Best Sawing Poems
(for Virginia Woolf)
She wanted to buy some flowers but drowned Herself instead,
drifting along the ebbing flow of time, with warm
water cracking Her slim figure and airless lungs.
‘will I freeze the river?’ She thought, wondering if the trees
would still rustle in the wind if She wasn’t alive to notice it,
thinking if Her man’s heart would still beat if She could
no longer shock its rhythmical thump-thud-stop with kisses.
the wood was chopped down around Her home. The
veranda from which She surveyed the world was but
deafened by cruel hacking chopping and sawing at the
hands of men whom took Her feminine beauty away.
She became the water as She died, became the weeds,
became the bark that broke her own back, the pen and the phallus.
‘this isn’t purgatory’ She realised, ‘this is revenge and reward’.
‘I am a sacrifice to literature. I am a sacrifice for the word’.
from writer to death to glory to ink
to the lies under rocks uncovered,
to god to me to the taking of Her own life,
She is the paper in our very hands.
Sawing logs, one after another
Into two feet lengths
Just for the specific purpose
Of standing them up on the ground
Awaiting the iron axe
That will create a comforting
Roaring fire in the hearth
Come this winter’s cold
Canning fruits and vegetables
To store on the shelves
Awaiting the moment in time
When they’ll be lifted out
And opened slowly, carefully
With appreciation for the color
The scent and deliciousness
Of a homegrown and canned food
Cutting down hay in the field
Tractor moving slowly, assuredly
Taking the blade to the grass
Green and pungent scented
Covering the field with what will
Be racked up into piles for
Baling and creating a treasure
For the barn to store for cattle
She told the police, Please help me
My husband is missing you see
First he was there, then he was gone
And I don't know where he could be
The police seemed concerned and said,
Describe this man that's not around
If we don't have a description
We fear he may never be found
He has a patch over one eye
The one that he lost in the war
He wears a small hat on his head
That doesn't have hair anymore
He lost a finger sawing wood
And a toe when mowing the lawn
I guess he was mostly missing
before he was even gone!
Summer times are spent in the orchard of apples and pears
That old wooden rope swing; all frayed, from over the years
Hazy days in the summer house, watching the children play
Puppy dogs running around chasing the butterflies all a gay
Homemade lemonade. and jam sandwiches cut into squares
How we all loved to go into the fruit orchard, over the years
Gals in their light cotton frocks, and the boys in short shorts
Gran; with her wicker basket, taking flower cuttings of sorts
Grandpa; in his shirt with sleeves rolled up sawing the wood
Making all the lost wooden tiles, on the summer house good
Papa would arrive after a long working day pop ices in hand
This home as his castle and the garden and orchard his land
Seen it all blossom, with a loving wife, watched it all expand
As loving gestures given between them; they so understand
That this beautiful dream was built; surrounded by true love
With praises given to HE, who blessed this home from above
He never once mentioned the pressure of his blood
or his Mam
I found dead on the floor
his Dad’s cancer
or his younger brother
not once, during the best years of my life
he fixed cars
with a pipe slowly smoking
a magician with gauges and valves
he drank small amounts of beer
most nights
talked of governments,
jays, woodpeckers and herbs
and fishing
he once caught a 200lb conger
he threw it back, no big deal
walked his dog over a hundred years old
until she died too
he never once mentioned it, but we noticed
the angle of the briar
the bedraggled churchwarden
the butter in the beans
that one extra potato
the few extra pounds
but not once ever
did he bring up our grumbles
our impoliteness
or our dirty shoes
through fleeting visits
he just smiled, understood us like Buddha
he gave without receipts
or IOUs
would it have mattered
if we’d found the tablets in his drawer
or deciphered the consultant’s scrawl
papered vaguely on the wooden table?
he wasn’t expecting guests, I guess
and then one random Sunday,
memories of mountains
and meadows
and fox cubs
and bullfrogs,
warm summers
and the scent of tobacco
went out
from 'Sawing Fallen Logs For Ladybird Houses' 2011
http://amzn.to/seDv8w
Do not take revenge, my friends,
but leave room for God’s wrath,
for it is written: “It is mine to avenge.
I will repay,” says the Lord.
Romans 12:19 Bible NIV
WHY THUMB YOUR NOSE AT GOD
sins will be dealt with
why thumb your nose at God
with wiggling fingers
the itch of such
wanting to right all wrongs
and you believe
you’re writing your own song
but does this magic trick
of disappearing napkins
sawing boxes in half
contradict
one day you will be laid in a box
your history sorted through
that napkin will dab the eyes
of what you thought was true
surely on bended knee
the God of eternity
can better sort
out our affairs
7/15/2020
Dad, I’m sitting here by the fire wishing you were here.
We’ve been cleaning in the yard, and you love this time of year.
The huge red oak by the tree house is still standing tall.
You talked about cutting it down early last fall.
I’m so proud your grandson Caleb has taken after you.
He has been cutting down trees just like you taught him to.
He would be outside all day if he wasn’t still in school;
Sawing, chopping, and splitting wood just like you taught him to.
He drives your 5-spped pick-up truck that Jerry got from you.
He learned to drive a straight shift just like you taught him to.
Caleb reminds me so much of being and working around you;
Because he works without complaint just like you taught him to.
One day the huge red oak will need to come down.
I know Caleb has the knowledge to cut it to the ground.
Dad, thank you for your leadership, example, love and strength from above.
Grandpas Blessing given to his Grandson Caleb with true love.
At crushing depths
Titanic rests
Rusticles- like red ice
hang from her corpse
[the excrement of
fathoms deep bacteria]
And now technology
[ undreamed of when it was needed]
peers at her
[long submerged wreckage]
from slick sub-like vessels
taking computer generated
photo mosaics
[for investigators to pore over.]
Once, mystifying questions
are un-layered one by one
from evidence locked
within her tortured skeleton,
revealing
[ not the simple impact of an iceberg]
sealed her fate]
but rather, a 'series of happenings',
[without remedy.]
Rivets with 'too much slag'
gave way
letting in Atlantic's weight
Her belly full,
she hugged her center keel
[in futile efforts]
to keep bow and stern connected.
As she sank, into eternity,
chambered cells,
[once meant to prevent
the onslaught of the sea,]
were swiftly breached
Sea weight tore her
great- ship's-soul asunder,
and sinking to the sea's dark floor,
she took with her,
poor forsaken passengers
[crying in disbelief ]
at the cruel and lying 'myth.'
See sawing down,
the broken stern end
speared, into fathoms deep mud,
the bow rails stayed intact
[for all the ghosts
to lean on ]
And with the solving of
her final hours,
it is unthinkable,
that this rusticled specter
[once so full of mystery]
had been declared to be
'unsinkable.'
ALL YOURS (Jun 10)
Contest Judged: 6/9/2021 11:40:00 PM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
First Place
I cried for them this afternoon
Knew them since the matinee started
Saw them fall in love
At first sight, the world stopped
Everything was silent at the sight of it
They looked and were lovers
Later that day on their knees
Repeating vows that till today
They saw only in throw away plays
I cried for them, their lost love
But not for mother whose long life ended
By the Yankee Sluggers creeping disease
What was there to cry about?
As the blue ice calved from glacier slabs
Creased iron plates, made orphans, widows
And most aboard but not me or my mother
Or the yet unborn twice told tale
Tony was told she died, frantic with fear
He called out for her but got Chino instead
Saw her running to him, delirious with fear and joy
He got a bullet instead, tearing threw his back
Breaking his heart in half he fell into her arms
She covered his face with kisses and tears
And I too wept again for what could have been
What should have been for mother, died without my tears
For I knew not how to give!
Instead to those I gave tears so freely
But I knew them since the matinee started
Who cried for my three brothers
Charley, like Marley dragged his chains around
And spent a life time sawing them off, Michael who fell
From heaven one day, curly hair and welcoming smile
Orphaned by mother who just gave him away
Brain dead one day in June, the rest followed six months to the day
Brother Tom, large lonesome eyes never saw what the world wondered. Water boarded at age five, he left and never returned
Last month got cancer and died exactly one month later.
I cried today for the matinee lovers,
When I should have cried for them.
Five days a week I get out of bed holler, "Get UP!!"
Get your book bag; brush your teeth!
Saturday I say no alarm, no calls just sawing logs!
Yellow paper placed in my hands
Upset my world and brought a frown around
When did Saturday become a school day?
No sleepy naps, no snuggly huggly
Set the alarm and go to school!
Saturday school!!
. __________
. / \
. / /_\ \
| |
| __ |
| / \ |
| ______| |_____|
___
Grandpa was a jolly fellow so talented and so wise.
He could plant a row of corn as straight as the arrow flies!
He was a very handy carpenter never once hitting his thumb,
And he built barns "'squar' with the world", never out of plumb!
He was very adept with fiddle and bow to everyone's delight,
Except for Grandma who thought the consarned thing a fright!
He'd sit for hours 'neath the old sycamore tree sawing away.
She'd heard the same tunes for sixty years, much to her dismay!
He was a great old-time fiddler, of that there was no doubt.
Why, he could've topped Roy Acuff should they have had a bout!
His elbows and fingers flew as he played "Turkey in the Straw"!
Friends and neighbors tapped their toes, listening to him in awe!
Summer nights we'd sit on the front porch 'neath a Hoosier moon,
Listening raptly as he played a mellow or a haunting tune.
He'd play a rousing "Orange Blossom Special" for the house,
Then switch to a lilting rendition of "The Blue Danube Waltz" by Strauss.
Grandpa's old fiddle is stilled now, it hangs upon the wall,
Though I suspect he's fiddling for the angels, saints and all,
As good old blue grass music from his golden fiddle flows,
And a bemused Saint Peter surreptitiously taps his toes!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Love laughs at life,
Scorns the scourging whip of years,
Dulls life’s sawing knife
And watersheds its tears.
Love smiles at death,
Soul withstanding soil,
Heaped upon the flesh whose breath
Expires. Love’s Death’s foil.
**** life
. bodies faking , minus hearts, forbidding ,
the drug-and- booze- induced-numbness killing
hot ****.
life sawing hapless life, insides-tearing ,
life sustaining, out of limelight, ’ tear’ing.
brute ****.
rank, dank, undigested ; the revulsion
exploding as vomit between sessions.
rot ****.
pain for the players of its gone-stale script
pleasure for the cameras , for hard-sell.
shot ****.
to relish it slyly; like a pervert
his neighbor’s son’s sudden insanity.
soft ****.
crossing the tipping points of life before
life began, stomp-stomping down dicey lanes.
quit ****.
Form: Dixdeux O ( 3 lines, Syllables: 10-10-2, L3 refrain), line 3 here is slightly modified refrain.
13 jun 13
For Deb's 'To be' contest.
chipping and hacking
sawing and sanding
this is the life of a creator
these are his sounds
a cacophony of hustle and bustle
a primal link to the past and an eye on the future
ever striving for a land bridge between the two
like ancient explorers of the human condition
back and forth
to and fro
sweeping arm movements packed with energy
eye's steady and intense gaze resting on the immediate
standing on the precipice, the gateway of creativity
ready to push the boundaries of the possible one more time
forging potentials in the foundry of insight
molten heat emanating from the source of inspiration
leaving trails across le atelier in vibrant, living color
once more into the fray.....
a chance to become something more
a demigod, replete with all the powers
to cast off these earthly shackles and take one's rightful place
amongst the Apollonian and Dionysian pantheon
standing shoulder to shoulder with the likes of Giacometti, Rodin and Michelangelo
basking in their eternal aurora of shimmering crystalline streaks of productivity
leaving traces of ocular delight along the way
but always leaving something to be desired
just out of reach and unattainable, alluding to greater grandeur
scaling the philosophical peaks and traversing the political spectrum
to unify the scattered, to join the fragmented, to give voice to the oppressed
saying something with nothing
directing the viewer's eye with subtleties
emphasizing silence with space and void
painting and glazing
soldering and welding
hands steadily guiding and grinding
unearthing the inert qualities laying dormant, waiting to be revealed
commanding that the materials speak and be known
this is a life worth living
this is the life of a creator
Luke was building a tree house
He was building it all by himself
A rusty old hammer, several bent nails
And wood that used to be someone’s shelf
We could all hear Luke working so hard
Hammering and sawing away
He was such a busy little bee
He didn’t even have time to play
He’d get the job half completed
Then it would all just fall apart
But he’d just pick up the pieces and start again
The kid certainly does have heart
Finally the tree house was finished
Luke was as proud and as happy as could be
He’d done a good job, but there was something missing
And unfortunately that was the tree.
But Luke shouldn't get too upset
Shouldn't let it get to his head
He may not have made a tree house
But he had made a lovely shed.