"woodsmoke" poems
goodmorning
the **** convinced me
not to move the black bracers-
killer whales wanting to dance
but i stuff them with threads,
knots of ebony and fishnets,
so they hang over my body
at night during my journeys.
are they looking after me or
are they after that red bead
in my center?
burning woodsmoke now, patchouli
melt creamy- as venus sways one
hip from the fire pits of aries
she ends up on the other side:
the dirt finger grove of the steady
bull chanting "hold and touch and stay."
goodmorning
when has the sun glided his way,
as if upon the hips of a sea nymph,
across miles and angles of what
was a dark night?
keep your water, i am weaving.
i am breathing every taste of it
i am touching infinitely that center,
so sought after, like the walls of palaces
when tongue touches lip
i am rubbing every color through me
i am watching your scent drizzle gently
all over my pools of skin.
tend me like the earth, goodmorning
string me like the grape vines bursting forth from soil.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
7.7k
Blowing leaves around my ankles
Burning colour in the trees
You are my autumn
Long light crossed with branches
Lights your limbs
A pace behind
Your mellow loftiness
Haunts my walks
At the nearing end of day
I am full of woodsmoke fear
Changing seasons, churning motes
Unknown as the dread-dark conker
Cracking underfoot
You are happiness
Gone , now
An empty bench
Gold and orange
A pace behind
Wearing that look from the station
Pity-I mistook for regret
7.11.21
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 5:35 PM UTC
loathe — july 17, 2013
reëstablish the current which made being whole
no, not just in another life since fragmented whole is nothing tethered to the waist. that’s what belts are for. if you say so
monitor it like
you would anywhere
the trajectory is clear : light the torch of multi-orbed sensation
where we wait on the cusp
of the whole
perhaps in another life, we dare to suggest it. i don’t dare. if i did, i would consider myself a pigment of this pallet
i don’t breathe limited expectation
scientific claims
they’re just as good as dead to me. perhaps the whole can be related and consume our progress. there is too much to see. too little methods
methodic function isn’t perfunctory yet. a push is required. jumpstarting will only cause sparks.
i know something better
so sit down and move to the right. the light’s blocking my view and i cannot surmise unless i’m granted a complete oversight. nothing backseat, because we all know
that is reductive
paint splatters on my face
i
am
frozen
the colors reimage our complexion and erase the mistakes until we are whole
[ uncertainty is the new guarantee ]
introspection is a form by which we do so. everything we see is incomplete. our eyes need to be adjusted
to the [ uncertain ]
adore — july 29 , 2013
black blue strata pillars spruces flutes
eclectic aftermath debris snaffle pop
chute-in whelked chrome lugubrious
lifeblood : trans yes mutate pro-ohms
in timehalts wyoming woodsmoke
screened scans : rancid gemini rotors
hulks histories back - lying supine arts
( please remind me to act regimentally )
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
Women sit on the laps of drunken men
Each man has claimed his *****
Only one man sits alone
Nursing a bottle of Jack
His eyes downcast and shadowed
Are filled with fire and doubt
A fire that burns sharp and bitter
Much like the liquor in his mouth
Woodsmoke covers the sweet smells
Of *** and Black and Milds
As all fly higher, they care less and less
The energy becomes primal and wild
Slowly they separate in groups of two
Each pair to find a tent of their own
The clearing empties, the fire dies down
And only one man is left alone
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 11:05 AM UTC
The smell of woodsmoke in your hair,
dampened by the shower fog.
The subtle morning chorus,
the hungover smell of ***
the tangle of our ankles beneath the pillows.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Can this be the time once more
Of utter giving up of our control
The simple folliwing of commercial madness
Our desire for the day when food and wine
Have to be gathered about us like the defences of yore
Headlong we run from mid-summer until
We are exhausted in body, spirit or credit
The desperate worry of what to buy whom
Or when to order the especially fattened bird for your table
The ridiculous overspending on presents
When time could be the finest present you could give
Yule tide is a special period for Druids and all pagans alike,
The wonder of simplicity of reflection of our past year
The elements of sleep as mother earth regenerates herself
Resting often under the warmth of a blanket of snow
Gathering of families and loved ones
Blessings of the solstice as the wheel of the year turns
Once more into the light as the sun begins it's journey
Returning to the northern hemisphere
Our birds and native animals preparing for the winter
Storing their food, digging deep as they look for vitals
Likewise the land is resting,
The soil teems with dormant life, every insect and worm
Every root, form and bulb
Slowing right down as the degrees fall to freezing
The frosty and rime ridden mornings giving the flora
A lift of white dusting and sparkling light reflecting
The weak, beautiful winter sun
Heaves itself onto the low glancing position
Just making it to the tree tops before retiring once more to sleep
Leaving glorious swathes of orange and red
Painting the sky as it falls and rises.
Yule tide comes as all seasons, times and periods
But once a year in our short lives
The earthy sounds, the images and emotion
The smell of the newly fallen snow and woodsmoke
The foraging birds and squirrels
The warbling and tuneful song of the blackbird
And the tut tut of Mr Robin resplendent in his
Bright red waistcoat bobbing around in the crisp frost
Our lifetime of Yules is a wonder to enjoy,
I know as I look from my window where my heart is
As the distant tree bare in it's winter shroud speaks
To me as a friend and anchor within this beautiful planet.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
My brother is the musky smell of woodsmoke.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
I loved it,
whitewater rafting
in the Adirondacks,
sleeping in tents
cooking on woodsmoke
having a joke with
the
New Yorker yokels
known locally as the locals.
It was Yellowstone that stole my heart,
rings of fire on the end of a rainbow
dreams that we lived and
we lived for the dream,
all the rest is just history
and most of that went to the scrapyard.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC
(for Glynn)
Singing breeze
Singing breeze
Carrying nothing
Kissed by sunlight
Carry my wishes
Scatter my troubles
Leave the grey highway
Slip through the forest
Birch and pine
Needle and catkin
Shutting the sky out
Speckles of sunlight
Evening sky
How many colours
How many colours
Woodsmoke and silence
Unsleeping river
Silence and river
Wanting to share this
Beautifully lonely
Only I saw it
Only I held it
Stop this stone rolling
Let the moss gather
Living as leaf-fall
Living as boulder
Keener than snowmelt
Fuller than August
Cradle of tree roots
Mantle of mountain
Granite horizon
Breezes will soothe you
Whispering breezes
Will you be listening
Do you hear singing
Do you hear forests
Apr 1, 2011
Apr 1, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
I. the breathing of human nature
her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *
whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.
she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.
II. the statue and sobriquet
piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.
nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--
in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.
III. declaration
she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,
roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,
separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.
In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.
It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,
but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.
In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls
the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.
The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid
abstracts.
I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch
and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—
the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 9:33 AM UTC
In my little town
dogs sleep on the street
and act affronted
when you drive on the bed.
My little town allocates resources
in proportion to priorities.
We have one school
two churches
and three bars.
The teenage boys in my little town
gather by the pond after dark
with big engines and little cans of beer.
They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight,
moon a passing car.
But at least
we know where they are.
In my little town some girls keep horses
in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys,
they cruise on saddles astride a big beast,
dropping opinions as they meet.
On the Fourth of July
the whole little town
has a big picnic.
The ducks on the pond in my little town
waddle across the road each afternoon
a milling, quackling crowd
round the door of the yellow house
where the lady gives them grain.
When it rains,
they swim on the road
or sleep there, like dogs.
On a cold morning
the woodsmoke of stoves
lingers like fog
in my little town.
We hold village meetings
where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers
***** for a grudging consensus.
We cling to the side of our mountain
building homes, making babies
beneath trees of awesome height.
We work too hard, play too rough,
and sense daily something sweet about living
in our little town.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 6:32 PM UTC
Crisp breezes blow
The clouds are a sign of snow. . .
Snow is on the way
Making it's way here today
The Autmn cottage stands strong and tall
The crisp breeze is a sign of Fall
Fall is here ever speak
And brittle leaves lie in heaps
The country lane is full of leaves
Which dance and twirl in the breeze
The trees on either side
Make it seem so very wide
This path was walked by many tired feet
In the coolness and the heat
Lots of leaves piled everywhere
And the strong smell of sweet woodsmoke in the air
This is one of my favourite Seasons
And perhaps you've caught the reason
Because. . . It's so beautiful
This time when Fairies sit upon toad stools
They laugh at the window
And cry with the snow
Their cheeks of warmth a glow
In the rain and in the snow
This is why I love Fall the best
When Autumn wears it's pretty vest!
~Marian~
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
I can't wait for the summer again when:
I can stand in a big open field and look up at the sky with the sun setting in the West, slipping down the trees and through holes in the horizon until it's bled away into the atmosphere.
I can't wait for the summer again when:
I can stand on a hill at dusk and breath in the air that smells faintly like brush fire and soft woodsmoke, tinted with the summery tang of ripening fruit; peaches to be exact.
I can't wait for the summer again when:
I can wake up on the early mornings where the fog veils the trees like wispy lace, scented like lavender and rain, mixing the air like watercolours, swirling pinks and blues and purples together to create a pallet.
I can't wait for the summer again when:
I can sit on my front porch and watch the sky explode with lightning during a thunderstorm, illuminating the fronts of houses and my driveway, drenching everything in purple and white light.
I can't wait for the summer again when:
I can be free.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
I'm thinking back to the times when I was camping last year
Sitting by a crackling log fire with Mollie at my feet
Watching the sun set over the trees
The smell of woodsmoke
Occasionally seeing a ghostly owl on silent wings
Hunting small creatures of the night
At such times I don't miss the company
Of mankind
I'm content with the solitude of the fields and woods
My only entertainment is what nature provides
The warm aroma of pine resin
The sweet song of the Nightingale
Who needs more than that?
I certainly don't
Out there in the woods I'm at peace with myself
I can put away the dark thoughts, the nightmares
Sometimes I will sit there until the early morning hours
Happy, content, not bothered by what tomorrows headlines
Might say
Unaware of the sadness, the daily death and destruction that makes the news
I look at faces on the moon
And in my mind see magic in the stars
Read stories in the crackling flames of the campfire
Solitude, peace, the time I love the most
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
the hollow man come calling
his crown of fig leaves
is tinged brown with decay
he carries a scent of late fall
and the woodsmoke of homestead cookfires
he bears with him a satchel made of skin
inside are the measures of madness
and the tools of his craft
he comes calling
to your door
sit with him at you table of plenty
and let him feast at his leasure
let him bide his time
and take his rest upon your finest linens
give him your silk shirt
and your skilled leather boot
fore this hollow man is one
who's displeasure you care not to seek
the hollow man come calling
to the headstone and the friars chapel
the hollow man and his empty echo of words
speaks in pig latin
foretelling all and yet nothing
his cold touch is bone thin
and he leaves behind a
letter handwritten on parchment
that smells faintly of bandages and
a metallic cinnamon
the letter gives the day and hour of your passing
and the ultimate meaning of your life
the cost of all the things you accomplished
and the regrets of all thouse you have loved
the hollow man
is waiting
for each of us
with a letter addressed to each
he is but a delivery boy
for the inevitable
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
irregular, you came, your best clothes
shining.
never mind. the first tune hit the mind,
patterns and mathematics.
the kindness that is, mixes
with dampened autumn air, and your woodsmoke.
sweet oak.
all that there is. here.
sbm.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 1:09 AM UTC
I dreamt of drinking whiskey
first sip
favorite brand
dry for a year
now wet again
felt the weight of the glass in my hand
heard the ice tink against the sides
as it sloshed around in warm amber glow
held it under my nose and
inhaaaaaled
noseful of vapor burn
so wonderful
so familiar
comforting as a favorite old t-shirt
woodsmoke and caramel and corn
county fair
harvest festival
excited heart racing
time to do it
break the seal
break the spell
I cast on these lips last Witches' Night
ember sparks the tip of my tounge
and fire spreads down
my throat
and out
to my limbs
and through
my whole being
dopamine rush of
ohmyfuckinggods
and I know this is the single greatest thing
I have ever put in my mouth
and I know I was born to do this
and I wake up
thirsty
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 6:19 PM UTC
You are an aimless nap,
casual and languid,
Cozy but dangerous
In the gray wash of the day,
you're a single red balloon,
floating, floating
toward nothing, toward
oblivion
A sly-eyed persona,
an ombre-d smile and
a heart mixed with lemon, sour
but sweet
An afternoon green and airy,
and my mind is full of you,
destructive but beautiful,
I wish I could fix this for you,
I would fix this for you
You're the lucky eyelash and
the smell of woodsmoke in Winter
a warm, windy anecdote
when the sun sets early
You smell of roses,
an irrisistable aroma of
beauty,
You don't know how to love
and that is okay, and I am okay
because girls with a sly-eyed personas
and who smell of roses,
are girls who linger in daydreams and
who smile sleepy smiles
and know the best music
Girls like you, cozy and
Dangerous,
are girls that I paint,
so dark
and
mysterious
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
The warm kiss of a summer breeze
The melodic singing of birds
The quiet mornings after rainfall
The sting of cold water on your feet
The dull itch of soft grass
The soundless echo of caves
The life vibrating through forests
The rough, comforting feel of trees
The bubbling laughter of rivers
The cool breath of winter to come
The warmth of sunbeams
The tall mountain sentries
The dust left over from climbing claycliffs
The numb feeling of snow
The peace of twilight
The smell of woodsmoke hanging in the air
The dark of long winters
The joy of short summers
The yukon
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
The leaves crunch under my feet and the wind plays with my hair,
the distant scent of woodsmoke fills the air.
I stop and breathe in the fresh scent of nature, here I find repose,
in my pocket a scrap of paper and pencil, I take them and compose.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC