"workbench" poems
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests
There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.
all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.
Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.
Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...
Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain
And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.
And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart
Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.
We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.
On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
I put light bulbs into roses
And I tried to make them grow,
But no further than my workbench
Would they ever even go.
I connected them with wires, clips –
I’ve tried it all:
Drew out diagrams on yellowed paper,
Labelled in my chicken scrawl.
Once the electrician came to look.
“What have you been doing girl?”
It was then that at my workbench
A bag of fertilizer did he hurl.
Gone then were the wires, clips;
Gone the ashes on the floor.
All that’s left were wilted roses
Piled up right by the door.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
I ripped our love apart.
I defiled it.
Whatever we had I graffitied all over,
I sprayed noxious fumes over a work of art.
And you're gone.
I ate our love up.
Devoured it.
We had a four course meal planned out.
I ate the desert before the meal began.
And you're gone.
I bulldozed our love.
Destroyed it.
We were architects for not just a building, a city.
I burned the plans, the structures.
And you're gone.
I killed our love.
Murdered it.
a life of
Your pit bull and
hairless cat and
motorcycle
Workbench
-did you ever take that course?
love
Your eyes when they were seventy.
When we were on shrooms,
I hallucinated you at seventy.
I started crying because you were so beautiful.
That was before I went homicidal.
But you are gone.
And I don't blame you.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 4:25 AM UTC
We hadn't spoken
Too much had been left unsaid
Now silence sits there
Collecting the dust
Like one of your projects
Waiting to be fixed
Never forgotten
But not cared for as it was
Left 'till much too late
You left suddenly
A quick fix out the back door
Me left unfinished
Still,
I'll remember you
As I choose to- the Tinker
Everything just so
You'd sit at your bench
Stripping the wood of varnish
Bringing out beauty
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Perfection strived for
Now that you are gone
Your antiques your legacy
I'll remember you
For the good in you
And I will try to forgive
you the dark hours
I will have to start
Mending memories that you built
A Tinker's daughter
Rewiring my grief
Sitting at your workbench and
Stripping it of guilt
Sit and watch, Tinker
Watch me try to mend a heart
Left in disrepair
Polish here, dust there
Every detail adjusted
Acceptance strived for
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
I
At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand
what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows
ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.
being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,
My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise
just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace
II
And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly
The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent
pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.
The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right
My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether
spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise
III
At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple
Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid
want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time
Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane
said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty
Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned.
A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid.
A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did.
I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
The Shed
Waiting for afternoon
when I visit, tea in one hand
crossword in the other.
Rows of last year’s seeds parade on the shelf
by the window, cobwebs high and tight.
Mulchy tobacco odours mingle in mooted sunbeams.
Garden tools hung neatly on nails, the workbench clear
save for the jars of nuts and screws and old mug rings.
Exiled carpet, stiff with fatigue,
plant pots are the only pattern left,
the wooden stool moulded with old-age-grooves
and joints that grumble,
stands next to bottled rhubarb and elderberry
dusty and vibrant, drinking in summers past.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
it’s late
or early,
depends how you
look at it,
only my hands and
heart are cold,
smoke filled garage,
rusted tools
hang themselves
in front of me,
paintless brushes,
painted brushes and
baseless screwdrivers
ashy floors and drywall
painted with holes
from fists and hockey
pucks, church pews
of razor-slit,
spray painted
by angsty young
i sit upon,
unfinished projects
are suppose to sit on
the other side of
the workbench.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
I went into the garage
sat down at the workbench
laid out a clean sheet of Tyvek
and sterilized the long steel probe.
This wasn’t a snap decision;
I did months of research
got some tips from an ER nurse friend
knew the risk
but could not live this way anymore.
Numbed my right eye with ophthalmic anaesthetic
leaned over the mirror
and slowly pushed the needle
into the socket beside my nose.
It didn’t hurt
just pressure
like the blogs had said
and then
The world exploded in yellow stars
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
To be classifiable, she nervously applies the cake to her nostrils
While splinters stick in her fingertips. 30. To be a woman she
Harvests necrotic insects and dances in Warhol underpants.
I explain how gravity loves the catalogue of your unique hollywood
Romances. Each train takes a new storyline through the ****** treetops
And counterfeit addictions she poises herself in to seem attractive to
Each magazine under her daddy's workbench.
Being a woman is more than big ***** and paint for brains. Some skins Cling to the reels of the love language sprinting through historical Venetian street settings. I smoke ***** with wizards.
For the first time I witness the acatalepsy of the Irish, but narrowly
Passing the beguiling succor that renders the whim of persons
In the acronychal hours.
I'm telling you your hands are my new exoskeleton. I take to you
With the excitement of gravity. New denude photographs of pallor
Fleshes upstay the human trials we are blessed to share in this open sky,
Where I warn the blues of the sky to be jealous of these sciophilous Women who experience the unyielding pressure to feel the pleasures
Our confabulations offer acushla.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
My teeth are smiling back at me
From a glass beside the bed
I wonder "Do they look that bad"
"When they're positioned in my head?"
They looked all kind of cloudy
***** brown, and green
I think I need to change the way
I make my teeth get clean
Right now I use polident
To make my choppers shine
But, if this is the way that they turn out
I'm embarrassed that they're mine
I took them out and washed them off
I stuck them in a glass of bleach
I thought, "This will make them whitey white"
The colours will all leech
Out of my clean choppers
And will brighten up my smile
Then you'll see me from afar
Well, at least a half a mile
I left them for two hours
and they came out brown and green
I thought, they look no better now
They look totally obscene
I even took to painting them
A glorious shade of white
I left them on my workbench
To dry and harden overnight
They still look brown and greeny
Like they were buried in the yard
I swear, I've never had a thing
That's made me work so hard
I cannot put them in my mouth
with out cleaning off the crud
It's looks like I am smiling
With a mouth that's full of mud
I took a pad of wire wool
And scrubbed them like you do
They didn't get much brighter
But, now at least...they're blue
I went down to the chemists
To get something for my teeth
I needed something powerful
To relieve me of my grief
The chemist said "please shut your mouth"
"You're scaring all who passes"
"Your teeth are oh so snowy white"
"The dirt is on your glasses!!"
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
I hoist the old scarred oaken chair
onto the workbench.
I think about how this nick
and that scratch
and that unglued cross bar
happened
and how many years it has withstood
the heavy weight of the humanity
who have found it and laid their burdens upon it.
And I give thanks that it is still repairable
still of use and available
for the brief respites
of those it serves.
I give thanks that I too
am still on the workbench.
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
He sat for eons,
God's workbench,
His tools,
Materials.
Brass and gold,
Silver, platinum,
Aluminum,
Electrum and copper,
Rubies and emeralds.
God made watches.
One fine day,
He decided
"Earth."
And grabbed up a frame,
And started filing.
And by God did he file.
The schematics.
The gears.
Must be perfect.
Five days later,
God was almost done,
Only one gear remained,
The finest of gears,
God spent more time
On this one gear
Than any other
In his watch.
This gear is you.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
i like to see how far the razor
can reach underneath my skin
before i pass the callouses
and slip into my bloodstream.
i'm a fountain of youth
with leaks and bruises
where the years come seeping
out slowly. and if only you'd notice
you could grab hold of it
and squeeze the life right out of me.
perhaps into a glass flask and burner
and let it bubble away on your workbench
find out why it didn't sit right inside me
and how you can harness its energy
so i can give back to the earth
instead of ******* all my days away
playing with my blood.
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 5:14 AM UTC
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly-
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her *******
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-clothes on my forehead,
and then led me out into the air light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift – not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-toned lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 10:54 PM UTC
The woodcarver
Chips away at his creation
The old, steady hands
Crafting something of perfection
Each wood shaving falling away,
piece by piece,
gives way to a more and more beautiful masterpiece.
But halfway through,
he sits, and he rests.
The creation still stands on the workbench, incomplete.
Time goes on,
and on, and on…. yet the unhatched egg of a figurine still remains.
And one day, the carver again takes it into his hands.
“Finally, your time has come”
He sits back, and he widdles, and widdles….and widdles.
The wooden sculpture at last takes its final form.
And although it was finished last,
and he had made hundreds of items in the past,
the piece that took the longest,
was much more precious than any other piece he had ever made before.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
Darkness…
The only thing I can see as I hear the words **** yourself.”
Frustration…
The only thing I can feel as I take the blade from the workbench.
Tears…
The only thing I can taste. The salt the bitterness of the things they tell me to do.
Manic depression episode…
The thing that I go into when I heard those two words.
Time…
The only thing that is warped but completely on track for me.
Suicide…
The only thought in my head and I never knew what suicide was at the point in life.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:32 AM UTC
On a chilling winter night
The quill slips and icy, has to fight
I wrap my frozen heart around a shawl
And frost traps my ink which freezes too.
However, inside, my body burns with desire
Making me tremble like red hot magmatic fire
But this poor quill, alas
Numbed in this weather is exhausted already!
The flame of my candle flickers and weakens
Inspiration shows a passing fancy and she wants to be desired
I’m going to break free from this heavy inertia
But how? Everything is still and tired!
Oh cruel globe! Why is my soul so mute?
She was able to drench me in its natural artistic flood
I can’t believe in her sudden inactivity
What’s going on, I’m going numb in my blood!
Oh you my muse, spread your silky artistic veil
Over my being beseeching you to save it
Oh you, my well of inspiration and mystical words
I implore you, listen and come to my bedside, hail!
But why is everyone, Heavens, deaf to my call?
Just who is willing to hear my plea of despair and silence
No one can revive this depressing poetry and her fate
Loneliness, to the four winds I’m going to dislocate!
In a certain hour of a chilling winter night
I’ve let my writing expire at my workbench
Farewell then, poetry, fie!
In my night I fade away and nothing muffles my plight!
But with this new dawn, don’t you cry my muse
I’ll write with you, I’ll be in your care
And we’ll content ourselves with sweetness, laughter and schemes
I’ll once again respond to your vital needs
However, aura of happiness and joy
I simply won’t do it tonight, but finally,
Don’t fret and rest in my dreams, hopefully
Tomorrow I’ll worship you, unconditionally!
Written on August 26, 2010,
Translated on November, 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
The poet sighed,
took out paper and pen
and waited for inspiration to come.
Nothing.
He stared at the blank page
for hour after hour,
like every day
for the last month,
nothing came to him.
“There is no poetry in my anymore.”
he mumbled weakly,
as if there were not strength in him,
but he hurled the pen across the room
hard enough to gouge the wall.
He got up, went about his day,
he had a lot of things to do,
later, he took up the paper and pen again.
“There is no more poetry in the world.”
he wrote, the words scrawled
untidily across the page,
“No more words
of love or passion,
no more pretty phrases.”
He went on at length,
describing his lack of feelings,
his inability to express his pain.
After a couple of pages he paused,
with a steeling breath
he went on.
“I’ve found a way out
of the pit I’m trapped in,
this empty, emotionless void.”
“I cannot make it out myself,
I will need a ladder.”
“A ladder is a wonderful device,
able to help mankind
rise above troubles,
to lift them up
when their own abilities
fail.”
He put his pen down,
walked out to his garage,
in there, he looked upon the ladder
he had placed under his way out,
a noose.
He stood there for a moment,
thinking about his lack of feeling,
his failures,
the people that betrayed him.
He looked down at the pages in his hand,
placed them carefully on the workbench,
the would be found there,
read and examined.
Thereafter people would understand
why he took this route,
why he could no longer cope
with his inability to write.
He climbed the ladder,
put his head in the noose,
his portal out of the pit.
He stopped for a moment,
looked down at the pages,
then it hit him.
These pages he had written
were his finest writing in months,
perhaps in his life.
Thinking about what he wrote
he realized,
there was the emotion he hadn’t felt,
the words that wouldn’t come.
Startled by the revelation
he stepped back,
off the ladder,
his mind ablaze with ideas.
But the noose, that was his way out of pain,
was still around his neck.
As he hung there,
helpless,
slowly fading away,
he cursed himself.
Why hadn’t he paused
at the base of the ladder,
reread the pages he carried.
Now, it was too late,
everything he still had within him
would die with him.
People would read his words
and never know,
that he had found his voice again,
had come to understand
that numbness and pain
don’t last.
They would read his words
and think less of him.
As these thoughts faded
and darkness claimed him
a single tear crept down his cheek.
A final testament
that he had,
in the end,
regained his humanity.
But sadly,
it would dry and disappear,
long before he was found.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
Music Can Make Me Cry
26 Januarys 2023
More than poetry, art, stone sculpture,
A violin, a piano, flutes,
Hold me.
Higher than I can climb on my own.
Deeper than I can reach with these arms.
Love songs cry.
Clear, not words,
Music,
Melody, overcome me.
Lifted beyond today,
To a place, no pain, no fear, no loss.
Children, family, friends,
You are here.
Warmer than camp fire, flame under a star-lit sky.
Over snowy berms, valleys, pebbled lanes,
Opening wheat fields, endless expanse.
Peace.
Music live.
In the woods, in the cities.
One tiny bird brings an opera.
Reedy waters, symphony.
From each meadow, divas, a tenor.
Forest, choir, spirits, ghosts.
From Dad’s workbench, voices of angels.
Mom’s eyes, heaven.
Under the streetcar rides my soul.
Clopping hoofs, rhythm, my heartbeat.
Rain drops, my breath.
Ocean waves, my birth, my being.
Today’s sun, tomorrow’s promise, yesterday's memories.
Thunder, creation.
My love, you bring each sweet tone.
You gift my pedestal.
Sometimes music, can make me cry.
Jan 26, 2023
Jan 26, 2023 at 11:28 AM UTC