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The Old Carpenter Poem

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David Barnes
Western Australia--
Australia
 
 
The old carpenter
 
In truth
he was somber
setting foot in the unused work shed.
Hand tools lay gathered together
worn smooth from years of use,
across the old scarred
workbench;
 
blades
capable of cutting pencil lines in half
hang from hooks, teeth sharp
oiled for packing.
 
The  tang of timber lingers
in aged nostrils
as he packs tools, firmly in the toolbox;
he knows that young firm hands
on soft, hard-grained timber
will wrought there magic
not him.
 
Sighs, seeing
Queen Anne incomplete,
waiting in anticipation of someone else
to end her state of dress;
neatly he packs tools accrued
with a twist of his wrist the lock clicks
an end to years of toil
enjoyment.
 
The lid shut:
calloused hands lift the heavy box
in to an aged battered Ute,
he examines a mirror, himself young,
nods, watching the carpenter
with the fragrance of wood drive away.
 
In truth
he was somber.
 
(c) debarnes 2001 October  - 19th
 
 
 

Offerings
 
I wish it were spring
or summer;
but I know your game.
 
Taking autumn's
burnt offerings,
ashes,
 
gray streaks my hair
 
I see which season
shall win this sly life,
 
I know your changes
as I know well my own.
 
I offer ashes
to the one
who has claim to me.
 
White hair
 
lies breathless
upon the pillow.
 
(c) debarnes September -22nd
 
 
 

In The Morning
 
Golden
threads of honey
flow through my window,
 
stirring
my body from night's
end
 
awakening me
to this unforgiving
road;
 
outside the light
cascades rainbows across
my garden
 
reminding me of how much
I am alive.

(c) debarnes October 2001 -06
 
 

 The flavor of blood
 

Such cunning
you hold mosquito
numbing my attention, with
anesthetic power,
 
callously
you alight on me, body
weightless as air;
 
you trespass
on soft flesh, suck
your fill of my life.
 
Sated,
take drunken flight,
leaving me provoked
 
unable
to snatch you
from the wafts of air,
 
you float
in the blackness
with your victory;
 
and I am left
itching.

(c) debarnes October 2001 -14th
 

The Orchard
 
Such sweet fruit
held all in hand,
eaten from the tree
caressed by the gentle pith
cover of the peach on my lips,
 
juices melt on tongue
a taste never felt, never touched
never to be forgotten;
passion adrift in light, twilight,
flesh smooth down,
 
mellow pliable tender, open to all;
pain pleasure trickles
 
dew soaked skins soar down
in to indivisibility.
 
Dewdrops sparkle on the peach
a window, a soul,
holds you captive
pledges sensual electricity,
 
an ecstasy of perpetual hunger
under the leafy cover of the orchard;
 
shaded from life
forever floating in the void spent
immersed,
 
you and I fleetingly
the fruit of the tree
such sweet fruit
to ripen.

(c) deBarnes February 1999 -06
revised: September 2001 -26th
 

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