the wood carver….

 

his hands bore the scars
of learning his trade
the thick calluses in his palms
were like the rings of a tree
sharing with those who chose to look
his years upon this earth
this piece beneath his blade
was now complete
a sea
where each wave
seemed to move
as eyes scanned the horizon
at a distance
one could see a small
yet distinct
fishing boat
bouncing with expectation
of a bountiful harvest
and sea gulls
cruising through the sky
one would swear
they saw the wings
move from time to time
so precise was his work
but do not look for this place
nor the life he portrayed
for now you will only find
the black death of oil
smeared upon the scene
erasing the history of this place
and
lives

18 thoughts on “the wood carver….

  1. I was enchanted by the simile of his calluses and the age-rings on the tree. I didn’t expect the end; very punchy juxtaposition with the beautiful description that precedes it. A wonderful poem.

  2. Very nicely done. One of the things I love about the Internet is getting exposed to talent that I otherwise would merely be lucky to run across. I particularly like the weight you give your words, nothing is random, nothing has the feel of being chosen “just because it is there.” Nice to meet you.

  3. You wrote about carving and I about chopping wood today! Charles, this is a clear case of telepathy! I missed you… I’m more or less back. Hope to be fully blog-functional by tomorrow. Lots of love and hugs!

  4. The work of a skilled craftsperson may seem more beautiful than in actuality (or reality of subject matter) perhaps causing disappointment to some when layers unravel. What’s left may be an illusion of wings, yet the reality of scars on one’s hand remain as well. Another fantastic poem. You’re on a roll.

  5. Your indulgence into the beautiful talents of this world and the horrendous fingerprint of greedy humans upon it’s innermost workings inspire me. The descriptions are lovely, the evil wrought within the hellish scent of destruction amazingly real. I am enjoying my visits here~

  6. Yes, what a terrible destruction of such a gift the Lord created…Loved your sculpturing of the words, but, as you , I detest the slate in which you’ve been given to etch them…

    Same as here, the coast of Carolina, winds of change have blown those same Shrimp boats, in which I think you are writing about to shore, for quite some time now…

    Ironically, yet no great surprise, a lack of the exact thing which is engulfing your bay’s … is the thing keeping our fishing boy’s @ bay…and that is the fuel oil to run the engines.

    Seems it has been the cost…for the last 10 years, and before that, the restrictions of the size of Shrimp allowed to keep…

    As the great ships of China, appear as a spot on the horizon, gradually growing to the size of small cities on the shore…from the deep…

    They bring in millions of pounds of frozen boxes, of the calabash size shrimp we are apparently still allowed to eat…I guess I should stop now, though I could go on for days….

    The overall picture, even when seen through such an oil filmed, or conditioning haze… is so clear to see…that when the powers that be…determine to go global…at any cost…they will shut down, anything, or anyone…standing in the way.

  7. you’ve got a talent in magnifying the minute details of a profession that bring out the sacrifice and beauty of it, “the thick calluses in his palms were like the rings of a tree” very well said.

  8. A poem with great punch — from the callouses on his hands compared to rings of a tree and the boat with bountiful harvest (two resonating comparisons) to the appearance of mentioning oil. Man, this one is really good.

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