#carpenter
Take my life and mold and shape
Take all that I am and recreate
You made me in your image
When you carved me in your hand
You know my inmost being
Loved before time began
Carefully made with such love and care
No craftsman on earth can compare
To take something and give it
New purpose, new life, new identity
To look within and set a spirit free
It is the gift of a precious chosen few
And so, it is why I sing this song for you
The wood rejoices and it sings
It even dances for the master
It takes on a life all its own
Speak to my soul in purest tone
Bless us with the song of the carpenter
With hands both rough and tender
With eyes to see what may lie hidden
With patience for the hours ahead
With humble heart that's spirit led
May all we do and think and say
Lead to the life the truth and way
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 10:05 PM UTC
I saw your hands today
For the first time in what felt like forever
Those strong hands that held mine while I jumped over puddles
Caught me whenever I was about to fall
The hands that built houses and fixed everything --
Broken pipes, dead cars and crocodile tears
I saw your hands today
But they weren't really your hands
Just another dad's of another daughter's
But God, they reminded me of yours
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 10:41 PM UTC
In the 1970s there was a wave of soft pop that struck America
one band at the crest of that wave was The Carpenters
formed by Richard and Karen Carpenter
they were wildly successful
their song We’ve Only Just Begun is still a ubiquitous wedding song
Karen’s smooth and pure voice drew giant crowds
but despite how timeless her music is
it is equally contrasted by the briefness of her life.
Karen captivated a worldwide audience with her music
but some people just can’t be reached
indoctrinated by our superficial society
thinking every celebrity should be a supermodel
critics made snide comments about her being Richard’s chubby sister
even though she wasn’t overweight
and Richard was addicted to Quaaludes
but even more important than the public was Karen’s own mother
who worried of the public’s feelings more than her own daughter’s.
Karen felt pushed to lose weight
so she hired a nutritionist
who loaded her down with carbohydrates
which obviously made her fatter
crushing her faith in nutrition
turning her towards unhealthy methods
...which worked...at first...
but unfortunately it kept working
and she refused to change, unlike her body.
Fans who once cheered for her
now gasped when they saw her emaciated skeleton take the stage
they thought she might’ve had cancer
and were concerned about her weight
but to her it was the same crowd telling her to lose weight
now telling her to gain weight
she was done hearing it
and stuck in her ways.
Her friends were worried about her
and pleaded for her to seek help
but her mother’s profession was repression
so Karen hid her depression
while her mother told her psychiatrists were for crazy people.
Karen tried using a man to make her problems disappear
and married Tom Burris two months after meeting him in 1980
he would verbally abuse her; calling her a bag of bones
then he’d *** money off her; amounts up to $50,000 at a time
needless to say the relationship was ill fated
and they divorced in 1981.
Finally Karen’s friends convinced her to see a therapist
who brought her family into a counseling session
and urged them to tell Karen they love her
of course Richard was willing to say so, they were always really close
especially after Karen had helped him with his own addiction issues
but Karen’s mother refused
berating the therapist for using her first name; Agnes
and informing him that wasn’t how their family did things.
Karen Carpenter passed away February 4, 1982 at the age of 32
she died from ipecac poisoning
she used the substance to induce vomiting every day
and it slowly dissolved her heart.
Richard was devastated.
There’s not much I can add
I guess Karen’s story speaks for itself
it just ****** me off critics jeer with impunity and without empathy
they’re free to cajole great artists while having no value themselves
driving artists away until we’re only left with negativity
it makes me want to cut out all the demons’ razor sharp tongues
before they get a taste of another angel’s wings
but would that really protect those angels
if they’re born to demons?
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 5:37 PM UTC
A careful cut, it is the stuff,
Of which our world is made,
Utility and art are fused,
The noblest of the trades,
A sturdy chair of solid wood,
Yet sturdier the heart,
Passion, vision, faithful work,
The noblest of the arts.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 8:12 PM UTC
My sweetheart is a man's man heiress
Her man must be a carbon copy of Jupiter, her father,
An alpha, a beta, a kappa, an omega male altogether
A carpenter by trade,
The epitome of masculinity
Who could solve any math problem in a second
And knew how to fix everything
A car, electric, plumbing
A family hero, a handy man
Who built houses from the ground up
He could swaddle a baby's nightmare properly
Open doors to the winds of sadness
And pull chairs to the lights of happiness
And he could dress every day to the nines
Infusing in her heiress forever wine 's bouquet
And the love of animals.
So consequently
My sweetheart is an animal 's animal heiress
She eats meat only if it has a label on it
Saying that animals are not caged
Or mistreated in anyway.
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 4:12 AM UTC
Shepherds, cobblers, carpenters and joiners of all creeds and worldly dreamers
You troubled souls, the brittle spirits drinking spirits cleaner
Taunted workers of yore, farmers gone and industries endowed
Disseminating futures, who's gonna build your ***** barrels now?
**** it, I'm going to work in a call center
Jul 26, 2019
Jul 26, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
If she wasn’t hooked on honey
she would fall down on my page
I rescued a blue-winged bee sage
I hope she’ll enjoy her stay
in my human home
She strains her abdomen
I pray it’s not a bad omen
her Hermes powers at rest
Did she leave her nest in earnest
I found her on lonely gray stairs
I pray she heals from her despairs
as the carpenter bee sleeps dangled
To my honey lathered chopsticks
I admire her frail black body
I gently blow on her she’s inside
my heart. I felt hers when she
Gripped my thumb.
March 13, 2018
Lyon
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
we brush her hair
then we watch her dance
she twirls
then
takes
my
hand
dance with me she says
her gumball breath
blowing me
chocolate
kisses
she
is
beautiful
moon light washed us
we were beamed up
in
its
rays
here we are
reflecting stars light
she sings to me
she allows
me
to
sernade her
she lets me sleep
on
the
outskirts
of her dreams
she is beautiful
?
...
..
.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
From my window I see
branches dripping
gray fog.
I face a long day
heaving heavy boards,
testing
my brittle back,
glasses wet
with sweat,
porcupine fingers
bristling splinters,
shaping lumber
with a clear heart.
Carpenter, carpenter, what do you say?
Cut wood all day,
bring home the pay:
a pocketful of sawdust.
With strange joy
I can't wait
to begin.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
|
----()----
|
|
Carpenter still had
Splinters in His hands while
Crucified to wood
Senryu
SøułSurvivør
(C) 7/7/2017
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
"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.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 11:45 PM UTC
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.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 1:04 PM UTC
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!
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 4:00 PM UTC
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.
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC
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.
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
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.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 5:04 PM UTC
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.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:07 PM UTC
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
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:30 PM UTC
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.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
Where I belong, or destined to be
Is not exactly clear like
Crystalline doubt with fear in tow.
No,
Not on the ridge where I stand partly
In sky atop a roof not there
In its geometrical theory.
With the straight line
Like hammer to wood
Curved yet target laid,
Walking sticks on top of sticks
I nail my presence to homes
Yet homely to be made.
Not on the porch where lemonaid
Will be poured and yet to be's
Will extend on in time as an
Echo lingers of what no one sees.
I build a home
And leave a peice of me unknown.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC