.
Tommy Le Jan 2017

He could bend nature;
Trees twist and ground shifted by.
Here, he is a god.

The woodsman
is not always as
sharp as his

Richard Grahn Oct 2017

pale birch trees stand tall
long shadows seep into night
lumberjacks slumber

Trying to get closer to a real haiku/senryu here. I've still got a long way to go before I get a handle on some of the intricacies.
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