It was cut down in eighteen hundred seven,
a chestnut tall, stretched half to heaven,
hand-hewn with axes by Georgia pioneers,
to build up a barn for pigs and steers.
Still standing today, a miracle that,
browned by time, spans spaces vast,
the mere size of the log does amaze,
you just don’t see twelve by twelve these days.
Wedge-shaped marks along it’s sides,
the scar of axes, by strong men plied,
a signature of their years on Earth,
doubt they thought we’d admire their work.
For so long has this great beam stood,
American Chestnut was one hell of a wood.
How many beasts slept beneath in bays?
And what of the teens seeking rolls-in-the-hay?
All clasped tight by some wooden pegs,
the outside done up in classic red,
and still in use, after all these years,
almost brings a history buff to tears.
But this is no paean to some lost past,
just appreciation for things that last,
Could you imagine the price of house and land
if all the work was still done by hand?!
I just think we should reserve spaces
for the masterpieces of bygone ages,
because it’s sublime to run fingers through
a building made of logs hand-hewn.
Categories:
wedge shaped, age, appreciation, beauty, endurance,
Form: Rhyme
How to describe him,
the he that was so much a part of me
but for such a short while
brawn.
The span of his shoulders
as they stretched across his un-ironed flannel plaid.
The wedge shaped fan of his finger nails,
always a bit black;
even though, by God, he tried.
Locks drew him,
puzzles, pleased him,
whiskers became him.
And the blue of his eyes
was Dresden
bringing back memories of the Irish Sea.
Suren, his kin seemed for all intents and purposed
to be shan ti Irish
and not lace curtain Irish at all.
Who would want all that thin,
untried blood anyway,
when you could have a true mans-man
with forearms like tree boughs
with a heart so big, his laughter
seemed to crack his face
at the corner of his eyes.
A taunt man
who you didn’t mind seeing
coming or going
who wore a slouched felt hat,
threw long-handles axes
and carried a long bow.
*names have not been changed to protect the innocent
no one's innocent here ;)
Categories:
wedge shaped, men,
Form: Free verse
A parade of folk
fixed on wedge-shaped skyscrapers
faces punctuated by grins wider
than the horizon
I see them across the avenue
musing upon tower tops, piercing
the cerulean dome,
turning heads and spooning smiles
this is a place where contrasts reflect
off asphalt ribbons, where pigeons pivot
while their wings shed silver-gray tumult
where straphangers squeeze into metal cars
at Eighty Sixth and Broadway
scents of mingled perfume and scorched brake pads
fill the subterranean stretch
here, where millions come as night spills over the Hudson
and the moon rests in roof top gardens
here, dreams are born in quiet depths
and this river lies ever at your feet
Categories:
wedge shaped, memory,
Form: I do not know?