
Auction Photo from 1stdibs
burled walnut
handsome to the hand
tactile poetry
From my books Bohemian Scents and Riverthink
Auction Photo from 1stdibs
burled walnut
handsome to the hand
tactile poetry
From my books Bohemian Scents and Riverthink
“Landscape with Gnarled Tree” by William Lester Stevens
wood shot through with knots
gnarled by labors of conscience
limbs weakened by guilt
too many storms took their toll
too little time to earn grace
“Old Sawmill” by Giorgio De Michele
blades of industry
edged with cut notches
the serrate of
terrible teeth
taught to tear out
dimensions of uniform
lumber from unlovely logs
timber felled to feed
screams of the sawmill
great riots of motion
tanned leather belt drives
turned through gearworks
by stout wood pole pistons
arranged autodidact
design rustic genius
resolved to convert
flowing water to energy
sees the mechanics of
magic in circular visions
the wheel the big wheel
it all starts with the wheel
never ending so long
as the impulse to build
pushes man to a purpose
From my book Small Noise
Painting by Michel Keck
Version One – originally posted March 2013
what exotic wood
soaked by noble blood of redemption
grains our pedestrian souls
Version Two
what noble wood
blest by blood of redemption
grains the skeptic soul
“Sawmill” by Claude Croney
birch and beech
gave their flesh
to the sawyer
whose water-wheel
mill cut rough
medium craftsmen
composed with
a vision refined
by fine finishing
hands into objects
that pleased
antiquarians
timeless wood
legacies bearing
warm smooth grained
affections of ancestry
(originally posted in November 2013)
Photo from 1stdibs.com
burled walnut
handsome to the hand
tactile poetry
right angle symmetries
herringbone visions
substantial in oak
catch the durable dance
that adult choreography
passing its passionate
footfalls across deeply
waxed softly polished
arrangements of grain
laid for well ordered
living by lovers who
learn from the music
to move as an elegant
surefooted unit among
the vicissitudes cast
in their path like dull
shadows attempting to
shame the warm sheen
of a floor a foundation
designed so precisely
to stand its support
for the intricate bliss
of the tango that time
and contentment turn
into a delicate waltz
blades of industry
edged with cut notches
the serrate of
terrible teeth
taught to tear out
dimensions of uniform
lumber from unlovely logs
timber felled to feed
screams of the sawmill
great riots of motion
tanned leather belt drives
turned through gearworks
by stout wood pole pistons
arranged autodidact
design rustic genius
resolved to convert
flowing water to energy
sees the mechanics of
magic in circular visions
the wheel the big wheel
it all starts with the wheel
never ending so long
as the impulse to build
pushes man to a purpose
old wood settles me
shares its story of time
told by fingers who
crafted warm histories
creased by fine grain
pieced with joinery
passed down through
secret-wrought skills
from medieval guilds
old wood settles me
gives me respite from
the metal the plastic
the chemical compost
of noxious modernity
smooth honeyed edges
console a displaced
sense of era with
antique aesthetics
old wood settles me
fills up with ambient
comfort my eyes
gone distressed by cold
landscapes of artifact
ugliness feigning to
decorate life within
sight within reach
without owning a soul
old wood settles me
touches its treasures
of gold to the holds
of my galleon mind
draughting deeply in
currents of maritime
memory wars of
emotions laid quiet
in pacified interlude
old wood settles me
teaches its lessons
each mar and gouge
every splinter and split
reminiscent of wounds
to my heart to my skin
wounds that qualify me
and old wood for a
dignified elderly life
tending the forest
dead leaners and limbs
ready firewood fuel
for an iron stove winter
husbanding hardwoods
and dressable pines
marking every tenth
adult for bite of the axe
felled and stacked
for an oxen cart
ride to the sawmill
where talented blades
under eye-measured hands
will trade cash
for those trees
and stave off the wolf
for at least
one more season
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
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I am where the valleys are deep, the mountains are high, and the wind moans through trees...