I am the Lumberjack, strong and sway,
Out and about to work a manly day.
"Will you swing your mighty ax?" less asked, more sung,
And I said "Boy, my axe already been swung".
"Oh sweet Jesus, where are we hiding the body?!"
"I'll make it into a cabin, that's a Lumberjack's hobby"
It takes skill and ingenuity to rank with Lumberjacks,
"Well good for you, that's thinking with your ax."
What is this?
But something so simple can mean so much
It can hold me together when i get mad
Make someone look like a lumberjack
Though how could I rely on a lumberjack?
I know this
None the less
They mean so much to me
The tough exteriors
All in all
I believe a lumberjack saved me today
How do I get a carving out of a tree?
The smug shape of your G+E
outlines with a stupid, misshaped heart
etched into the evergreen.
You ruined my favorite tree
with five words.
A sentence I knew you would inevitably say
at some point of our lives together.
I really wanted to doubt myself for once,
and be proved wrong in the right way.
But you just had to keep me incorrect.
I call the local lumberjack and ask him,
"Cut down the tree as soon as possible."
I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.
I hold the door, and sigh. Holding my axe in one hand,
Orange, white, and red plaid shirt. Chin covered in stubble.
A warm fire inside. My sweetheart reading by the hearth.
A glance up. Her light blue eyes, so inviting.
I wish I were alone
I wish the earth would grow roots in my legs
and the trees would hug me
and let their vines swing around me
I wish the monkeys would swing off me
the butterflies would rest on me
the caterpillars would morph with me
I wish I weren't human
I wish the moss would take refuge
under my branches
And the leaves would grow from me
and change in the fall
and then fall down,
I wish I smelt moist
I wish I smelt of dirt,
of the soft breeze
of the sea
I wish I were alone
I wish you would forget about me
I wish I could forget about you
I hate it here,
let the earth suck me in
let the leaves weigh me down
let the lumberjack watch me fall
like when you stripped me of my skin
carve me, carve me
let me go.
I stopped by for a cigarette and to hear a story
He always told the tale of one eyed molly
She lost her eye
In a fight with a dog
The moral of the story was
Never trust something
Just because it may look harmless,
Even act harmless
But this day he told me another tale
The one of old Lumberjack Dale
He was large like an ogre
Chopped too many trees to know of
Was stupid according to my uncle
This gave me quite a chuckle
He left off, on a normal morning
Hiked up the mountain
To where the clear dirt’s mourning
Held his axe and began to swing
The trees didn't have a prayer
He thought he was king
One fell down
He yelled "TIMBER"
Another smacked the ground
He Yelled "TIMBER"
Birds were scattering
Squirrels were flying
The sounds were of a madman grunting through fire
The fifth hit the ground
The lumberjack ogre
Had to sit down
He swung one too many times, on this here day
The mountain swung back with a black bear, ok?
Protecting her cubs she wrestled the big man
Teeth in his arm and his axe in his hand
He squinted his eyes and flung the weapon
Missing the giant bear standing about 6' 11"
The mountain whispered to the lumberjack
"Leave and never come back"
He had pissed his pants and ran for the shack
The old black bear followed
Protecting her land
And the ones she adored
Draw The Lumberjack
His toque screamed French Canadian,
Jacques perhaps, prominent nose
broken in a brawl over a woman named Suzette or
a close brush with a widow maker,
bloody Niagara soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of lines describing
a beard reeking of cigarettes and bug dope
trimmed, if he trimmed at all,
with a sliver of band saw blade
stuck fast in a lump of tree gum,
whiskers, after all, affording
a degree of protection from clouds of black flies,
one twinkling eye nesting in a profile
crinkled by wood smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening in mock surprise
at a sour note from a squeezebox broken
on a drunken Saturday night,
fanciful elements I avoided drawing
in a slow, steady hand, embellishment
sure to queer my chances with the juror
poised to swing a bottle of champagne
against the stern of my boat
load of God-given talent, a launch
I await patiently after all these years
taking a break from the two man
cross cut saw, smoking
in the shade of all these doomed trees.
(20 minute poetry)
Hunched up and hemmed in
on the flamin' tube and
This is not for me
I need open space and
a place to spread my wings.
this ain't no picnic
It's one that makes you
smelling dirty clothes
wet stinking hair
I want to be anywhere
other than here
when a twenty minute trip
gives me the pip
I need to slip away.
Today is not good,
thinking the tube would be empty at nine as it should
looking to find escape velocity
I can't even find a seat.