Apr 2022
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 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 as I wandered through the Curragh plantation or roamed its 5000 acres in search of adventure! And oh the tales I told to myself!
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 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 as I wandered through the Curragh plantation or roamed its 5000 acres in search of adventure! And oh the tales I told to myself!
