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Charlie Chirico May 2013
Home Depot: Aisle Four: Shelves & Brackets.

Screws should be in the toolbox at home.
Toolbox...yes, in the garage, next to the miter saw, and
my old skates, the four-wheeled skates, not the inline,
never in line because of a rebellious nature.
A leather jacket kind of resistance.
A motorbike brilliance.
Now riding lawnmower equipment.
Dad's don't walk, we're brazen.

The ancient toolbox next to
an ancient cardboard box.
Scribbled on the front, the marking of youth,
my name, my print. Such ugly handwriting.
For God's sake.

But as for keepsakes:
The only objects that hold more merit
have more and most accumulative dust.
Yearbooks, pictured peers, so many memories
and faces. So many faces in this book.

The trophies. Number three. MVP.
A wipe of the thumb revealed the number.
And the rhyme is new.
Wit came with later age, I suppose.

Sports in adolescence, the physicality, the egotism,
it clouds critical thinking, or maybe wry remarks, too.
"Gay" and "*******" become some of the favorites.
And now this leads to an obligatory pun.
Grass stained knees. Sacking. The loser is gay.

How paradoxical!

Other contents of the box are various marks.
Grades; graduations; girls.
Three G's that I've
always evaded because of laziness.
Because **** dignity, right?
At least at that age integrity is as foreign
as the idea of it even being instilled.

How can you know if you're being raised
in the wrong?

Well, you've come to the right place.

I'm sure two examples is sufficient.

It's usually the acquaintance my son
brings home that opens my refrigerator door
before saying hello.

Or sometimes it's his friend,
our neighbor's youngest son, who boasts about his parent's
material possessions, while his parents ask
my wife and I if he can stay at our home for the night,
as they argue in the dark because the electric bill
is overdue, and their credit is scored
by the proverbial scissors.  

Not ones used to cut red ribbons, but
the ones you're told not to run with.

"Of course he can. I'm sure they'll love a sleepover," I answer passively.

"Thanks, we owe you one," he responds abruptly before disconnecting.

I could have said that owing people one
got them into their predicament.
But, like they say in the Good Book,
(The book I've always let collect dust,
not to be confused with the dust
on the box in the garage.)
Love Thy Neighbor.

And sometimes you never know
when you'll need a cup of sugar.
Thankfully I know there is sugar in the cupboard.
Milk and eggs in the refrigerator.
But no shelves or brackets.

Aisle four, Home Depot, no help.
I figure any will do, and at home
I'm *******, I mean I have screws.
I'll ask my son to help me hang them,
somewhat for the company,
also because they're for his belongings.

The neighbor's son will talk about the
elaborate woodwork on the rare chestnut
shelves his dad owns.
Surely it's perception, something
mood lighting can fix,
which his parents are arguing over,
well the lack of  lighting,
seeing as how their mood is already set.

My boy and I will place his
trophies on the shelves,
as I tell my boy I was number three.
Once an MVP.
And the neighbor's son
will tell me
his father was
number four.
ogdiddynash Jul 2018
helping the kids with homework


no one told you,
was part of the job description
paycheck earner a-ok,
gruff but tender lover,
knowing her special places,
building a tree swing,
a tree house safe and satisfactory,
one the neighbors envy

taking them to the hospital for
broken arms and chemotherapy,
part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable,
going to school to give that principal a look
that will make him think twice before suspending
one of his for defending himself

you remember your daddy doing the same for you,
forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later

the tucking in, the pretense ouch
when your end of day
scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies,
carrying tissues in a toolbox,
never heard of, nevertheless done,
tho not a memory defining the future inclusive,
definitely a learning ability, a likeability

doing homework, nuh uh,
no way jose, don’t dare let them
know how you never got a gold star,
always sat in the back row, outta sight,
all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery,
and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary
which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much

ain’t exactly his strong suit

sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him,
know where the on/off computer button hides,
the rest is up to them;
got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am,
how to address humans with respect,

i’ll promise them anything
but not doing any homework,
unless it the kind that that makes

a home work
#homework
Hayleigh May 2014
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.

And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.

And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.

I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.

And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.

And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.

And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.

And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall,
You'd rise above it all.

And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
Ian Cairns  Aug 2014
Toolbox
Ian Cairns Aug 2014
In case you forgot
that toolbox heart
you left out
has yet to return home
Hayleigh Jan 2015
If i could,
I would,
Carefully take you apart,
And put you back together,
Piece, by fragile piece,
And i would not cease,
Until the job was done.
Until the sun once again, shone from those lost, wondering eyes,
Until the cries that had chained you down,
Had been removed from the ground.

And if i could, i would,
Take my tools
And attentively drill out
Your insecurities,
All those flaws, you believe to be
Impurities
And ***** in self acceptance so tight,
So that never again at night,
Would you be reluctant, to hold yourself,
As you sparkle in the moonlight.

And if i could, i would,
Clamp together,
Your hopes and dreams,
Your self belief,
And tie them together at the seams
With double knots,
So that you never forgot, how
Capable you are.

I'd take each glittering star,
and plant them in the pupils of your eyes,
So that each time you cry
You'd be reminded of the beauty inside,
Of you.

And if i could, i would,
Paint over your frame work,
And tentatively cover up those scars,
So you'd never again see the hurt,
And never doubt
Just how perfectly imperfect you are.

And if i could, i would,
Saw away your sorrows
So when you thought of your tomorrows,
You weren't filled with dread,
You were filled with joy and hope
And optimism instead,
So that before you went to bed,
You were not filled with self defeating thoughts,
Ruminating inside, that pretty little head.

And if i could, i would,
Weld securely into place,
A genuinely happy smile,
Across your dainty face,
And a hand in yours,
So you'd never have to brace
Anything alone.

And if i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.

And if i could, i would,
Attach wings to your spine,
So there'd never be a time,
That you'd stumble and fall
You'd stand tall.

And if i could, i would,
Take the lonely shadows of your heart,
Rip them apart
And blaze them,
In a light so bright
It'd never die out,
You would never again doubt
All that you are,
And all that you can be.
And if i could, i would,
I'd set you free.
A repost for all of you who are suffering, or who know someone suffering from mental illness. Big hugs to you all ***
Riot Jun 2014
my life is a toolbox
waiting to be discoverd
so someone will no whats inside
so that God can use the tools within
and cunstruct a better toolshed
Tony Luxton Mar 2017
The poet's toolbox is
an onerous store for skills
with life and death
and words that ****.
Pandora's box with broken locks.

Hammering words,
chiselling words,
leaving the reader
nailed, *******, glued.

Pulsing phantoms through the brain,
playing tricks, memory ******.
But the writing keeps me sane.
Hayleigh Jan 2016
If i could, i would,
Disassemble your malfunctioning thought processes
And rewire them back together again,
With a spanner, in the manner,
That meant you were not
Classed as insane.
I'd unfold and rearrange,
The chemical imbalances
Within your brain
So that the years of disdain,
And self blame,
Where a thing of the past,
I'd put you back together,
In a way, that showed you,
You were meant to last.
And excerpt of one of my poems, for all those who are suffering or who know someone that is suffering. There is always hope.
Language is an intricate map. One that we've collectively agreed upon as a means of communicating about the 'territory', or experience. Life.

We can draw a tree, and we can write the word "Tree", but neither are  trees.
We can draw a pipe, and we can call it a pipe, but it is still only an image of a pipe.
http://www.exoticexcess.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/this-is-not-a-pipe-by-rene-magritte.jpg

Language is not the territory.

Language is but a toolbox. A toolbox filled with lots of cool toys and fun sounding words and some interesting etymologies.
But sometimes the task at hand requires a tool we've not yet conceived of, let alone one we have in our toolbox.
Different languages have different tools, but many will suit similar tasks, even if not exactly the same.
This is no reason to assume that, because our particular map is imperfect, that the territory is somehow more absurd.

The absurdity arises when we fail to recognize and respect the fallacies of language. A spiritual person will understand this notion immediately.
This, however, isn't necessarily to say a religious person will grasp it, and likewise is also not to say that a totally secular person won't.

In fact, I find that many of our conflicts with ourselves and others only arise because we squabble about our interpretations of the maps instead of realizing that the maps are in fact tools to achieve an end, but not the end itself.

Once we can step back from our ego
Once we can admit that we can be wrong
Once we realize we've been deceived
Can we begin to again grow strong.

Borders are maps. Humanity is a territory.
Dogma is a map. Reality is a territory.
Education is a map. Life is a territory.

We mustn't allow our perceptions of maps to occlude our ability to live as we are, an interdependent family of meat-bags twirling around a rather uncaring furnace in space.
This is where dogma comes in, and tends to ruin it for the 'little' people.
This is where money comes in, and substitutes itself for value.
This is where entertainment comes in, and substitutes itself for truth.
This is where ACTA, SOPA, PIPA, the Patriot Acts, and the NDAA come in
And move us one step further towards the Vierte *****. (Fourth kingdom. The Nazis fancied themselves to be the Dritte *****, or Third Kingdom).

Recognize the signs. Fabricate your own map. Then learn to leave it on the shelf.
An old write I found on my dA profile.
Enjoy.
Francie Lynch  Aug 2018
Toolbox
Francie Lynch Aug 2018
I recall the day, before she was five,
She asked to go, and play outside.
I answered, Yes, for awhile;
For I read his poem, about the road,
The travails she'll face far from home.
At our door I watched her play,
And saw the roads lead her away.

There'll be times she's on her own,
In a one-on-one, or in a throng;
In places where she won't belong;
Or find herself between right and wrong.

Yet, I untied the knot,
Dropped the tether; as a father,
I knew there'd be tools to hone,
Wits to sharpen, boards to carry,
An ax to edge on her whetstone.
There was work to be done.

If all goes well,
If I got it right,
It won't matter
Which path she roams;
She'll always know
Which lead her home.
When I think of satan
The dark lord
The dark prince
Yes the devil himself
I don't picture the traditional
Soul seeking, corruption and wealth
But more as a self made handy man
Carrying an old tool box in hands
Caring to the needs of all who seek
Greatest desires or dreams too bleak
Willing to pay a small toll
For dreams to be reality
A kiss and your soul
A perfect life for now
And then all of eternity
Don't always believe all you've heard
For no deceitful games or tricky words
The devil clearly states
The trade you are in for
Lucky for him
Humans are weak
So obsessed with possessions
The money and power streak
That we gladly sell our most prized
Light inside
For a few years as a god on earth
For eternity burning alive deep
Under the dirt
As an addict I feel I sell a little part of my soul every time I fall under temptation know full well what the outcome will be if I get spun but still when I have that weak moment I only think about the short lived high and not about the much longer path of destruction it causes. Why can't I remember the **** as I do the bliss.
Alex Apr 2015
An eye on a bench next to a toolbox
He sees the sun, the park, and the the toolbox
His only friend is the toolbox
he say hi his only eye
Everyday he alway say hi in the morning.
This is impired by a friend of mys
Alyse M King Mar 2012
An ingenuine smile
aspartame sweet
aloof with loose leaf lonely

A tinny tune
echoing aloud
pinched with bleached blue sleep

An invaluable sore
useful aches
shredded with angry desire

A stolen smoke
swirling clean
backward with unruly peace

An envious shake
frozen steady
breaking with flooding fur

A sigular collection of emotion
hand built
abandoned with friendly pain

— The End —