I stopped by for a cigarette and to hear a story
He always told the tale of one eyed molly
She lost her eye
In a fight with a dog
The moral of the story was
Never trust something
Just because it may look harmless,
Even act harmless
But this day he told me another tale
The one of old Lumberjack Dale
He was large like an ogre
Chopped too many trees to know of
Was stupid according to my uncle
This gave me quite a chuckle
He left off, on a normal morning
Hiked up the mountain
To where the clear dirt’s mourning
Held his axe and began to swing
The trees didn't have a prayer
He thought he was king
One fell down
He yelled "TIMBER"
Another smacked the ground
He Yelled "TIMBER"
Birds were scattering
Squirrels were flying
The sounds were of a madman grunting through fire
The fifth hit the ground
The lumberjack ogre
Had to sit down
He swung one too many times, on this here day
The mountain swung back with a black bear, ok?
Protecting her cubs she wrestled the big man
Teeth in his arm and his axe in his hand
He squinted his eyes and flung the weapon
Missing the giant bear standing about 6' 11"
The mountain whispered to the lumberjack
"Leave and never come back"
He had pissed his pants and ran for the shack
The old black bear followed
Protecting her land
And the ones she adored
I am the Lumberjack, strong and sway,
Out and about to work a manly day.
"Will you swing your mighty ax?" less asked, more sung,
And I said "Boy, my axe already been swung".
"Oh sweet Jesus, where are we hiding the body?!"
"I'll make it into a cabin, that's a Lumberjack's hobby"
It takes skill and ingenuity to rank with Lumberjacks,
"Well good for you, that's thinking with your ax."
What is this?
But something so simple can mean so much
It can hold me together when i get mad
Make someone look like a lumberjack
Though how could I rely on a lumberjack?
I know this
None the less
They mean so much to me
The tough exteriors
All in all
I believe a lumberjack saved me today
Taken by my hand,
warped and aged with time,
rings and rings of life, ingrained beneath my skin,
you hold me with ease,
and, I unravel with gravity, falling apart.
I bend and lean with the wind,
a slight breeze from you,
is enough to shake me from the ground,
to the sky,
and everything is naked,
and everything is the truth,
and i stand here, before you,
as you hold an axe in your hands.
Ready to fell me,
and take me apart.
My roots are old,
my heart is protected with years of warped timber,
my heart is protected as peach pit,
my heart is protected with poison ivy.
Yet in the spring i blossom,
In the summer i shine bright as the very sun,
And in the autumn i renew myself,
ready to ride the winter's harsh code.
You take me within your grasp,
I am a cold wind,
I am a summers breeze;
I am the very essence of life within you,
As you come to me, and take me,
And take me apart,
I am ready to go,
I am ready to be burnt by the fire,
and become the earth again.
So come at me,
but be warned I stand tall,
and built strong,
but beneath the outer layers,
I am truly a phenomenal piece of work,
given from the universe,
Bring your axe,
Bring your rough hands,
Bring your words.
I am rejuvenated by you.
Her Father's old wool jacket,
from Johnson Mills,
in creamy white,
dark forest green,
in a lovely patchwork,
A soft dark winter tuke on her head,
that dark green in the background,
with rusty speckles on her cheeks,
Wet snow falls silent,
the sky is a crisp Winter blue,
the air is cold and clear,
& intoxicatingly clean,
As she breathes life in and out,
looking down at her black Sorel boots
and her worn black denim jeans,
a nice old holey wool sweater,
and a maul,
A sexy lumberjack?
Dressed to hack the wood,
the plumber thinks so,
he stops by,
a friend of hers,
but no one is around here,
we all do it,
so he helps too,
Hey I'll make lunch,
wood warms you 3 times they say,
Once to chop it,
two to stack it RIGHT,
three to bring it in & burn it,
But if you count the starting of the,
cantankerous chainsaw & the guy,
And you hafta arrange & rearrange, everything,
cleaning the flue and chimney,
I'd say a few more than that,
& don't ferget to pay the man,
the cantankerous one,
Yeah he got lunch too,
and about them ashes,
could be pretty hot,
take 'em out regular,
that stove cranking too,
She ends up gets burned,
a few times each year,
she's on step too,
as she picks up the heavy maul,
not to heavy for this gal,
all the way back,
As a neighbor winches,
a woman chopping wood?
a way of life,
always has been,
poised and ready,
swing and smack,
if you hit it right,
you hear a crack,
Just like a baseball bat,
hitting a homer,
are made more manageable,
when you don't try to control the force,
when you let the sharpened maul,
Do all the work,
Cherie Nolan © 2016
How do I get a carving out of a tree?
The smug shape of your G+E
outlines with a stupid, misshaped heart
etched into the evergreen.
You ruined my favorite tree
with five words.
A sentence I knew you would inevitably say
at some point of our lives together.
I really wanted to doubt myself for once,
and be proved wrong in the right way.
But you just had to keep me incorrect.
I call the local lumberjack and ask him,
"Cut down the tree as soon as possible."
I think that's how you get a carving out of a tree.
I hold the door, and sigh. Holding my axe in one hand,
Orange, white, and red plaid shirt. Chin covered in stubble.
A warm fire inside. My sweetheart reading by the hearth.
A glance up. Her light blue eyes, so inviting.
after witty humour, which spawned slapstick... slapstick can only spawn the last of the known humours... the offensive type, the 'get me out of this straithjacket of everything's fine apathy,' the ugly humour... rude humour... i take oaths humour... i rather write a swear word to oil up than degrade myself with thesaurus usage humour.
why is poetry such a whore of coding
who needs poetry if the everyday is intact?
atheism didn’t kill god...
it merely killed the logic of myth....
atheism is far worse than mythology...
it just regurgitates facts
to make you submit to them
without the necessary philosophical awe of
finding them interesting...
poetry isn’t dead... it’s a whore...
which is worse than death where i come from...
there’s ezra with his fountain comparison:
‘i pissed in it... and put pigmenting chlorine in it -
you piss in it... streaks of blue... i think
that’s called cubism in france.’
did i say alcoholism was engineered by the nazis
for the bomb sarcasm?
cheap humour you say... ah well slapstick was invented
i heard the new best anti-ageing cream was butter rather than l’oreal -
there are too many stages in the differences of women,
i quite like the summer spring autumn winter thing going...
it’s like this thing that’s happening right now...
christian nations censor words... like fuck... cultish cunt of the brothel...
and islamic nations invoke words... like kefir (sour milk,
not quite youghurt), dawah... adhan salat abraham...
one party censors words for excess porno...
saying: ‘we don’t like swear words in accomplished spelling,
we like dyslexia and orgy teen porn graphic...’
sounds about right...
the other party says: ‘we hate censoring dirty words,
that’s doubly censoring,
censor dirty words get more dirt out of it...
we invoke the power of arabic to teach koran latin for
problem sorted... we’re all power brokers of spelling /
punctuation / arithmetic -
that’s what i don’t get,
the ratio of the two languages...
all you have in the digits A to Z is spelling and punctuation...
but what you have in the digits ZERO to NINE
is so much more...
is grammar a castle that’s keeping certain functions out?
in mathematics you have +, x, obelisk, -, square root, etc.
but in linguistics you have this permament reminder:
SPELL RIGHT FROM WRONG AND RITE FROM THONG.
well... wedgie me timbers...
i think i just spotted a lumberjack chequers tweed jacket.
Draw The Lumberjack
His toque screamed French Canadian,
Jacques perhaps, prominent nose
broken in a brawl over a woman named Suzette or
a close brush with a widow maker,
bloody Niagara soaking his flannel shirt,
dripping from the delta of lines describing
a beard reeking of cigarettes and bug dope
trimmed, if he trimmed at all,
with a sliver of band saw blade
stuck fast in a lump of tree gum,
whiskers, after all, affording
a degree of protection from clouds of black flies,
one twinkling eye nesting in a profile
crinkled by wood smoke and ribald
bunkhouse jokes, widening in mock surprise
at a sour note from a squeezebox broken
on a drunken Saturday night,
fanciful elements I avoided drawing
in a slow, steady hand, embellishment
sure to queer my chances with the juror
poised to swing a bottle of champagne
against the stern of my boat
load of God-given talent, a launch
I await patiently after all these years
taking a break from the two man
cross cut saw, smoking
in the shade of all these doomed trees.
I strolled gingerly
In little pale blue socks
Around your apartment, your home
As I shifted and touched your things
I discovered a steadfast, resilient as ever
Growing and glowing by the window
Aloe vera plant
And for the first time I take a look around
See the greenery you foster.
You cuddled me in your soft sweet arms
We fell asleep for moments
You butter me with sugary pink bunny rabbits
While giving me the leverage of a leather razor blade
We speak and sing the strongest tunes
As if we were both born within trees.
Cut some lime, I brought an avocado along
I have to blink my eyes to think
He chose me.
I love to tell the story of how we met
We are so fresh, so communicative
Heartily artistic and smart.
I glided along in cute little stores
In a dress from the 1940s
My back revealing meaningful ink
And with the flick of my light wrist
Summoned the right clothes for you.
It felt lovely and fulfilling
You looked so brilliant in it all
And I allow myself to bring what I've got to the table.
In moments where I tread and tap into fear
I think of last year
The dark rings of faded color throughout my eyes
The veil has lifted
I've never looked around with so much coming awareness.
"What kind of porn do you like?"
I asked before you left the house
I'm full of surprising nuances and willful fight
Your arm around me
You don't feel little or small
Cute or dandy
You kiss me strong and everlasting
Like I'm a gift from god
I kiss you back with surrender
This one all makes sense.
I got sick of shaving
So I started growing a beard
For a while, it was technically stubble
But now it would make William T. Riker proud
Or at least smile and nod in approval
At the effort
I bought a beard trimmer at Walgreens
And I trimmed that bitch
Made it nice and even
But it itches a lot
So I have to use dandruff shampoo on it when I can
I get compliments on it
From my mom and my brother
Whose beard should belong to a Canadian lumberjack
(Not my mom, my brother)
I love this beard
But I still get the urge to shave it completely
And return to baby-face