I used to get on a stove wood pile at 5-6 years old and I would have a piece of stove wood and kindling bark as a pick, and I was a star.
quote by Jerry Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Forefathers
Force the design of a matter of doubt
To be useless.
The lessening of your number of people
Is like a fire of wood crackling
With heat.
The hot stove is cooking my meat of venison,
Relished by my children of the woods.
The design of food is exceptional by the maker of us,
He is the forefather, and she is the foremother,
Reaching our hearts with the stove and the woods
And the sylvan animals of beauty and belief.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sestina
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Continuation
The Continuation
It is night they have all gone to bed, since I’m old and sleep little
my job is to keep the ember alive in the stove, add a piece of wood
now and then. My granddad used to do that keeping the flames
alive, so when the young got up the rooms wouldn’t be too cold.
I sit in darkness but see through curtains snow falling adding to
millions of other snowflakes, I know the children will be exited,
the adults less so. For me it doesn’t matter, but I haven’t forgotten
the pleasure of a snowy landscape. It is odd, me godless man, feel
an inner peace, everything that has happened fits together I have
meet my ghosts; nothing scares me anymore except rumours of
a new war. As a child I knew war and all its brutality, I was hoping
my grandchildren would be spared. I’m nearly falling asleep but my
granddad awakes me, whispers about my obligations, I add a piece
of wood to the fire and dream of yesteryear.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it--and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove lid. She will never sit on a hot stove lid again--and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore.
quote by Mark Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Through The Wood
THROUGH the wood, the green wood, the wet wood, the light wood,
Love and I went maying a thousand lives ago;
Shafts of golden sunlight had made a golden bright wood
In my heart reflected, because I loved you so.
Through the wood, the chill wood, the brown wood, the bare wood,
I alone went lonely no later than last year,
What had thinned the branches, and wrecked my dear and fair wood,
Killed the pale wild roses and left the rose-thorns sere?
Through the wood, the dead wood, the sad wood, the lone wood,
Winds of winter shiver through lichens old and grey,
You ride past forgetting the wood that was our own wood
All our own--and withered as ever a flower of May.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Counting-Out Rhyme
Silver bark of beech, and sallow
Bark of yellow birch and yellow
Twig of willow.
Stripe of green in moosewood maple,
Colour seen in leaf of apple,
Bark of popple.
Wood of popple pale as moonbeam,
Wood of oak for yoke and barn-beam,
Wood of hornbeam.
Silver bark of beech, and hollow
Stem of elder, tall and yellow
Twig of willow.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Washing Day
I. WASHING DAY
The little gipsy vi'lits, they wus peepin' thro' the green
As she come walkin' in the grass, me little wife, Doreen.
The sun shone on the sassafras, where thrushes sung a bar.
-The 'ope an' worry uv our lives wus yelling fer 'is Mar. -
I watched 'er comin' down the green; the sun wus on 'her 'air -
Jist the woman that I marri'd, when me luck wus 'eading fair.
I seen 'er walkin' in the sun that lit our little farm.
She 'ad three clothes-pegs in 'er mouth, an' washin' on 'er arm -
Three clothes-pegs, fer I counted 'em, an' watched 'er as she come.
'The stove-wood's low,' she mumbles, 'an' young Bill 'as cut 'is thumb,'
Now, it weren't no giddy love-speech, but it seemd to take me straight
Back to the time I kissed 'er first beside 'er mother's gate.
Six years 'uv wedded life we've 'ad, an' still me dreams is sweet. . .
Aw, them bonzer little vi'lits, they wus smilin' round me feet.
An' wots a bit uv stove-wood count, wiv paddicks grinnin' green,
When a bloke gits on to dreamin' uv the old days an' Doreen -
The days I thort I snared a saint; but since I've understood
I 'ave wed a dinkum woman, which is fifty times as good.
I 'ave wed a dinkum woman, an' she's give me eyes to see.
Oh, I ain't been mollycoddled, an' there ain't no fluff on me!
But days when I wus down an' out she seemd so 'igh above;
An' a saint is made fer worship, but a woman's made fer love.
An' a bloke is growin' richer as sich things 'e comes to know. . .
(She pegs another sheet an' sez, 'The stove-wood's gettin' low.')
A bloke 'e learns a lot uv things in six years wiv a tart;
But thrushes in the sassafras ain't singin' like me 'eart.
'Tis the thrushes 'oo 'ave tort me in their choonful sort o' way
That it's best to take things singin' as yeh meet 'em day be day.
Fer I wed a reel, live woman, wiv a woman's 'appy knack
Uv torkin' reason inside out an' logic front to back.
An' I like it. 'Struth I like it! Fer a wax doll in a 'ome,
She'd give a man the flamin' pip an' longin's fer to roam.
Aw, I ain't no silk-sock sookie 'oo ab'ors the rood an' rough;
Fer, city-born an' gutter-bred, me schoolin' it wus tough.
An' I like the dinkum woman 'oo . . . (She jerks the clothes-prop, so,
An' sez, so sweet an' dangerous, 'The stove-wood's gittin' low.')
See, I've studied men in cities, an' I've studied 'em out 'ere;
I've seen 'em 'ard thro' piety an' seen 'em kind thro' beer.
I've seen the meanest doin' deeds to make the angels smile,
An' watched the proudest playin' games that crooks 'ud reckon vile.
I've studied 'em in bunches an' I've read 'em one be one,
An' there isn't much between 'em when the 'ole thing's said an' done.
An' I've sort o' studied wimmin - fer I've met a tidy few -
An' there's times, when I wus younger, when I kids meself I knew.
But 'im 'oo 'opes to count the stars or measure up the sea,
'E kin 'ave a shot at woman, fer she's fairly flummoxed me. . .
('I'll 'ave to 'ave some wood,' she sez, and sez it most perlite
An' secret to a pair uv socks; an' jams a peg in, tight.)
Now, a woman, she's a woman. I 'ave fixed that fer a cert.
They're jist as like as rows uv peas from 'at to 'em uv skirt.
An' then, they're all so different, yeh find, before yeh've done.
The more yeh know uv all of 'em the less yeh know uv one.
An' then, the more yeh know uv one. . .(She gives 'er 'air a touch:
'The stove-wood's nearly done,' she sez. 'Not that it matters much')
The little gipsy vi'lits, they wus smilin' round me feet.
An' this dreamin' dilly day-dreams on a Summer day wus sweet.
I 'eaves me frame frum orf the fence, an' grab sme little axe;
But, when I'm 'arf way to the shed, she stops me in me tracks.
'Yer lunch is ready. That ole wood kin wait a while.'
Strike! I'm marri'd to a woman. . . But she never seen me smile.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Once upon a time there was a piece of wood. It was not an expensive piece of wood. Far from it. Just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.
quote by Carlo Collodi
Submitted by Simona Enache
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Sea-Saw (more writing fun)
If I saw a wood boat afloat
Upon the sea,
Would what I see possibly be
The wood I cut from a tree?
For when I saw a tree
I would like to think I see,
What the wood I saw
Could be.
If all I saw in wood from a tree
Was all I saw that there was to see,
Would what I did saw
Be the wood that I now see?
And if the wood I once did saw
Was indeed made into that ship on the sea,
Would it even be possible to know that here what I see
Is the wood once sawed by me?
All I here would dare to share is:
I see what I saw, and I saw what I see,
And therefore the wood I do saw could one day be
The boat I may see, afloat upon the sea.
See?
poem by Smoky Hoss
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From Citron-Bower
From citron-bower be her bed,
cut from branch of tree a-flower,
fashioned for her maidenhead.
From Lydian apples, sweet of hue,
cut the width of board and lathe,
carve the feet from myrtle-wood.
Let the palings of her bed
be quince and box-wood overlaid
with the scented bark of yew.
That all the wood in blossoming,
may calm her heart and cool her blood,
for losing of her maidenhood.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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After A Morning Quarrel
After a morning quarrel with his wife
A husband has got a terrible life.
After work, coming back home,
He finds a warning syndrome.
It’s a note lying on the table:
Honey, I think you are able to heat up the food,
Today I am in a bad mood,
So, to cheer me up I went to my friend
To watch the film with a happy end.
The food is already on the stove.
The stove is in the restaurant The Fat Duck.
I wish you a good luck!
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
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When Father Shook The Stove
'Twas not so many years ago,
Say, twenty-two or three,
When zero weather or below
Held many a thrill for me.
Then in my icy room I slept
A youngster's sweet repose,
And always on my form I kept
My flannel underclothes.
Then I was roused by sudden shock
Though still to sleep I strove,
I knew that it was seven o'clock
When father shook the stove.
I never heard him quit his bed
Or his alarm clock ring;
I never heard his gentle tread,
Or his attempts to sing;
The sun that found my window pane
On me was wholly lost,
Though many a sunbeam tried in vain
To penetrate the frost.
To human voice I never stirred,
But deeper down I dove
Beneath the covers, when I heard
My father shake the stove.
To-day it all comes back to me
And I can hear it still;
He seemed to take a special glee
In shaking with a will.
He flung the noisy dampers back,
Then rattled steel on steel,
Until the force of his attack
The building seemed to feel.
Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes
All sleep from them he drove;
It seemed to me the dead must rise
When father shook the stove.
Now radiators thump and pound
And every room is warm,
And modern men new ways have found
To shield us from the storm.
The window panes are seldom glossed
The way they used to be;
The pictures left by old Jack Frost
Our children never see.
And now that he has gone to rest
In God's great slumber grove,
I often think those days were best
When father shook the stove.
poem by Edgar Albert Guest
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History (Became A Child)
the grandbaby in his arms
brings back the old house.
buckets of water carried
up the hill...
cutting wood to feed the stove.
an old mattress on the floor,
a coffee pot well stained.
spiders on the outhouse wall,
the garden, and the hoe.
the cooking pot and the rocking chair,
handmade quilts, green beans snapped.
simple beginnings that wrote history,
and history became a child!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Just A Poem...
i am not a poet,
i am just a poem,
that the poet has not finished!
i am a block of wood
awaiting the master carver...
i am a river,
tugging at the dam!
i am straw strewn beneath the tree,
that once held the eggs of hope.
i am rice cooking on the stove,
the dirty face of the hungry child.
i am snow waiting in total silence,
the hymn of the turning leaves.
i am winter, by god,
on the stoop of spring,
i am was, is, and will be!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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4. Well Rattled
The cowboys all dug a large pit
Around which some boulders did fit
Then piled up the wood which lit
To keep the cold out where they sit
One went to fetch some more wood
His trail boss said he thought he should
A nice dry pile that looked real good
Where snakes liked hide if they could
The wind got up spooking the cattle
It hid the slight sound of a rattle
From wood came the snake to do battle
And all the cowhand did was prattle
Vexed the snake started to slide
The cowhands fear he could'nt hide
He stood there with legs open wide
And now the poor cowboy can't ride
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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An Invitation to Mr Liu
Green ant new unstrained beer
Red clay small fire stove
Evening come sky almost snow
Can drink one cup not?
Green lees of beer that's newly brewed,
A little stove of red clay burns.
As evening comes, the sky's about to snow,
Can you drink one cup with me?
That Smoke!
you smell like skin,
rain damp fresh plowed earth.
the ball in the glove,
the hammer strikes the nail.
and i know about fire,
love cries and hot wetness.
the frenzied clutch of fingers,
the gasp and the tremor.
the old wood stove,
in the corner radiates,
you feed it logs,
split by time's axe.
till drunk with sleep,
both dreamless and forgotten.
you turn your back
to a final wisp of smoke...
i am that smoke!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Knock On Wood
I dont want to lose the good thing that Ive got
If I do, I will surely, I will lose a lot
For your love is better than any love other Ive know
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
I got superstitious about you, but I cant take change
You got me spinning, baby, spinning in a trance
But your love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder, lightning
The way you love me is frightening
You better knock on wood
Its no secret, but that woman fills my lovin cup
She sees, so ready, that I get enough
And her love is better than any other love Ive known
Its like thunder
Its like lightning
The way you love me is frightening
I better knock on wood
Baby
Better, yes, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) yes, I better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh, knock on wood
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) you know I would, would
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) its no secret
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) no, oh, better
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) hangin above me
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) I cant leave her
(yes you better knock, knock, knock on wood) oh no, baby
Knock on wood, woo!
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Alumni Hall
surrounded by old wood
you breathe wood
and you feel the wood
breathing you too
all around you
in deep sleep
the past comes still dreaming of you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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