Poems of Wood

For weeks now the poems

Have all been of wood

Not soft scented cedar

Or even acrid pitchy pine

Not swirled burled maple

Or sweet sandalwood

No the poems have been

Of balsa or cottonwood

Bleached white bone dry

Softer than cardboard

Crepe brittle sheer dust

When crushed between

Thumb and forefinger

Was a time the poems

Were all grace notes

Wild birds fence lined

Or long necked swans

Long rafts of snow geese

Bills to tails tails to bills

Then poems were poppies

Swaying on fine green stems

Petals red as blood stains

Gash fresh from a palm

Laid open by the wind

Only to be healed again

By salt and sun

Long before the poems

Found a voice Took a form

I’d hear their bony feet shuffling

Round shelves of my mind

Now all I hear is silence


About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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5 Responses to Poems of Wood

  1. and silence, too, is poetry


  2. Morgan says:

    Beautiful :)

    Blessings Friend and Have a Great Week End ~


  3. Excellent – loved the idea of poems running round on boney feet


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