"saws" poems
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
7k
her mouth was sandpaper.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.
her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.
her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
*i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.*
bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).
her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.
her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.
her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.
her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:26 AM UTC
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
~
late winter’s dusting,
on tarnished ores;
a dreamer’s seeds,
these rails once bore.
rain-washed colors,
on sun-warped steel;
their conjured hopes,
an age once real;
oxidized
by rust and time
blackened timbers,
no longer bind;
what still remains
are worn out ties,
a distant memory,
of centuries gone by,
now mere after-sighs.
structures standing,
but just by chance...
a gust may blow them down;
these buildings where
men’s dreams once danced,
now a ghost, this town.
though no soul is left inside,
still a body here resides.
so long ago
her carried goods,
these rails rode,
to distant homes,
built dreams of wood;
like dandelion wishes,
scattered... gone,
tracks going nowhere,
now a fading ode,
just another dusty song.
for advancing progress
never fails to leave
someone's dying dream behind.
~
*post script.
Oregon’s hills and back country hide these relics of a time when a nation’s spirit was fed by the sounds of industry, steel and steam, the whir of saws, and men calling, “timber”... long before the age of wood and rail were left in a saw-dusty bin of history by the sweeping hand of time. i could easily be persuaded that this change was for the best, yet this can't erase the longing sense, left beneath my breast... advances do not come without leaving something or someone behind.*
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
on fine paper,
quality paper,
deserving of thoughtful
care and consideration,
summon courage,
write for one,
even if too many will indifferent read
write for the one,
who will wait for you,
long after closing time
for the need to say
Something
of thanks,
something that cannot go
unsaid
write for the one,
who cannot say
what they needs to say,
and in their stumbling style,
fumbling unsuccessful reach,
says it better than anyone
write for the blind and
sing for the deaf,
be their guide,
be their intimate,
aid them to escape boundaries,
by granting them the saws
to cut loose binding emotions,
share with them your most
intimate courage
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things."
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
Firm hands
Visage, chiselled by gods
I pray upon the temple
Intertwined fingers
Sinful embrace
I have longed a touch for Mars
So far, yet he saw the wood,
The hill,
The Temple.
The Mars enraged!
Raging howl of a lone canine
Digging of what the burried desire has for him
Digging, digging
Dig!
The Lumberjack fervently saws the hills
O God! Visage with a burning desire!
Not a tune of emotion compares to what this broken vision has seen
Not a tune of reality passes him.
Unconcious by the dew,
Concious by the sun
Ending the sin of a forbidden bind.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC
The Prism Through Which We See Clearly
~
light saws our untrue selves with acute angles,
piercing our holistic pretenses, daily disambiguation features,
our sheltering disguises into our essence refractive elements
this is not a cute rainbow poem - run from here
it is a dissection of our true nature
why belabor, why elaborate?
through the prism
you color-coded self, tracted,
a mapping of your intersections,
what each color speaks, needs not an explication,
your hidden humanity comes to my eyes, in full revelation
at last I see you clearly
the lost and black withered limbs,
the stirring, leaping, enflamed flaring, never ceasing, breathing elements that mark your singularity
did you know your eyes are constant singers?
through prism, each note heard distinctly, as it rises uplifted,
your song, mine for observation and weeping exhalations,
your song, the production number of thy own composition,
through prism, our interior visual disinterred and released,
here I must cease, for what seen, grievous weeping deepens,
from the glory and the pain my blurred wetness overwhelms
the clarifying crystal useless when tear coated
through the prism,
before the full length mirror,
my own, unowned, never could be owned,
'mirror mirror on the wall,'
warped weave of tissues, mine,
the song sounds, mine,
from lungs disgorged
myself, diagnosed and displayed
of what I see, spitting speech
ceases and desists,
the only thought permitted, repeated,
where is my shelter now?
5/13/17 6:49am
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
What if trees could move
Would they stay where we do
Would they filter our CO2
I say the answer's NO.
They would rather want a place of their own
Away from humans with axes and saws
Where they'll be at peace
Doing stuff like photosynthesis.
Wonder what would happen then
Wait,Don't bother,Do not say
We'll all be dead anyway!
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 6:24 AM UTC
halfway home from
that concrete-bowl arena
teeming (heaving) with
stinky-sweat-soaked rednecks
layered in sawdust and grease
a messy blackface mob
spreading spit tobacco
over their naked bones,
they sneak around
through the drafty back hallways
casually scattering
dad’s old shotgun shells
fresh cigarette ash
mamma’s whiskey labels
and let-this-be-broken pregnancy tests.
rusty dogtags clink together
sliding between camouflaged denim
mocking quick African rhythms
circular saws scream over
the echoing footfalls of
steel-toed boots padded with
suspicious glances
and my lonely power lines
are laying lazy across the
sweet, forgiven sky
honeysuckle weep
as they hug the barbed-wire
the sunset smells something like grace
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:54 PM UTC
Bruce the Spruce was a Christmas tree;
he lived on Christmas Farm.
Each night he dreamed that he could bring
cheer into someones home.
He stretched his branches every day
and squeezed his needles tight,
so he could be a perfect tree
for holding Christmas lights.
Every year at Christmas time
Bruce did as he was taught.
He showed all of his Christmas charm,
hoping he would be bought.
The people came from miles around
to buy their Christmas Trees.
They pulled and tugged at branches
and gave the twigs a squeeze.
They looked for trees just the right size,
with needles that would stay,
trees that gave a Christmas smell
to brighten Christmas day.
Bruce was a perfect Christmas tree;
the children seemed to love him.
But Bruce was small and other trees
still towered high above him.
The years went by and Bruce the Spruce
eventually grew tall.
His branches spread and held their form;
they didn't droop at all.
But there were many Christmas Trees
that grew on Christmas Farm
and no one ever seemed to pick out Bruce,
with all his charm.
Bruce grew so sad as years went by;
it seemed he'd grown too tall.
It seemed that he would never be
a Christmas tree at all.
When the new families came each year
to buy trees for their home,
they never looked at Bruce the Spruce;
he stood there all alone.
Bruce never forgot Christmas;
it brightened all his dreams.
Yet, in the light of each new day,
he lost his Christmas schemes.
One day a truck came to the farm;
men came with saws and rope.
They came to cut the tallest tree;
Bruce finally lost all hope.
"My time has come; Ive grown too old,"
his arms trembled in fear.
"I'm only good for firewood now;
I've seen my final year."
They cut him down and tied him to
the flatbed truck they brought.
They drove away, while Bruce the Spruce
lie weeping on the truck.
Bruce closed his eyes and fell asleep;
he dreamed of silent nights,
of children's smiling faces,
of gifts and colored lights.
When Bruce awoke He couldn't hold
back all of his delight.
Bruce couldn't believe what he saw;
his branches all had lights.
His arms were filled with tinsel.
Children were gathered round.
Everyone was cheering
and laughing on the ground.
Bruce looked around in ecstasy;
he couldn't help but stare.
Bruce had become the Christmas tree
that now adorned Times Square.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
I think I killed somebody
But you can’t tell anybody
It was just one simple body
A soul of a nobody
I had hands that ached to be claws
And feet that dreamed to be saws
I had eyes that sharpened into arrows
And lips that sharpened into blades
I had a tongue that was very splintered
And hair of thickened rope
It was the brain that leaked its poison
It was the ******* from which one drank
It was the heart that made one numb
But it was the thighs that slit its neck
I didn’t mean to do it
Yet I just heard a secret
It pounded at the bones in me
My skin couldn’t keep it
I never knew before then
What was thicker than blood
I think I killed somebody
But you can’t tell anybody
It was just one simple body
A soul of a nobody
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 6:06 AM UTC
it saws old rain in my skull
and your thoughts take a tour; wet and heavy
and quietly, the dirt shifts in the metal tracts
*you break me every single time
my internal spilling is entangled
hopelessly*
my summer-psyche enmeshed in your season
and forever swallows a few more ribs
don't wake the children of the light
for their feathers will burn beneath my nails
a storm hangs patiently on the wall
like a delighted painting made from frantic crystals
and I skitter from your towering moods
yet the moon dances in and out of every calm abyss
the lid is no more vacant than my veins cursed with
your silence
like algae, I slip on
my terror squeaks like a vehicle possessed
cheeks go ashen in my gay smiles
you will blush, in secret at what I will do
to you
sails lift on garlicky air in a port where ships don't wait
and my tongue loosens another melody only doubt hears
I'm completely in your hands
and willing for that crush
my acts for coins fall meaningless in embedded frustration
don't come to the table, then
keep the shades drawn
only the sense of phantoms
will be hanging in my smoke
intoxicating me to radiance
racing through to the ripples in your day
I'll keep lancing pebbles across the ocean's surface
they will never really reach the riverbed
frosty comes in agonising diamonds
a feast of distress sitting urgently
a shudder flutters through me, imperceptible
reduction of sweetness
a date with the cherubs from a netherworld
my nose feels the snows you carry
and I know you constrict still
my language falters and thinking shatters
and although slumped and vulnerable, it flourishes.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
*I guess that's the final straw
The one last time I see your brow
I guess that is the end for us
The end to this blessing of a curse
I should have seen it from start
One of us would end up getting hurt
I should have seen with my mind
Knowing love is heart,heart is blind
That's what one reaps when one saws
In a wrong field,hard blow to the jaws
Should have just told me you had him
Instead of letting me keep the dream
Should have said It's down the stream
Better than pain,massage and cream
Should have told me to man up & gym
Or walk away 'stead of causing steam
Explain,how you could face me & lie
Rather than watching you cry
You know I cannot stand your tears
I avoided them through the years
It's too late to cry, what's the point of it
He succeeded but you caused the heat
I hope he's better than me in every bit
I'll bury the hatchet, I concede defeat
I concede defeat, I concede defeat
I concede defeat because you
never thought me fit
I concede defeat, go on with your pete
I concede defeat,
**** I concede defeat
You've had my hopes punctured
You've had my jaws fractured
Had my bloating pride raptured
Broken my heart, cupid archered
Don't explain I'm so angered
It's me you had endangered
Dude is a gang member
With bullets in the chamber
Imagine he'd taken that shot
If I had retreated not
You took a chance with what we had
Didn't know forgiving could be hard
Guess all of it is charred
Whatever it was we shared
Cause if you had really cared
Couldn't have had me beat for dead
So I concede defeat, I concede defeat
I concede defeat
And I hope you find him fit
I concede defeat, I concede defeat
I concede defeat so I guess this is it*
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
Every soul I come into contact with
leaves an impression onto me.
But I don't believe in souls,
so how can this be?
How can I taste the flowerless
nature of a coke nose
and find it to be an eternal bloom?
For I, to without and before sunset,
**** the shadows that mask the morose
and keep the victimized stalwarts close.
See thy honor in the trauma of the night
and transient beauty of the light
that shines in all that I touch,
not enough or, perhaps, too much.
To break my empathy would be shimmerless,
but I'm dimmer, thus, a shallow crest
of what I thought was best
on the Earth's grass
and in the brain's broken glass.
Intermission:
Soda Pop and Popcorn in the lounge.
****** in France,
you like coke and being other people.
You tried to **** yourself with your car
but it only went as far
as the saliva leaping from your mouth,
when your head hit the horn,
and blared until your ears popped,
with your spit splatting against the speedometer.
Because what is fast isn't fast enough.
The EMT told you this when you saw the lights flash
across your eyes. Focus. Focus. Focus.
Follow the light with your eyes.
This isn't god. Do you have parents?
What is your name?
Your wallet melted in the heat.
What is your name?
You think you hear rusty bone saws
but they're trying to cut your friend out of the vehicle.
There isn't enough time. Time is never enough.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
What is it about this drunken town where the snow falls like cement
that made it so easy to fall in love with the delirious nightlife that never sleeps?
It seems like when I’m with you at night I never sleep.
We’re dancing around the cemetery like we threw a ball for souls.
No one believes you when you say you see something from the corner of your eye
but we all feel the chill and agree that tonight we will never sleep.
Do you remember the night you told me to never hold back? ******* I wanted
to cry but I forced a smile through my lips and eyes. I laid next to you with a blank mind
for hours knowing that you think I‘m a mystery. I learned that the train yard never sleeps.
The piece of **** microwave is broken again when you come home drunk.
You called me a **** and punched another hole in the wall and
I’m scared enough to know that tonight I’ll never sleep.
That bag of ice clutched tight won’t leave his hand jammed in his pocket. When
he gets home he feeds the crystals into the glass and heats it up. Tweaked out
and wandering the streets at three. A woman mutters, **** addicts never sleep.”
Have you ever dozed off in warm grass while watching
clouds passing lazily by? My god I swear there’s nothing better than
a nap in the sun for someone who never sleeps.
Glass rips my forehead clean open and exposes my frontal skull bone while
strange men hold me down and taunt me with knives and chain saws.
Reoccurring nightmares are why many insomniacs never sleep.
A sensual shower at midnight, that fat hit at two did nothing. Lavender and candles
aren’t working. I’m staring at the ceiling. You roll over and pull me close.
“Leah, please, go to bed. It kills me that you never sleep.”
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At that word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
1.6k
Here in this dim, dull, double-bedded room,
I play the father to a brace of boys,
Ailing but apt for every sort of noise,
Bedfast but brilliant yet with health and bloom.
Roden, the Irishman, is 'sieven past,'
Blue-eyed, snub-nosed, chubby, and fair of face.
Willie's but six, and seems to like the place,
A cheerful little collier to the last.
They eat, and laugh, and sing, and fight, all day;
All night they sleep like dormice. See them play
At Operations:- Roden, the Professor,
Saws, lectures, takes the artery up, and ties;
Willie, self-chloroformed, with half-shut eyes,
Holding the limb and moaning--Case and Dresser.
1.5k
Dark of night, Black and white
Mystery and fright
Tales of secrets and horror ignite
Tonight, they tell a tale of a murderous night
In armor and claws and daggers and saws...
Hide and seek is the game of play
For he shall find his prey
But, in the shadows she must stay, or it will give her away.
Behind a door or curtain she must dwell
Terror and cries will condemn her to hell...
But now, she must flee, so she, can be free
Run away! Run away!
Oh no! She had gone and went astray,
She can't get away.
The sounds of floorboards creak in the dark
His footsteps loud with conviction and stark!
Closer and closer he comes to seek
Fear takes hold, her knees are weak
He's on the prowl with death in sight
She hears his breath and gasps in fright!
He turns and looks! his prey is in plight!
His strike is quick, the blood runs hot
Through his veins, it will not stop
He takes her life with fury and might!
And now all is quiet in the dark of night.
No mercy or dread
He, has now fed...
His victim is dead
For now,
His victim is dead
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC
As an instinct flies
in a place of beauty
an untamed nature
footprints in ground.
Where frosty stares in the still air
will frighten the devil.
We hear the haunting howls
within the wilderness as we
search for all that is
wild inside us.
In each stride a dark beast
inside us roars
sharp claws scratch prison
walls and paws rattle
the jail house bars.
I am the mad man in the
lunatic asylum who howls
at the full moon.
Barks at the visitor
I am the crazy one.
I am the werewolf
Look into me and I will scare
every bone in your body.
As a band of brother we all give
birth to a fresh madness .
Bound together we feel the freedom
of just being in our nature.
And I am so so sorry that you
always feel like a prisoner.
As he is wild and on the outside
you hold yourself captive.
As he is the wilderness
you are the farmer.
And all of his territory surrounds you.
Be careful in the land of the untamed
beast listen for his frosty breath
a cold bloodied steam.
Frozen in the wolfs glare you feel the
force of nature.
A thousand armies may try to penetrate
and conquer.
But stone walled by an eye
they are kept on the outside.
As they hear a voice
from a bearded old man
Some call nature
others call GOD
Saying,
"GET OFF"
"I SAID"
"GET OFF"
"HE IS MINE"
With thunder in his spirit and chain saws
in his growl you know he belongs to God
not man.
They place you in a prison
calling it
Freedom of choice
I will crack you open
break you free
and give you instinct
with no choice.
Burdened by the baggage
of decision i will set you
a path which has
rhyme
but no reason.
Strangled by the mind I will
I will give a ferocious growl
that carries you right through.
Gliding through the wilderness you
race free following your instinct
breaking fresh snow each day.
Gain the thrill of your own wildness
and learn the power of running with wolves
in the wilderness.
.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:56 AM UTC
the roof leaks
so we catch the rain
with buckets
the neighbors are loud
so we sleep with earplugs
sometimes
there's construction on the street below
so we learn to ignore the sound
of hammers and saws
the money has vanished
so we make due
with what we have
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
Tools of the Patriarchy
Fence pliers, claw hammers, crescent wrenches
Nail sets, c-clamps, wood planes, mitre boxes
Come-alongs, White Mule gloves, ball-peen hammers
Jumper cables, wood planes, mill bstrd files
Plumb bobs, twist bits, cross-cut saws, ripping saws
Tire irons, air compressors, pressure gauges
Brace-and-bits, drawing knives, pneumatic jacks
Cold chisels, clamps, mortar trowels, channel locks
A twelve-hour day plus d*mned low pay, you bet!
And
A work ethic, knowledge, muscles, and sweat
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 1:47 PM UTC
Like the mighty redwood
My love for you
Is massive, indomitable, and lasting.
With roots sinking deep into my soul.
Long after the hate and wickedness of others fades,
Even after we too, are laid in the grave
My love for you, shall grow stronger everyday.
The axes and saws of the skeptics,
All break on my trunk,
The saw teeth shear off, and dull,
And the axe haft snaps,
Not making so much as a dent.
High into the sky
My love rises,
To bask in the rays of your love.
The fires of those who scorn love
Lick at the base
But they cannot so much as singe my love.
You are the nutrient rich soil,
The life giving waters,
And the solar brilliance shining down.
Your love wards off all blight,
You are my earth, my water, my light.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
It's like those great John Ford movies,
The door frame opening to endless sky.
You know, like the one in "The Seekers,"
Except in this case, you're on the outside.
The field is swept with wind, the sky pristine,
And the barn roof? Why it's covered in snow.
Weird, but brilliant in the afternoon light.
The door is ajar. Hello.
So you step past the threshold to the smell,
A mixture of hay, dung, sweat and aged leather.
The walls are blanketed in tools.
Hand saws, hammers, the occasional piece of rope.
In the center sits a rusting John Deer.
With a blown front tire, and an oil can next to it.
Inexplicably, in the corner, beneath a working Coke machine,
A little girl sings to herself.
Wait, we are not over yet.
Up in the rafters, there he is, that grey barn owl.
Look! He twists his neck at the sound and blinks.
He sees everything.
I am stepping backwards now.
Out of the picture frame and into the kitchen.
I think I need to get out of these snowy clothes,
And into something more comfortable.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
a refugee from wealth,
he and his Dartmouth degree found the spot
farthest from his New England roots, and the first roots
he saw there were those of a banyan tree, giant gray tentacles
piercing the Asian earth, imploring the black soil
for atonement, he thought
the natives said the tree was older than God
immortal, but cursed with some blight that bedeviled them
and that prudent pruning of ailing arms would be wise
the man had only a Swiss Army knife
with its minuscule saw, but soon he set about the task
of trimming the behemoth, one mad millimeter at a time,
and mad was all the natives saw
this white creature, high in the canopy,
often from dawn until the sun sank in the jungle behind him
sawing away, a half branch a day, treating the gargantuan arboreal
like a prize bonsai
villagers would come, hunker, watch in the shade of the tree
once in a great while, they would see a branch crash on the ground,
at which time they cheered the pitifully patient woodsman
many offered to help, some leaving bow saws,
axes at the banyans' base, but he would have none of that
over and over he received new red knives with their tiny saws
these parcels the only mail he got
even during monsoon rains,
the man's labors did not desist
though his audience waned
appearing to defy physics' uncertain laws
the tree was nearly felled, but the man disappeared
before his colossal task was done, the locals claiming he climbed
into the thinned canopy one day and never came down
not even a well worn blade was found
allowing the witnesses to aver he was yet high in the heavens
resting after love's labor had wearied his hands
but perchance healed his heart
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC