Email Poem | Today's Poetry


I grew up in the flat lands below,
then ended up in the Michigan snow.
The Upper Peninsula was so beautiful to see,
after the Air Force had set me free.
I took my buyout and bought a few machines,
that could wade through the snow and cross most streams.
The cable skidder and the Iron mule,
were very powerful as a logging tool.
Cutting a tree was a task to be learned,
it was a job filled with deadly concern.
The widow makers always hung in the air,
and took those who didn't know they were there.
The barber chairs wrecked many fine trees,
if the cut wasn't through when there was a breeze.
The smell of the sap from each tree I took,
had a distinctive odor you can't find in a book.
The two-cycle oil mixed with gasoline,
made the chainsaw have a vibrating scream.
When the tree's last life line was cut through,
it fell with a crash vibrating in you.
The snow was all white and looked so pristine,
as it glistened in the sun on the evergreens.
I wasn't into clear cuts I only took select trees,
and left a nice woods for the owners to see.
I've cut pulp, saw logs and veneer,
and watched cedar boughs eaten by deer.
There's so much nature in the woods to be found,
some of it moves without making a sound.
The black bears were like ghosts in the night,
they never seemed to stay long in your sight.
Just a glimpse of one you might see,
trailed by her cubs looking so free.
Yes the experience I had as a logger was quite fine,
and my love for the woods will always be in my mind.
Many don't understand the need to cut trees,
and believe loggers do whatever they please.
But, forests need to be maintained like your gardens at home,
so the trees and nature have room to roam.

Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem


 Email Address



  Sign Guestbook
  Read Guestbook


 Privacy | Terms | © 2000-2022 +++ Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors