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donall-dempseyPoems
CHINGACHGOOK SPEAKS still see the saw cutting through time the small boy's mind Da's spirit level disappearing all the time becomes my Star Ship Enterprise the saw hums to itself time eclipsed with the smell of pine the song of the saw sunbeams & sawdust dancing in time and lo wood becomes window the small carpentry of miracles a heart-shaped block of wood becomes my saddle on his crossbar we fly through time tame hills the tick of bicycle wheels lost in speed down down Dobbin's Hill we the bubble in the spirit level we haunt the dumps hunt for a wheel here...a frame there Da creates a bike new bikes from old our "Frankenstein bicycles" we the new masters of speed "Look at me...lookame...no hands!" the hill smiles to itself "wheeeEEEEEEOOOOOOOOPS!!!!!" trees breaking gently in our hands become our bows and arrows stolen from young plantations I a nine year old Chingachgook limp horribly home an arrow in my left calf my Da shaving wood it curls to his whistle sawdust amongst his curls my Da smiles as the wood comes good I still see the saw pine opens memory
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Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
CHINGACHGOOK SPEAKS
CHINGACHGOOK SPEAKS still see the saw cutting through time the small boy's mind Da's spirit level disappearing all the time becomes my Star Ship Enterprise the saw hums to itself time eclipsed with the smell of pine the song of the saw sunbeams & sawdust dancing in time and lo wood becomes window the small carpentry of miracles a heart-shaped block of wood becomes my saddle on his crossbar we fly through time tame hills the tick of bicycle wheels lost in speed down down Dobbin's Hill we the bubble in the spirit level we haunt the dumps hunt for a wheel here...a frame there Da creates a bike new bikes from old our "Frankenstein bicycles" we the new masters of speed "Look at me...lookame...no hands!" the hill smiles to itself "wheeeEEEEEEOOOOOOOOPS!!!!!" trees breaking gently in our hands become our bows and arrows stolen from young plantations I a nine year old Chingachgook limp horribly home an arrow in my left calf my Da shaving wood it curls to his whistle sawdust amongst his curls my Da smiles as the wood comes good I still see the saw pine opens memory
I, the Last of the Donalls...lost in my Curragh Camp, Kildare, Ireland childhood...caught up in the writing of Mr. J.F. Cooper. Never wanted to be Natty Bumppo but one day I would be Chingachgook or Uncas the next as I wandered through the Curragh plantation or roamed its 5000 acres in search of adventure! And oh the tales I told to myself!
donall-dempsey
Written by
donall-dempsey
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 5:37 AM UTC
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