*peeks in* Can a relative newcomer join in? *smiles*

[Lyric]

I was pointed in this direction by wildhorses, so I thought I'd introduce myself and say hello. :)

Writing poetry is something that I do because I don't think I *couldn't* do it. If you understand that.

I'm not published, I don't do it for a living, I've never taken classes or lessons on the subject. But I do love to write it, and I love to read it even more. I'm off to enjoy what others have posted. I can share one of mine that I posted part of in the Lounge, if nobody minds. It's a bit personal--about my father, a carpenter, who was killed in 1995. I've been thinking about him a lot since the election. He was a strong Democrat--he would have been ecstatic if he had lived to see this election.

A Carpenter's Daughter

This memory song is late in coming.
The joiner was broken before his work
was complete; the hammer is silent now.
The saw and the rule are dusty with age,
his workbench torn out two summers past, but
I still remember the smell of pinesap and resin
and roofing tar. I am a carpenter’s daughter.

My father created cavalries of wood,
sawhorses to hold steady the workday load.
These rigid chargers of lumber, emblazoned
with chalk dust, like fierce warpainted steeds.
His children rode reckless like savages on
mounts of sticky white pine, hammersong
like hooves striking flint, ringing out around.

Across the horizon of my distant youth,
I was enthralled with my father’s level.
The forging of alignment, the truth of it,
a tool that quarters no compromise.
A carpenter trims the world and makes it
flush and planed and square, but now
the bubble is no longer between the lines.

He told me not to weep for the mighty trees
who cleaved for the axe with honor and grace;
their sacrifice sheltered softer, weaker things.
Our homes are gravestones of oak, pine and beech.
Our lives stand, their epitaphs and legacies.
The forest bore the weight of his loss, in the end
I wonder if the trees wept for him?

A grand artisan without a legend, his softwood
hands skillfully held and shaped my childhood.
He never walked with disciples, but I swear
he turned a loaf and a fish into a feast
so many times. No more than a man,
no less than a father, he lived and died
with callous-streaked fingers full of wood.

[Ino]

1. Thank you for this beautiful poem

My family was a carpenter too. I rode the sawhorses many times! Still love the smell and feel of sawdust.

[Ino]

2. Oops, I meant my FATHER was a carpenter! (n/t)

[CaliforniaPeggy]

3. My dear oktoberain...

This is a stunning and beautiful poem!

Your father would be soooo proud if he had read this...

Really lovely....

Thank you for it!

I look forward to seeing many more...:hug:


Here's one of mine:

The timid and tender

Greens of spring

Fearful of winter's strike

So new on the trees

Backlit by the sun

Pale and shimmering

In the hesitant light

So cautiously

Growing day by day,

Soon they will be

The brassy overheated

Greens of high summer

Their virginity lost

In the sun's harsh light