under the table
where the wood shavings grow
where I eat my cold meals
on the cold cobbled stone
under the table
where the knowledge flows down
from callous-studded hands
to the human-shaped Noun
under the table
where no one can see
who carves the cabinets
who'd know that it's me
under the table
where the years pass me by
where I wait for that one day
the woodworker dies
the woodworker dies
the woodworker dies
THE WOODWORKER DIES

My unoccupied vastness
arched sky high in celestial patterns
Your precise touch feels like golden petals
which excellently reshape my natural hardness
into poetry.
The expected whys and hows in this tale take no place
I’m spectated attentively
smiling truly in pastels
exhibited solid strong and wondrously rich in details
Tall like mahogany
inhabiting moonlit valleys
Chosen to climb and absorb all light.
And my unorthodox nature carved out in monolith
relies wholly on my woodworker
Ruler
Architect
Four-leaved clover
My chase for sunlight my height my rock solidity of heart
all gathered into one
atypical poem.

Basket of resource books and herbs is in the car.
2. Basket of sewing tools and knitting needles is packed with an item or two to stitch.
3. One cast iron *** is ready to go. Two more in the process of burning off and seasoning.
4. Linen caps and kerchiefs are starched. Clothes are laid out.
5. Pack basket is full of pottery and utensils. Need to ask the woodworker if he will make me a lid and dasher for the butrer churn.
6. Copper kettle is filled with a bag of seasoned walnuts and two tin skilkets.
7. Still working on ingredients for the larder. Storing them in period appropriate containers is a puzzle.
8. Spinning wheel is excited for the new adventure. She said bring plenty of roving.

She never allowed herself to be as fragile as glass,
Until he lit her soul like lightening on sand, with a fiery crash.

Perfectly imperfect as perfect gets,
Like a cat in your lap, the heart is where she sits.

Her touch is like thunder and it rattles your bones,
Feeling like a little kid, it's 95' again and I'm watching the flintstones

As hard to read as a book in the night,
But in her presence, no wind is needed to fly the kite.

If there's one thing over all, her intelligence is key,
Because it opens up the door to display all of her beauty.

The stars in the darkness and how they seem to hold up the sky,
Or a baby bird that jumps and hasn't learned how to fly.

Sometimes life tries to show us all we need is a little faith,
And it can sculpt us into something beautiful,
Like a woodworker uses his lathe.

The hoofs and horses burn in the twilight,
As you count breaths between the stirring Of bees.
Oncoming traffic like a beads on a string,
The Woodworker's rasp,
The beekeeper's screen,
Diamond headlights,
Oncoming rain,
A transparent light,
The stirrings of leaves,
Gravity ground in a ceiling of sky.
In a dry place, the Oracle's
Lost meaning,
A hole in the center of the Sphinx blind eye.
I ply my hand to broken wheel moonlight,
A servitude of stars,
These muttering clouds,
A musty collection of shanties and shacks.
I caught the last sleep to black and white rails,
Slap boards passing, a flickering screen,
In a a theatre of stars and orbits,
A string hang on a ceiling so sweet.
As dogs and birds welcome Blue Heaven,
JESUS SAVES plasters Route 10, Is it West Mex or East Tex
Or is it the same?
Dark buttes, silhouettes, bare bulbs and bugs.
Ariels deep in dark desert valley,
The scent of box elder set in the sun.
The Oracle of day draws you in deeper,
Like a reptile burrowed in the heat of high noon.
A trial by fire, a light like no other,
What wildflowers lurk in the Devil's dark garden?
Witch grass and juniper smelling like rain.
A limestone Chateaux dreary long hours,
In a place surrounded by four walls and a bed,
Scavenging shoes in the dark of the day.
Black spiders in closets hunt along runnels,
A quivering fly caught in a trance.
A brief disconnection,
Ten thousand night and five Fridays ago,
So said the tombstone to each blade of grass.
Gravity Good Mother, teach us a lesson, tied to this tether,
This searing vibration,
A rust belt corrodes the American Dream,
As gulls wheel industrial blight.
Cherry Blue Jewel, the last drop of water,
Glass curtains cover the winnowing storm.
Twilight and half moons,
Long shiny autos,
All the starlets rise with the night.
Pieces and fragments, in abstract arrangement,
Aged black men fishing rivers of cattails.
Asleep in the dusk, a tinkling currant,
My own echo leaving a hollow in air.
Times emollient, 5 beads on a string,
Pharaohs and Pharisees,
A beekeeper's screen,
Shadows caught in a quivering dream.

I am from wine connoisseurs
With a self proclaimed french je ne sais quoi
A father of politics
A mother of cooking
With my sister and I in between
Sister of art
House of Victoria
Downtown is our place
Hipster is our face
The cat with swag holds us all together
With a woods as our backyard, and summertime gardens with scary insect farms
Saturday mornings with the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup
We may not be huggers but advice does suffice
Now as I go day to day I remember this saying that my mom always does say “You can’t change people, only yourself.”
This reminds me that I'm not the only one sitting on that self

Old fashion Texas man and women
Each with many hats and cans
Cans of beans and jars of pickling foods
Grammy frosted the world with fervor and quilts
Pap-Pap is a man of his own
Busy bee carving out time only to fly
Been around the block a few times just to give me these rhymes
Woodworker by trade who knows the difference between workmanship and ****
Summer days full of tunes of ice cream trucks and Pap-Pap down the drive
Only to arrive with delectable treats of frozen desserts
To teach a life lesson that sticks to the curb
“Don’t say I never did anything for ya.” as he strolls away to go work
Baking up bread and squash too
My grandparents are my favorite people this is true
All american cuties this is what they are

My Bumpa and My grandma are very sweet yet far
They live in Michigan not just four steps away
Yet they are still in my heart and there to stay
Bumpa is a hugger and kisser too they both are whenever they see you
Grandma is a chatty cathy always with something to say
This is why she always brightens my day
Bumpa builds everything and cooks delicious food
He works very hard and is always smiling through and through
As a retired car designer he has a great knowledge for cars
He used to work at Ford building seats and much more
This is my Bumpa ,and my Grandma too I love to go visit them for there love is so true

Many places is where they belong
All organized in different songs
Smiles and laughs and sad times too
We document in pictures
With writing few
A picture is a thousand words so what more could you say
Some is in my mind but those are for another day
My family is who I am it is who I’m going to be
I smile when I think of them because I know its just me