He built his life with calloused hands,
In sawdust, cedar, pine and oak,
A man who measured where he stood,
And meant each honest word he spoke.
He didn't bend to suit the room,
Or soften truths to make them sweet—
He told you straight, exactly how
The world was laid out at your feet.
A godly man of stubborn faith,
Unshaken as a mountain side,
Who loved his family fierce and deep
With quiet, unpretentious pride.
At evenings end, he'd settle in
To watch the western trail untether,
Where cowboys rode beneath the blue
And weathered every storm together.
And when the screen grew soft and sweet,
And romance bloomed–as love will do–
He'd crack a smile and state the fact:
"Oh, he got the tulips."
Now heaven's shop has open doors,
And red spring blooms along the fence,
Where honest trade and plain-spoken truth
Make perfect, everlasting sense.
Rest easy, Papa. You finished the build,
You kept the faith, and you left us with a lifetime of love and laughter to hold onto.
Some stuff turns brain chemistry into a bowl of leeches.
Sawdust that you eat with a platter of fake mints.
When you have mixed up neural slices?
They get disposed.
Neurons.
Doing jumping jacks in unison.
Brains are like billboards.
They eat your eyes.
And get torn down like mush.
My brain chemistry is mine.
Witches brew mindset.
The neurons?
Never made it back.
They got squeezed too many times.
As i in reverie..Recall life scenes' like taxis
And trams, amid myriad dreams, of people
Who want to build a valid life, learn others.
Make inventions, and relish challenges though
They are rife.' I think on builders.? As i look and
See; a carpenter working, industriously, i see
Him draw with pencil, and slide along his saw
I note the sawdust falling, to be swept
aside ' I hear snatches of conversation
The odd word comes clear, yet not real informative
To my ear..I muse on the sawing, and know its
All around world, people striving some doing whats
Best.' Guiding the blind, unravelling many a mess
I think of all i have seen from lifes first breath to its
Last' sense and idiocy.. political farce' as i watch a
Carpenter plying His saw, i see much reason in
Many of lifes actions.? Yet never a good reason, or results ever from or' for
Any type of war.'
And the storks drift inland,
landing on the sand's hungry mouth.
Salt-bleached cabins line the shore,
waiting for their stone eyes to inspect
Which baby should be delivered next?
Ah, yes. There is a home of sawdust,
where the panels have begun to cry.
They watch the tumbleweeds scrape the
foundation, and they quiver.
This child is ever so quiet, it's
as if it somehow knows what waits.
Glass voices begin to boom sharply,
the bottles of whiskey are seashell shards.
Into the open window it goes, that
tyke. Thrown onto a stained cot.
It scratches; its skin blistering with a hellish fever
Yet the child sucks their thumb and hums.
When the stork comes back to see,
whatever this child is up to,
who this odd little thing might be...
A desk with crayons, paper,
and notepads heavy with solemn prayer.
But at least, it has dodged Death's claws.
For in the bedroom door,
there is a knife slash so
perfect, it should have maimed.
Never wrote type of wind.
Hurts with glowing dust hurt.
Her sawdust glare.
And gleaming mental action.
Never dreamt spinning tops.
And empty leaf piles.
Jump up like tunnel vision.
So much scarf leftover.
Never hurt iris seeping.
Into the never-grass.
Just like lawn sparkles.
And candy patterns.
A nonsense poem takes me to Orchid Ville.
Where a mental tolls pay for fortunes from a mysterious machine.
I never wrote anything more twitchy.
Than a trampoline ache.
Nothing in Rose Land either.
Dichotomy.
Grows old.
And static runs through.
old slag value, as valuable as Value allows it
Then as a valuable secondary source,
the slag resulted from the gold-bearing
electrolytic mud smelting
contains up to 0.8–15 k g t-1
Au and 9–13 kg t-1 Ag, respectively
------------------------------------------------
Coal Ash experiments
sorted theories and Soughted formulas.
Coal ash pits using sewage,
sawdust, and other
dissuaded organics
to recreate renewable coal.
Leaves, shredded wood chipped
wood ash, tobacco stalks
straw hat manure compose
all will be mixed and allowed to
cure to recreate a renewable
source for energy.
Racheter l'ancien Walmart du comté de McDowell,
en Virginie-Occidentale, pour créer un nouveau
magasin et contribuer à la relance
de l'industrie charbonnière locale.
Musique pour basson et cor d'harmonie
Ce genre de musique « Ooh Baby »
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, your fingers
still trace the curve of my spine
like they're reading braille~
each scar, each shift in the landscape,
a sentence you know by heart.
You laugh when I steal the blanket,
when my knees find the hollows
behind yours, an old map
drawn without compass or reason.
Our fights are old books now,
their spines cracked open
to the same dog-eared pages~
we know the lines by heart,
but recite them softer these days.
We are two trees grown
into each other’s bark,
gnarled and weathered-together,
no longer remembering
which rings belong to whom.
Some loves are built like this~
not with grand gestures,
but with the quiet tyranny
of your coffee cup left warming
on my nightstand,
the way you hum off-key
in the shower, still, after all these years,
and I pretend not to hear it,
and you pretend not to know.
Forty-three autumns,
and your hands smell like sawdust
and onions, and I wouldn’t trade
our slow unraveling for anything~
not even the taut, bright thread
we once were.
She used the incerating toilet to dispose of the horse dung.
it inspired someone to create an incinerater
for cattle , horse and pet waste.
the ashes could be used in mulch.
He titled it.
"Materails to Colonize Space'
the secrets of establish a colony in space.
they often dumped that dung into the old
hand-dug outhouses.
covering the dung with sawdust
so the oder wouldn't
ofend the next user.
But this idea ould be patented and alot of money could be made
by helping a lot of people do this thing.
It seemed a novel and humane way of thinking.
Written by: the Inventor and Salesperson
Language Of Patents
rights and processes
disclaimers and terms
maintenance fee'
priority and pending
variations like patent terms
esperson Sterculius or Stercutus
Patent Pending
+++++ResoLute+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++==++++++++++++++++++++++++++++The guy who creates the elastic snap-on strap for pants to make pants waist expand and contract to your size
will be one wealthy suiter!+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Did you hear the trees cry?
Wincing with pain as the saws bit.
Again,
And again,
And again.
Wailing as branches broke.
Sobbing great clouds of leaves.
In the end,
Sawdust laid where the massacre began.
The smell attacking my nose,
Of live wood laid low.
A neat stack of firewood.
The yard open,
Countenance to the sun.
Squirrels quickly found another route.
Birds chirped.
Yet I grieved the loss of every inch.
Cut to allow safe passage.
For a woman who no longer strides.
The stumps will remain,
Used for seats or a table.
I cried with the trees,
For time that has past to dust.
Carpenter bee buzzing
and drilling
sawdust spirals down
The trees remember what the axe forgets.
The mirth of lovers romping on the loam.
The light that filtered through in golden nets,
and beasts that roamed for shelter in the gloam.
A broken branch still weeps for a birdsong.
Its tears of sap, the proof of unseen scars,
that cling to echoes hoping to prolong,
a splintered life among the fallen stars.
The oak that watched the centuries pass by,
now chopped in grief no landscape should endure.
The magpies’ songs sound as a craving cry.
Yet, their sad thrill affords a scant succour.
The chainsaws wailed the way sad mothers moaned.
while sawdust stacked up high like guilt disowned.
Dusty little towns
West of the Great Divide
Where great-grandchildren of cowboys
On ranches still reside.
Small western museums
With local antiquities inside;
Native American artifacts,
Some horse tack for a cowboy's ride.
There among the fancy
Are two dresses hemmed above the knee,
20's Jazz Age fashion
Worn far from the speak-easy.
Caused a bit of an uproar,
As they danced on the sawdust floor.
Who were these rebel cowgirls,
These flappers from western lore?
Mona Lisa’s crooked smile
on a half-crushed Campbell’s Soup can
Joe Dimaggio reciting his pronouns uneasily
then lowering his batting hand
into a scalding hot cup
of ‘Mr. Coffee’
Where have you gone, Mrs. Robinson?
Where else? to the bathroom
~ Hemorrhoids again
Barney Fife whittling Andy’s image to
sawdust with a rusty pocket-knife
-- contracting tetanus in the process
Andy Warhol grinning madly as the
word ‘culture’ is finally eliminated
from America’s lexicon
~ All hail to pink, plastic flamingoes! ~
I barely feel the autumn chill,
as all around me sawdust spills,
my tiny daughter up the hill
waves down, as little children will.
The trees down here have only grown,
blocked out the view we long have known,
by nature’s chaos they were sown
amidst the scattered rocks and stones.
So I cut like those long before,
to see this small vista restored,
it always seems there’s one task more,
to keep the damn wolves from the door.
I want to rest, oh yes, I do,
but time waits not for men, it’s true,
and I’d leave something good for you,
that I and those before me knew…
She once bestowed shade
on blistering hot days
Now exposed all around her
is human flesh to sun’s rays
She was a playground for squirrels
where they leaped and they twirled
in the merriest of chases
like a day at the races
But sad to say, nature comes last
when ‘progress’ is fast
‘Redevelopment’ came along
sang its familiar cruel song
Sheared off her boughs
turned her trunk to sawdust
Now fallen and humbled her stump sits
conservation having called it quits
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