Wings are eyelids.
A mind can be left aside on a workbench
while the brain teaches the sky to sleep.
Mother lives in a jar in an old curiosity shop.
Father enters the world bringing extinct words
he has found in the future.
Your child is not yours; it is a god you found
in a self-help book. You create symbols,
give them meaning, sell them for nothing.
Invisible pennies drop from the hands of a beggar.
The laboratory smells of lilacs it is your mothers
favorite color, purple gives her a headache.
You build talking machines, they march up and down
on spindly metal legs, their feet tap-dance.
Here you are a family of one, the solar system
lives in one eye, the other is a deep space
where poetry births its many ghosts,
they arrive as a blue flame when you ignite
the rocket fuel in your Bunson burner.
Categories:
workbench, poetry,
Form: Free verse
A week away from Ground Hog Day
And my water heater’s sore.
It spat at my clumsy plumbing,
Took a leak on the basement floor.
That triggered my elderly sump pump
To noisily heave up its guts.
My cat on the workbench watched me endure
The death of a thousand cuts.
I loaded my Remington 12 gauge,
Thirteen rounds, counting one in the hole.
I returned to my waterlogged basement
And said “Darlin’, let’s rock and roll!”
I pumped the rack like a madman,
Drawing lines between the dots.
My neighbor had a heart attack
When he counted thirteen shots.
Then I ponied up and loosened my grip,
Put the Remington down, wiped the sweat from my lip.
I find no game in a proctored arena.
My demeanor is salty and gruff.
And it makes me laugh like a tickled hyena
When I’ve proven enough is enough.
And I celebrate the damage with an innkeeper’s perk,
Appreciating vengeance drinking whiskey after work.
P.S., I've got a Weil-McLain on order.
Categories:
workbench, allegory, home,
Form: Burlesque
his tired eyes yet sparkled with the love of his craft
a love steeped in awe and fear of its impact
the hunched shoulders hovered o'er each stroke of his pen
a quill dipped in an inkwell lined with holy men
frayed ritual fringes swaying this way and that
humming a wordless melody as a zaydie will do
midst reverie about heavenly angels he's winking at
or recalling a tender moment with his grandson of two
but of a sudden, all's darkness
zaydie's head thuds on his workbench
his lamp extinguished for aye ~
the noble craft of a mensch
June 27, 2020
The Old Scribe Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
_________________________________________________________
Notes: The Jewish 'scribe' (sofer) was and is a time-honored profession
'zaydie' is Yiddish for grandfather
a 'mensch' is Yiddish for a person of honor, integrity
No capital letters were used, in order to help convey the
innate modesty of a scribe of holy books.
Categories:
workbench, grandfather, grandson, love, words,
Form: Verse
I have some favorite tools I use,
Whenever I ply my trade,
From the hammer in my leather pouch,
To the retractable cutting blade.
I also love the spanners I have,
One metric, the other in inch,
When I use them to tighten to my car,
The small electric motor winch.
And the ratchet, socket and circular saw,
Displayed inside my shed,
I love these names said loud and proud,
From mallet to Phillips Head
And I use these tools every day,
I use the chisel, the grips, the wrench,
I love disappearing all the time,
By my old warn wood workbench.
Categories:
workbench, funny, work,
Form: Quatrain
He drops the tailgate on that old GMC truck
using it as a makeshift workbench
He tinkers with an old icemaker
determined to bring it back to it's former glory
He whistles an old country tune as he works with contentment
His screwdriver slips and the melody is broken
He cusses out loud as his knuckle begins to bleed
Frustration grows as he uses his shirttail to wipe the blood,
holding pressure on his hand with pure impatience,
his eyes fixed on the old appliance in pieces
The aroma of supper cooking
makes it's way outside through the raised windows of the old white house
He decides to give it up but only until tomorrow
His concentration is broken
and his mind is now on fried potatoes and onions
As he wipes his hands on an old shop rag he counts his blessings
They are abundant
Categories:
workbench, blessing, culture, family, freedom,
Form: Free verse
Oh beautiful birth control, how wonderful you play,
You bring so much joy to my life.
You’re like my religion, I can embrace everyone,
Especially my neighbour’s blonde wife.
Every morning after, I fall, fall from grace off my bed,
Fall right onto my knees and pray.
I pray to you, my birth control friend,
No kids spawned from me, not from this castaway.
Oh my beautiful birth control, I love you so much,
I love how you conquer from her trench.
Now, I need to prepare for tonight’s sexy battle,
I need to clean, and remake, my nightly workbench.
Categories:
workbench, birth, sexy,
Form: Quatrain
Simon was a happy elf
Who always wore a smile
One of Santa's best elves
Willing to go the extra mile.
With trousers of green, tunic red
And a bright yellow bobble hat
Simon whistled a happy tune
While at his workbench he sat.
Answering letters to Santa
From all the girls and boys
Stamping Made in Lapland
On all the childrens toys.
For three months Simon toiled
Hardly time for a rest
But satisfied in the knowledge
That he had given his best.
But Simon's work was seasonal
And soon it came to an end.
So upon the shores of England
Simon did decend.
At the local job centre
He was told he had to work
He could not draw benefits
If he intended to shirk.
So he was sent to Poundland
And stacking shelves he had to do
Not really an ideal job
For an elf of five foot two.
Simon became sadder and sadder
And considered taking pills
Until he saw Santa arrive
To start work on the tills.
Simon was happy again
Looking forward to the day
When he would return to lapland
On Santa's reindeer pulled sleigh.
Categories:
workbench, funny,
Form: Free verse
Late at night I hear the monkey’s laughing in the jungle
They are burning an effigy
And they find it more than amusing
They find it comforting.
They built it out of broken dreams and green cards.
It was no accident that they built it
The moon and the tides gave them no choice
As it burns the night screams
And I wait for the dawn.
Tenuous as it may be I can wait
For I am still taking apart my nightmares
And putting them on the workbench to toil over
To reassemble and to ponder
I never read the instructions I just go with my gut.
As I look through the trees I see the burning light
And I wonder why it looks familiar to me.
What will the ashes tell the seer?
He was a man who lived liked an animal?
He was anonymous to feelings and life.
Atavistic to the end, destined to die but never to live.
Up river they all seem to know the truth
It’s simple: keep the primates happy
And they will leave your soul alone.
I hang my head out of a window and howl at the moon
She smiles back benign and hopeful
I think about the other side; cold and dark
And then I realize the fire in the jungle is to drive away my fear
And it all makes sense.
Categories:
workbench, creation,
Form: Free verse
"This Old Elf" is a children's song, sung to the tune of "This Old Man".
This old elf,
He built toys.
He built toys for girls and boys.
With a great big hammer
And a great big wrench
He built toys at his workbench!
Bonus activity: Ask children if they can think of some other tools an elf might need to
build toys.
Categories:
workbench, childrenold, old,
Form: Rhyme