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Timber
When I first saw you standing there , you set my heart a-reeling
Baby , you gave me such a feeling
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
Well, it happens evry time I look in your eyes
Baby , its paradise
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
Well , I wish that you were mine to be forever and ever
Without you darling I just cant sleep
Im only happy when were together
I guess its time that I told you so
Ill always want to hold you
Baby , have I ever told you
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Yeah , yeah , yeah
I wish that you were mine to be forever and ever
Without you darling I just cant sleep
Im only happy when were together
I guess its time that I told you so
Ill always want to hold you
Baby , have I ever told you
My heart cries timber , timber , timber , timber
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Whoa , whoa , whoa
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you
Whoa, whoa, whoa
Timber baby cause Im a-fallin for you (fade)
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jagged Edges
Imagine, yourself-no, be there! -in a canyon,
Crisscrossed with sharp steel edges,
Rim to rim,
The Grand Canyon of canyons;
You're at the bottom-
There is no way out
Unslicing yourself.
That's the blues, not the greens,
(Like the colored wedges) ,
You feel wedged in every day
In the canyon of imperfection.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Knotty Pine
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She cries turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
Shes knotty but nice
Reaching for the sky
She dont like snow n ice
To leave things as they stand
Is my advice
Shes been good to me
So I tend to go there when I can
Shes my knotty pine
Such a pretty scene
She tries to be kind
She gives birds a home
And shelters them
In her coat of green
Shes as green as evergreen can be
Shes a real delight
When little breezes call
To ruffle up her skin
All her sap runs free
And sticks to me
Hidden deep within
I will be her slave eternally
Shes my knotty pine
She leans with the wind
She crys turpentine
Sometimes she nettles me
But I dont mind
Only now and then
When her branches lean beneath the snow
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is the timber of poetry that wears most surely, and there is no timber that has not strong roots among the clay and worms.
quote by John Millington Synge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Timber Ho!
Im gonna pull this timber 'fore the sun go down
Get it 'cross the river 'fore the bars come down
Drag it on down that dusty road
Come on jerry, lets dump this load
I said timber, ho!, timber, woah this timbers gotta roll
I said timber, ho!, timber, woah this timbers gotta roll
My old jerry was an arkansas mule
Been everywhere and he aint no fool
Weighed nine hundred and twenty-two
Done everything a poor mule can do
(chorus)
Jerrys shoulders stood six foot tall
Pulled more timber than a freight could haul
Workin heavy old jerry got sore
Pulled so much he couldnt pull no more
(chorus)
The boss said jerry and it made him jump
Jerry ran and kicked the boss on the rump
My old jerry was a cool mule
Had it been me I woulda killed that fool
Boss tried to shoot old jerry in the head
Jerry took that bullet and he stomped him dead
Stomped that boss til he heard him scream
Sure dont care he was so damn mean
(chorus 2x)
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Inside That Room
inside that room
clutters of old things
a conglomeration of dusts
silent stones
broken wedges
blunt shapes and sharp edges
inside that room
that silence we both shared
isolated moans
tongues lingering
inside that room
our memories
now the door is closed.
inside that room
the noise of insistence
the clap of a disaster
we disown
inside that room
the impregnation of tough thoughts
with soft laces
of ductile memories
inside that room
oh! there is no
us anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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On the Sea of Melancholy
I'm wasted. What is left of me,
Caressed by crushing, weeping waves
On the sea of melancholy?
Washed up in the wreck of worry
That concern's rising tide has gave,
I'm wasted. What is left of me?
The sky appears blue and bloody.
The sun sinks like shark bait behaves
On the sea of melancholy.
The sharp crosswind cuts me, chilly.
I'm gutted by remorse's shave.
I'm wasted. What is left of me?
Foggy tropes sound within the flurry
Of a despairing storm's grand stave
On the sea of melancholy.
The tidal stream seems tied, knotty,
Bounding me to a submerged grave.
I'm wasted. What is left of me
On the sea of melancholy?
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Look Sharp
Big shot, tell you what
Tell me what goes on around here
Go on and get me in the corner
Smoke my cigarettes and drink my beer
Tell me that this world is no place for the weak
Then you can look me in the eye
And tell me if you see a trace of fear
You gotta look sharp
You gotta look sharp
And you gotta have no illusions
Just keep going your way looking over your shoulder
Okay, what you say
Tell me what theyre wearing this year
Go on and laugh at me cause you dont see
That I got something going right here
Say Im just a dreamer
Say Im just a kid
Well ace, shut your face
Maybe you will see or hear
You gotta look sharp
You gotta look sharp
And you gotta have no illusions
Just keep going your way looking over your shoulder
Big shot, thanks a lot
Gotta go its getting late
I got a date with my tailor now
Thanks for putting me so straight
Tell me how they run the crime down every street
But check your watch and wallet now
Before I go and youre too late
You gotta look sharp
You gotta look sharp
And you gotta have no illusions
Just keep going your way looking over your shoulder
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For all the Land to See: A Song of the Tools
THE CROSS-CUT and the crowbar cross, and hang them on the wall,
And make a greenhide rack to fit the wedges and the maul,
The “done” long-handled shovel and the thong-bound axe that fell,
The crowbar, pick-axe and the “throw”—the axe that morticed well.
The old patched tent and “fly”, bag bunk and pillow of sugee,
The frying-pan and billy-can, for all the land to see.
The cross-cut, after pounds of files, is narrowed down and thin,
With here and there a tooth cut out as th’ curve straightened in,
The axe close to the iron ground, the shovel to the shaft,
The handle from the first worn smooth with sweat and dust and graft.
The maul and wedges burred and split, spell bravest history—
These were the arms our fathers bore, for none but they to see.
Then look you round on all that is, on cities proud and fair,
And look you westward from the range—towns, farms and homesteads there.
Then hurry to a place you know lest you should be too late,
And clear the scrub some little space—small place, say—three-by eight.
A blackened post stump stands where four rough panels used to be
And there take off your panama where none but God might see.
poem by Henry Lawson
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A long macramé
Plant holder in cream white cord;
A knotty affair...
haiku by Mamta Agarwal
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The Tree
And you know
the tree
has a knotty nose
on a trunk
that changes face
surreptitiously
walks on tiptoe
to another place.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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The Stringy-Bark Tree
There's the whitebox and pine on the ridges afar,
Where the iron-bark, blue-gum, and peppermint are;
There is many another, but dearest to me,
And the king of them all was the stringy-bark tree.
Then of stringy-bark slabs were the walls of the hut,
And from stringy-bark saplings the rafters were cut;
And the roof that long sheltered my brothers and me
Was of broad sheets of bark from the stringy-bark tree.
And when sawn-timber homes were built out in the West,
Then for walls and for ceilings its wood was the best;
And for shingles and palings to last while men be,
There was nothing on earth like the stringy-bark tree.
Far up the long gullies the timber-trucks went,
Over tracks that seemed hopeless, by bark hut and tent;
And the gaunt timber-finder, who rode at his ease,
Led them on to a gully of stringy-bark trees.
Now still from the ridges, by ways that are dark,
Come the shingles and palings they call stringy-bark;
Though you ride through long gullies a twelve months you’ll see
But the old whitened stumps of the stringy-bark tree.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Forest Dies
Above the voices
of axe and saw.
Echoing loud and clear
through forest and glade.
'TIMBER! TIMBER! '
Call of the lumberjack.
To some the music of profit.
Others death's mournful wail.
An instant of silence.
Executed a tree topples.
A cracking twisting moan
rustle and swish of leaves.
The earth trembles.
Another noble resident
taken by man.
Taken without remorse.
Selfishly to satisfy his needs.
BEWARE take heed!
Man must not ignore the fact.
These regal giants he takes away
with young must be replaced.
To grow in hope to take another day.
How many of nature's domain
for sacrifice bear mark?
Will there one day come?
Forests are no more?
poem by Kurt Hearth
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I've Been Reading....
a lot, yes a lot,
i have never stopped reading
that is what they want
they want a mind
a very well read man
with a very sharp mind
for what purpose then?
it is not a sharp mind for sharp mind's sake
you know what i mean
it is a castle with a moat
a parapet with a sharp shooter guard
you know what i mean
what they need is someone they can use
and use so well
for their own ends... a sharp mind
which can shoot like a gun
and shoot rapidly and
accurately
to kill all the enemies of the family
one that can protect this clan
and protect it
so well, and not just that,
but one who can go beyond it
amass other people's wealth
twist arguments in the family's favor
oh yes, i read a lot
and have more knowledge and a deeper understanding
Papa died a long time ago
he lost his fortune and brother says
that i who has a sharper mind than him
shall recover
what we have lost...
and must take revenge
and take what is not ours, oh yes, and go beyond all those
rules
and go around them
and this is where
i surrender, something that i understand so well
and hence
cannot do
what i am being told to do.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Of Tigers And Rivers
you speak of tigers
and you define it not of its colors or shape or form
but of its shadow
this tiger that lies soundlessly between the
wedges of words
inside the indolence of some syllables
at first i am confused
that this tiger may come to form with sharp
razor teeth and then with new feet jump before me
to devour me
but you assured me, diligently in all the books of your
library, filled with dusts and silence, that this will never happen,
i waited for quite long,
there is this sound of a burst of a gun,
some drops of blood dripping from the ceiling,
i am looking for the scene, the Act, and the characters,
of the play that you have not finished writing,
there is the endless space spreading before me
the rivers flow
from my mouth, and i am carried away, to your glimpse
of eternity.
i am afraid, that your tiger is dead.
i suspect, that the rivers too dried.
i hope for more words, i am tired
the same thing happens in the history of men
promises are made to be broken
tigers are shadowy beasts that exist only in the minds
and rivers seemingly flow like all tomorrows
eternal, they never stop
they never end. Like air.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bilgeways Hold
(Bilgeways Hold)
Bilgeways hold. Boat 's atop the blocks
timber 's under the keel, the chain-bolts,
bumkins are hawling down the fore-tack
the timber daggers and the gun-deck oak.
Hours walk, I bonk the timber false heel,
incinerate tar to blusher upon main keel,
chocks of upper deck fay across the apron,
hammer the nails, arrest 'em 'n scout peg.
Sweat dribbles, hammer drops on dagger
drops trickle down the floor and swagger
my muscled arms rustle, bitter to befit
abridge the shafts scout and fix the bitts.
Brawn arms on sluggish job, head together
two strakes hooked, gunwales to foregather
as sinews work on manly effort and hoist
arise and heave to join, my forehead moist
A man must know, as hammer drops, to usher
with calm patience of no disuse of a rusher,
a man must know how desuetude to crosscut
in a ship-yard his thrust to cond and rebut
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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The Tree Out My Window
Taller taller
than last year
Greener greener
than last shower
there is a tree out my window
stouter stouter
than previous year
stronger stronger
no wind can steer
the tree is standing out my window
birds, crawlers
vines and creepers
children, farmers
artists and passers
sharing prosperity with this tree out my window
calm, silent
when spring is pleasant
violent, firm
when it's autumn
the tree out my window
varying moods and tone
with season
varying acts and chores
with changing sun
the tree shows out my window
true friend
true bond
mystic impression
full of motivation
the tree out my window
older older
still looking tender
timber timber
for good timber
they cut the tree out my window
vines, creepers
birds, crawlers
artists, passers
children, farmers
forgot the tree out my window
poem by Tarun Sharma
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It does not take sharp eyes to see the sun and the moon, nor does it take sharp ears to hear the thunderclap. Wisdom is not obvious. You must see the subtle and notice the hidden to be victorious.