"I'm full of holes and sinking fast," she said as she told me she needed new faces and a fresh start. She thought what we had between us was irreparable, and by human standards she was right.

In my naiveté, I tried to patch and fill them with imperfect hands and carnal substance.

With temporal eyes, we couldn't see that the many "holes" she thought she had was just a single void, and I was trying to do the job of the Carpenter.

After scary sickness, weeks in bed,
today I’m better.
Head clear. Body hollow, sixteen
pounds shed in sweat and snot.

So I call Dial-A-Lawyer,
write a will by phone.
Drive to the city, Social Security
to register my daughter
who is unknown by the state,
born at home
one year to this date.
Bring her along as proof.
Paperwork.
Plan a death and record a birth.

My beloved bakes a cake. One candle.
I’m still a bit shaky. Can’t rest.
Where’s my tool belt?
It’s time to build toys. A wagon.
A house. Soon.
A life for this daughter.

Hello sawdust.
     I’m back.
Scent of sap,
     taste of tannin,
          tickle of fine grit,
after rehab pain,
     through every portal
          you awaken my brain.

Powder of sun ray,
powder of fog’s drip,
powder of soil ******
     through roots to the sky,
hot breath of the forest
     you complete my healing.
Such a feeling!

Sing to me the rhythm of craft.
Guide my fingers, the work will flow.
Sing, sawdust.
Hello!

You, my old companion,
I’ve junked three trucks and still I keep you.
Buried five dogs. Raised three children
who are now raising children.
And still I wear you.

You jingle when I walk.
Nails clink in pouches.
The drill in its holster slaps my leg.
The hammer in its clip spanks my ****.
You bristle with screwdrivers, chisel,
big fat pencil, needlenose plier.
You call attention. Random kids
who have never seen a tool belt before
follow me around asking
“What are you doing?”
Then: “Can I help?”

You smell like me (and I, like you).
Leather, fourth decade.
I’ve washed your pouches with saddle soap,
sewn your seams with dental floss.
Now the web of your belt is fraying,
wrapped (silly, I know) with duct tape.

Your pockets fill over time.
Once in a while I remove every tool,
every last ***** and nail.
I hold you upside down and shake.
Sawdust, a dead spider, little strippings
of insulated wire will fall out.
And once, my missing wedding ring.
It had broken. I had taken it to a jeweler
for repair, but when I got there
I couldn’t find it. A year later,
you coughed it up.

When your webbing finally snaps,
when you drop from my waist,
maybe it’s you, old tool belt, I’ll take
to the jeweler for remounting,
for buff and polish. He’ll understand.

The carpenter in one glance
undresses the house
with his eyes.
She, a Victorian dame
of voluptuous frame
in faded, ragged dress
seems to blush
at his appraisal.

He yearns to explore
intimate spaces,
strip her pretension,
commit filthy acts
hammering skillfully
with strange pleasure,
the work of hands,
attention to detail,
rubbing sweet oils
her inner beauty revealed.

It will end in soft strokes
a thoughtful cleanup
leaving an afterglow
of rejuvenation.
Her timbers moan
with anticipation.

Q. Is all lumber female?
A. No, only the pretty boards.
Q. Is that why those nasty two-by-fours are called studs?
A. In darkness within walls
they support our lives.

His speech is rough,
his work is smooth.
Wait.
Don’t make him talk.

His tools can maim
or make an angel.
He has wrinkles like wood grain,
memories like wood scraps.
Wait, and he’ll carve one.

The stories come
gnarled, with knotholes.
Listen.  
He chuckles like a chisel
working old walnut.

We ...
Are The Architects of Our Fate
we build the walls
all these gates
We construct solid walls
they take them down
let them fall
then look around
for Solid Ground
until it's found
I plant my feet

Take a seat
share a story
of honored Glory
My Father was a Carpenter
a Master Builder they would say
And I see his buildings
every day
Arts and craftsman
my kind of build
houses filled
engrossing skill
amazing will
holes were drilled
handhewn milled
beams
intricate details

imparted to me
you can see
by carving
wooden
weathered
leather hands

It's good to admire
though I do not aspire
to live in one now

I miss the farm
in  simple charms
A time exsist my  memories

Queen Abigail of Chelsea
a border collie
she was our dog
Willamina a hog
or the name of a pig
rooting earth she'd happily dig
a silly gig
She never was a meal
Her funny squeal
Saved her life

had a horse  named Cochise
no wool from lamb
that we could fleece
you could not ride
but would stand on hind
legs
and beg
for marshmallows!

I miss the Farm
all the time
it taught me
life is worth living
to keep on giving
what I can.


Cherie Nolan © 2016

From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.

Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.

John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.

I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!

So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.