"woodsy" poems
Woodsy smell
Gentle touch
Husky voice
Sensuous words
Teasing smile
Steady, mysterious eyes
~
Appealing to my five senses
Seducing me, tenderly,
your sweet and spicy nothings.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,
Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ****** in the shambles of the moon,
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
behaved haughty and in disdain,
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
roving like noble patrolsmen.
Traveleres and trainees at sea
humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
volatile and toiling,
tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.
Hence the heroes heed
to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
in the murky shadows of doubt.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
In the land of the practical
There lived an ornamental
A desert rose.
A farmers wife
Planted her
To break up
The graveled nap
Of gray caliche
And from the time
She pushed her first shoot up
She knew she
Didn’t look like
The other plants.
The land could not
Be farmed
There was no oil
So the farmer and his wife
Moved On
Leaving the rose alone
Amongst the desert cabbage
And the other wild succulents.
At first she tried
To blend
Curl her velvety leaves
Into a cabbage
Fodder
For the desert fauna
But the animals avoided her
Because she looked odd.
They worried that she was poisonous
So she crawled back
Underground.
But still she longed
For light on her face
So she stuck another shoot up
Conserving all her energy
For her stems
She didn't want to frighten anyone
But her stems grew thick and woodsy
Like a thorny fig vine
And after a hiker
Cut his leg
She curled up
And crawled underground.
Years passed
Until she was as frozen
As the ground
Then one day
She sensed movement
Above her.
She pushed a shoot up
And standing above her
Smiling
Was a young woman
- There you are
The woman cried
- Why are you hiding away
My grandmother told me
All About you.
You were the one bright spot
Of color in her garden
She could smell your perfume
From her window
And it reminded her that
Beauty could survive
Even in such
A drab place.
And the rose blossomed.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:14 PM UTC
Crush the painted pestle stained
of berries, purple, black
Liquid crimson geranium blood
red the paper sack
Gathering colors, lushly green
go shades of tan the water weeds
mixed upon a stone
Woodsy calls, her depths of fall
lone a painter's
home
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 11:06 AM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
He was not your average hermit,
he was not unkempt or *****
He camped out in the woods of Maine
for years, now, nearly thirty.
He burgled food and propane tanks
when folks were not at home.
His carbon footprint was quite small
He didn’t even have a phone.
With a high school education,
He liked living off the land
He oft” shopped” at a summer camp
but was caught on security cam.
Finally they captured him
and put him in a cell.
Now with murderers and rapists
The hermit’s forced to dwell.
His distinctive “Woodsy” odor
Keeps them at bay, I swear.
This fugitive from Walden Pond is
smarter than the average bear.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 8:47 AM UTC
(...)
It is perhaps this association between birth and beginning each school year which led me to respect knowledge. The entire month of August tends to fly by, unnoticed, in anticipation of the day I see children forced back into ill-ventilated buildings to emulsify themselves in education, for knowledge. Knowledge, that Moloch of an idea! Hobbies, interests and Summertime activities were heaped on flaming tongues with words in order to illustrate their ultimate insignificance. We hoped to bring out the blessing of wisdom from its mouth. “What matters is the coming Winter, not the frivolous activities of undisciplined youths.” It is as if the leaves of every tree were humanity's hair, and August had pulled back every strand to blow the woodsy breath of Autumn smoke into life’s ear. "You won't be this way forever." I am yet seduced by Fall’s cryptic murmurings and led to believe in endless, Halcyon flight. With arms draped around us from behind, knowledge draws me into oblivion, with unlabeled memories and I throw my desires into Moloch’s mouth. Now that I am burning, my self is the voice of this demigod. My birth certificate is my body, holding a memory to be inscribed on some later form beside some other numbers. Life has only so many Decembers.
(...)
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
You are a guitar
and its woodsy scent
when it has never been played.
You are the forest
as background to a storm,
car windows down
and no sound but the glass
cutting the wind in half
and the pounding in our chests.
You are summer at 3am
when sleep is unnecessary
and the stars are most vulnerable.
You are the scent
of
cedar
and rain
and home.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
The star-crossed lovers prepared for a mountain hike.
"We're gonna climb and join the others," they said.
And up the hill they went.
There weren't many obstacles in the beginning;
just time for the two to blaze through the trees
and take a moment to revel in the woodsy scent.
It went on like this for a very brief period of time,
but then the tests began.
No water had been spotted since the first lake,
the one they thought they wouldn't need at the start.
One yelled at the other for failing to remember
to bring the all-important first aid kit.
Even then, they kept trekking on.
As they neared the mountain's peak,
each step got a little steeper,
more inclined towards an unrevealed truth.
They would stumble upon a bear or two
and have to pull each other along to survive.
Their feet and hands innately knew where to go
when giving the other strength to run away and live.
Being chased up the mountain began to feel less frightening,
and more like running towards the truth they unknowingly desired.
The final point was reached one day.
"We've reached it, universe. Now let us be among the stars."
Not one sound in response.
"We would like to become light as they have."
And at that moment, the universe spoke its truth.
"You believe that people climb all this way
only for me to turn them into something?
Heavens no, darlings! The answers lie within the journey.
That is where lovers become light.
Your bond is like electricity and together you burn brighter
after helping each other in the moments your lights turned off.
You radiate a glow so brilliant
that it reflects back upon my pitch-black canvas.
My nighttime skies house the stars that you have become.
I have created no such light;
the stars are birthed from you during the climb."
-mp
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
She took a moment to pause and ponder
one lonesome, dreary night
the consequences of her untimely death
that would end a hidden plight
One that had interlaced itself in her a while ago
that she had forced to silence and lull
but that enlivens itself at times like these
when she is feeling awfully dull
And so the shadow had visited her again that somber night
and in her, it forced her to see
the careful steps to her self-planned death
had she chosen to agree
It asked her, "Do you believe anyone would care?"
and to that she murmured, "Maybe."
In her head appeared images of remorseful Facebook posts
like those sent to a deceased boy in the same class as she
"But the frequency of those posts would decline," it said,
"as the topic of your death no longer became a care.
No one would mourn for your soul anymore,
and no one would shed a tear."
"Your friends will move on with their lives in time,
your family will eventually cope.
Your lover will find another love,
one not filled with forlorn hope."
"So take that thick rope into your hand," it urged,
"or those colorful pills in the bathroom drawer
and if you do it correctly and succeed
perhaps you'll be found dead on the carpet floor."
This shadow, while it still talked like an eager villain
no longer made a sound
She found she could quiet its menacing voice
with faint memories of happiness that she found
Of sunlight after a burst of rainfall
the woodsy scent of a winter breeze
morning grass speckled with dew
long streets in the fall adorned with golden leaves
Of family dinners gathered around the table
witty remarks and laughter shared with friends
quiet moments spent with her dearest, her lover
and his warm clasp around her hands
This shadow looked on in disgust
and bid her a sour farewell
as it shrunk itself in her yet again
and her dismal unease quelled.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
"who taught you to look so good?!"
says a thought [shot] in the dark.
--- this to no woman in particular but to
all womankind i suppose.
outside there is a dog haranguing me,
saying WOOF (that is, "where d'you get those old clothes?")
i tell him the sally ann but good luck
getting in there, dog . . . he takes off, complaining ---
but i pay no attention to the bellyaching of an old mutt...
"nay," says i there's not a ******
thing of any real importance in this
universal dustbin/save the dharma.
yea i could live in a woodsy cabin
deep down a valley-ay shoutin' "HOOO-EE!!" out the open door
to anyone who comes by and
be thought a crazy young ('ventually old) ******
off his rocker in the trees.
--- and why not!!
chop logs/cook bread 'n brew potsa tea
'n otherwise lead a silent but meaningful old existence
out there with weekend friends/girls/wine/talk.
--- tell all that to a bookish pal
who scoffs:
*"some dharmy of yours, boy. all that work.
where are the café sittings & sunny youthy days of
readin' sutras on a lawn somewhere?"*
"bah," i says. "bah..."
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Chirphead Cedarson's grave
simple as it was
two damp branches
held together by
John C. Rhoades' own twine
was just one foot deep
Stiff in Nature's Valley box
asleep, I could have thought
Small feathered body
slammed against a Supreme frozen window
Reflection of endless landscapes
perfect for practicing new wings
deceived Chirphead
to demise
Woodsy first found him
melted snowflakes
coated the body like April dew
[for little birds, even unmoving, remind me
of spring]
Four of us [strangers most]
stood 'round this gaping grave
a wormhole to the underworld
giggling through made-up confessions
Chirp on playa'
I didn't know you well
What's a bird to do if He'll never be a gangsta'?
Four Sorry's who've never lived mortality
just addictions
depressions
o(re)pressions
leading to he'said-she-said's
never knew my Daddy's dead
Momma never tucked me into bed
Where's our heads?
Four Sorry's smiling over Chirphead's grave
Sean shoveled dark dirt
back into tiny tomb
First scoop over the granola cardboard
sounded like
one-thousand
baby birds
hitting glass
like bulletts
Felt funny to smile,then
But a breath of crisp mountain air
fog rolling over distant trees
thoughts of
fresh coffee
cracking fire
one-eyed snowmen
Gave my conscience a most comforting
ignorant
Hug
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
hyped blood moon leaves me longing
no doom, no massive uprising
just another day
so many times the end of humanity
has reared its head
only to falter
when the day actually comes along
who among us remembers Elenin –
it is only through the revisiting of ancient ways
that we stand to exist beyond the horizon
returning to experiencing oneness with the natural world
as a part of instead of a steward too or protector therein
Carlin calls it ego, but I think stupidity
holds humanity at sway
thinking less pollution can somehow fix the Pacific
except fallout has been a part of that sea
since the late 1940’s –
no one looks to the Lorax
or even Woodsy the Owl
instead focusing on the little green head
on dollar bills…
pill popping beer swillers killing the planet
while claiming to be the smartest and greatest nation..
my patience is running out –
doubtful change can happen through human interaction
I wait for the earth to rid itself of this virus
massive tectonic upheaval
super storms
lice….
we all gonna die,
and it will be all our fault –
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Sweet aromas of outdoor woodsy scents
By a fire we sit, in such sweet embrace
And the love that we share is heaven sent
In the night veils low, the stars interlace.
Our simple country style, life is so sweet
My darling love, I love your gentle touch
Our every single kiss, is a real treat
Those loving kisses that we love so much
Fireflies join us, in our night of romance
There neon glow, while loving each other
We realized it was love at our first glance
You’re my one true love, there’s no another
Soft sweet woodsy scents, for us to adore
We kiss lovingly, who could ask for more.
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
One golden August day
Walking along the narrow lane
With ice cream pail in hand
Over the lush woodsy land
Looking for brambles of blackberries
Thirsting for their sweet juice in my belly
And nature's kindness does bestow
Along the lane unhindered they grow
Blackberries hang swollen on their vines
The first one a sweet addictive wine
Soon forgotten are the thorns
Each berry its own delectable reward
ALesiach © 07/26/2019
Jul 27, 2019
Jul 27, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
The rain pitter-patters the roof above, and I roll into your warm embrace.
The smell of coffee awakens my senses.
I'm all eyes, ears, and touch as your body molds to fit my own.
Your head nuzzled into my neck makes my brain go fuzzy, and reminds me of the cardigan you always wrapped me in when the cold would chill my bones.
The city is alive.
And we are free.
Free to roam, to wander, to shout to the heavens about the love we are experiencing.
Time and time again, lives fly by like chapters in a novel, and all we can do is sit and wonder.
Wonder and mumble "I love you's", over central park people watching, and night time cab rides to the bridge where we say we'll jump, but never do.
And so, I'll open up, and fill myself with your breath,
and your woodsy scent,
and I'll ponder and run over the words in my head.
Debating whether or not to tell you how much you've impacted my
mind
body
and soul.
You've infected my mind with your voice, and your fingers trace my spine, like the spine of your guitar.
And you'll play me until I'm sound asleep.
And in the morning... the song remains the same.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
I will wear you until the threads begin twiddling into former ghosts of themselves.
The last wooly remnants still slightly smell like your woodsy scent and that’s why I don’t go camping anymore.
It’s not because I hate the thought of you but I’ve Always hated kicking someone down when they’re just beginning to get back up and the thought of you does that to me.
The memory of that truck doused in flames on the way to Washington remains in my overworked brain still. The smell of burnt, charcoaled tires and metal prominent in the chilly December air. I never feared fire until I put myself in the shoes of that lonesome truck driver and that was the night I wanted to try dying a little as an attempt to get closer to you.
You see it’s not death that paralyzes my emotions and sends me into a numb, fearful state. The thought of regrets and things left unsaid with people, that didn’t understand what I was going through at the time is what gets my anxiety pumping.
Oh, why do I wear this sweater despite the warmth outside? To thaw the frost surrounding my heart
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 4:51 PM UTC
Heavy lids blanket over lenses I see
The world through
Captured light and movement
Moving me through the soothing day
Laugh and play
Climbing hiking and woodsy earthy smell
Distracting from the hell
That is
Your sickness
Even through pure bliss
I can’t miss
The tortured sad feeling I get
When I come to see you
exhausted , tired eyes begin to cry
Sleep finally takes me
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Smokey tender , woodsy splendor with a deep aroma of earthly greens , sense of taste melts,
Fades away ice caps and stone cold as snow
Thrown through the valleys of homes given the silence of the unknown, stresses away to different water ways , to come to a city at Bay . full of motion with winds blowing in the coasts , it's not for the faint of heart. it'll get dark and movement becomes scarce . Evil energy is dispersed in many ways . Faint smell of acholic dwelling upon the sense of disparity , and stress where care was no longer the fair . Over there where a bench meets the public , a few have sat and thought of a different city beyond what was seen to be the worst part of life , it's demeanor being lost and unforgiving as these lines are wrote for a different art . But seeing a different start .
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 4:14 PM UTC
I
where has this happened before?
leave your shoes on at the door.
at the beginning
my lips were cold,
smothered down by an impending hold.
too scared to sing a song,
wouldn’t dream to sing along.
come dress up with me
take me outside
and dangle me over
your favorite waterfall.
i will drink from its rays
until they freeze up my pipes
and you fix them for me
without being asked.
behind the sky
is your house
and you invite me every day
II
but i will never visit you
because you are not really here
and your soggy smile
gets me upset.
by coincidence we made a bet
that was intangible for you.
although i should confess, Father,
even before the time capsule
cell eroded to the surface
and laid the past out as a hostage.
i never felt for you.
i never liked you.
i hate to admit it,
i always lied to you.
get away from you.
get away from me.
don’t come back
until i can come back.
i know it’s hard on you
but it’s crushing me whole
and now i’m blowing away
and the holes
in the net
are too big to catch me.
III
some days we can make it a game.
some days we microscope our pain.
wrap it up like bday presents
show it off like the pretty pheasants.
no that's a peacock
the boys are pretty
will i be pretty?
even though
it feels ******
i want to move somewhere woodsy
but i can’t go alone, oh
turn up the boom box
so it drowns out the
SCREAM
ING
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
I love you and your voice and
Your music and I wish you'd
Embrace your talent and your
Skill with change
If I could cut through the miles I
Would, if I could find a way to
Help us both I would, if I could
Find a way to get you here I would
I'm building a garden and a haven and
I want to replicate the beauty I felt last
Spring, a year ago, pulling off that
Woodsy Bohemian Highway
We're so similar I'm scared to speak,
I was living a mistake, killing myself
By the fireside, and all the while I was
Petrified
I've found a light since then and I'm
Hoping we can speak again
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Igor flew to the States to visit Eli &
take care of some [other business];
the Simple home, woodsy & open w/ a
fiery hearth; Igor, city boy from just
outside St. Petersberg felt warm &
welcome; The three Simple children
polite & well behaved towards 'Uncle'
Igor; Smoking fine cigars, Eli showed
Igor the spot on the barn wall where
the woman's gold body had been hung;
replaced now by a continuous video
projection of the woman hanging there
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC