NaPM April 12 2014

[milo]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Topic 12: Today's prompt comes from ellajam. Write a poem from the pov of a piece of wood or wooden object, or tree.
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more

Questions?

[Mopkins]

Tobacco Pipe

Oh here he comes again, he picks me up and walks outside.
He puts me in his pocket where the dust and lint reside
Then wanders round the garden looking for a place to sit
and finally he finds a place to rest up for a bit...
Takes me out with pouch and lighter and perches happily
on the stump behind the shed, beneath the poplar tree.
Fumbling he fills me – I don’t mind for I am his...
He lifts me to his lips and kisses me- that’s how it is.

[Magpie]

Fence

I was once part of a miracle,
now I have boundaries.
I segregate and divide,
I am your outermost limit.
I am your accountant,
I show you what you own.

But cover me in creosote and I become the key
that unlocks the door to your innate narcotic tendencies.
I become the flood of sense induced recollections
of endless summers of childhood bliss.
And in silence, you suffer.

[Erthona]

It has taken years for him to learn to feel the grain;
not in his hands, but in his soul.
A craft as difficult as cutting diamonds—
and just as unforgiving.
He has found over time he can
not only read the wood,
but also people.
He can tell which go with the grain,
and which do not, and much more.
He stays silent on these matters,
because he has also learned wisdom
from me.

[milo]

The signs in Aokigahara

"Your life is precious," say the signs
in seven different languages
or "Please talk to the police."

uninterrupted by the cheerful
chirp of birds
or the shushing sounds

of smaller mammals
scurrying through the undergrowth
people travel deep

to where the whispering stops
and listen to the trees.
Aspens know that life's a gift

and not to talk to the police
or interrupt people just looking
for a quiet place to die.

[Todd]

Ciliegia, the Unchosen Block

You cannot change the nature
of the grain,
be you fish or fairy.
He was too soft for a soul
sticky, black beneath the carving
knife, lost in the shavings.
The artisan knows
more than a mad puppeteer, who is deceived
by his hand’s vanity.
I cannot lie
for I am often felled in integrity.
This is no boy,
and I need no knots to see.

[ChristopherSea]

Magnolia’s Annotations

Old lady Willow is weeping,
as she soaks her weary roots,
in the warm and languid water
of the Brandywine millpond.

The exotic Mimosas dance,
their pinnate leaves spread in fans.
They dress in inflorescence veils
of silken magenta strands.

Ash’s arm dangles in the breeze,
casting shadows on the church.
His bony and lecherous hand
paws dainty Easter dresses.

The mad Sycamores play foul jokes
on unwary guests below,
raining their bark and monkey balls,
amusing only themselves.

Groves of lanky Paper Birches
gather in consultation,
akin to wise elder wizards
in ceremonial robes.

Guardian Lombardy Poplars
falter on uncertain legs.
Their eyes are focused on the stars
as they watch for errant dreams.

We have no secrets in nature,
yet there’s intrigue on our stage,
but our arboretum drama
shouldn’t keep you up at night.

[ellajam]

Old Grove

I grew before the road was made
when humans sometimes pitched a tent,
they fished awhile, laid in my shade
then packed their things, away they went.
In time a trail was carved by feet
and lakeside cabins 'neath my arms
were built for fun, a summer treat,
vacation homes instead of farms.
The path was paved atop my roots
and people came to fear my girth,
they went to stores for nuts and fruit
and thought my trunk held all my worth.
Now split and seasoned, stacked to stoke,
I'm burned for heat, gone up in smoke.

[cidermaid]

New growth.
One day, in a few hundred years
I will say to the wind,
“Go round me”.

I will show her my wooden face,
wrinkled and scowling,
I will not bow down.

I‘ve seen enough of her disrespect,
how she rakes through the leaves
of my elders, leaving them shaken,
stressed by the misty weight of her kiss.
She thinks she can shape me,
wind me around her finger.

My roots are iron hard boats,
my limbs can support whole nations.
I will stand my ground.

My kind are crowned as kings;
with more renown that her moaning,
let her sound off.

[justcloudy]

Kitchen table


Mornings are filled with tantrums
my kids aren’t the a.m. kind
escaping boots and small jackets
they crawl underneath me to hide.

Afternoons I’m filled with homework
as my kids practice writing their names
they’re done using me as a teether
but I’m proud of their growth every day.

All gather around me each evening
as the windows stop letting in light
they pile me high with their supper
stay laughing till late in the night.

On my favorites I support the children
as sleepy heads end up on me,
their drool pooling on my dark varnish
I’ll always stand for them faithfully.

[Keith]

The wood knows you know

Another pair of hands
and fresh backed books,
tucked neat deep inside,
dried wells now hold pens,
spent gum faults my finish,
sharp lines furrow my face,
trace the years of learning.
Turning minds around again
grain gives away too smooth
soothes another pair of hands
and full backed books.