Sharing Eyes

We’re here! Look at those small trains!

I’d forgotten the magnificence of narrow gauge.

There’s the station! Let’s get on the train!

Such charm radiating from everywhere.

Look at all the trees and stuff!

Countryside’s more beautiful than I remember.

Wooohh! Woooooh! Clickety-clickety!

River Esk forced his way up the hill.

Look at the turntable, Dad!

The scale of the engineering is remarkable.

Why’s that newsagent only for one customer?

Like Emily, this shop is only for the owner.

This is amazing! This is brilliant!

I’m ten years old again.

What do you think, son?

Is it as good as you remember?

It’s brilliant, Dad!

No. It’s even better.

Look over there, Dad!

I’ve only now learnt to look.

By Daniel Wood (01.10.2009)

Change of Scene

Fed up were Jack and Jill,

Of rolling down the hill,

Again and again towards injury and pill.

So they flew first-class to Brazil.

Where they searched for high peaks,

Hiking and falling for never-ending weeks.

Dictated by crazy rhyme and thrill seeks.

Reckless, self-destructive, little freaks!

Time and again, they broke bones,

Could barely pick up phones,

Dial numbers, endure ominous ring tones,

Praying for doctors and first-aid ice cream cones.

Senseless was all this, of course.

But what can you expect? Brute force?

Jack and Jill lacked a magnificent horse,

To take them up heights with no remorse.

Both crazy as sin, yet daring to win.

By D.C. Wood (11.12.2010)

Instruments of Nature

They come from anywhere and anytime,

Bringing despair and ruination.

Some say the gods are angry,

Some say the Earth is just having a fit.

Nevertheless, they are unstoppable,

Ravaging,  shape-shifting beasts.

Burning, burying, suffocating, ravaging,

drowning, flooding, destroying…

Shattering the prey.

And we?

We change too,

Never resembling our former selves.

But we rebuild.

We become stronger.

We fight again.

The unstoppable force only be stopped,

When it wants to stop.

The immovable object can only be moved,

When it wants to move.

Humanity vs. nature…

It’s always a draw.

All poems copyright © D.C. Wood 2005 -2011

My Poems
Flow of a wordsmith’s soul

“Writing a poem is discovering.” - Robert Frost

Gent

How do you define a gent?

By all the rules that he bent?

By all the aggression he liked to vent?

By the several cars he would drink-drive and dent?

By all the things he never sacrificed for lent?

By all the places he went?

By all the large sums of money that he spent?

By how much time he spent in his tent?

By all the DVDs and games he liked to rent?

By all the work he did with cement?

By all the bad things he tried to prevent?

By the tender declarations of love that he meant?

By all the gifts to loved ones that he sent?

Just…how do you view a gent?

By D.C. Wood (20.09.2005)

Cold Days

The army of cold,

Marches across the landscape.

It allies with the army of the wind,

United together as an unbeatable, relentless force.

The mighty trees stand tall,

Anchored, protective and proud.

They cry in unison,

“We are mighty, we are one,

We cannot fall.”

The birds are confident.

The trees have saved them,

From cruel storms past.

Why should this army be any different?

The allied armies are stronger,

Faster, more powerful,

and knowing where to strike.

The cold winds dig deep and upend.

They collide and smash.

Dismantling and taking away.

The armies laugh as they go,

Knowing this isn’t a war,

But a massacre,

A victory.

The ‘opposition’ cannot fight back,

Against a foe they cannot see,

Cannot combat,

Cannot stop.

Only hear, only withstand,

Only try to survive.

The aftermath of ‘war’,

The calm after the storm.

The need to rebuild lies ahead.

The wind has faded back into nothingness.

Cold stands alone, where it too will fall,

To the power of heat.

Our foes have been vanquished by themselves.

And we stand alone, all of us.

Man and animal.

Homes have been lost,

Property damaged.

We stand alone…on these cold days.

By D.C. Wood (25.01.2007)

The Banger

I may lack panache,

But I arrive with flash.

I may not look sleak,

But I shout, not squeak.

My fuse is slow to ignite,

But I decorate night with blight.

I talk a good game,

Bringing global fame,

No need for shame,

People knowing my name,

Nothing being the same,

That’s manufacturer’s claim,

Nothing at all tame,

Bringing shock to the dame,

Delighting all who came,

Reckless handlers I maim,

Not reading instructions, keeping pets indoors, not leashing children,

THEY’RE to blame! I…!

Okay…I talk more than I walk.

Y’see, I bang too short for me to hang.

My paint fades too quick,

For the night canvas to stick.

I dazzle, I frazzle, I bedazzle…

With colours and sweet sounds,

Providing worth for their pounds…

For a second.

But that one second…I deliver.

I give a shock to make mortals quiver.

I’m too good to last.

That’s the part I was cast.

I bang…and that’s it.

But I’m proud of my little bit.

By D.C. Wood (05.11.2009)

NOW ON YOUTUBE...

D.C. Wood has a problem.

He's a 25-year-old sales assistant who works on WHSmith's news department, he's single, and he suffers from Asperger's syndrome.

And he's a writer...or so he thinks.

All ambition and little-to-no talent, he SOMEHOW manages to secure a gig in this crudely animated show where he performs his poems in front of an audience of STICK FIGURES, who hate his work and only show up for free drink.

Nonetheless, the undeterred, optimistic writer persists, and is proud to present...D.C. Wood's AWFUL poems...ON STAGE!!!

Oh, God...

Click on the picture to see his YouTube channel, or the link below to start viewing the episode playlist.

Watch D.C. Wood's AWFUL poems...ON STAGE!!!