Busy Work

He works as a site engineer
clearing, leveling
making the grade

He works as a project manager
overseeing, ordering
writing up paperwork

He works as a heavy equipment operator
digging, hauling
filling the holes

He works as an estimator
counting, measuring
making it work

All in the name of progress

Starting off with another "older" one:

Spider’s Home

How is it that this teensy bug
With eight legs and an ugly mug
Can build a home of wispy strand
That’s beautiful, and so well planned
That gale-force winds can whip through town,
But even they can’t knock it down?

We Are What We Build

A flyer of kites
knows the currents and eddies.
The kite knows true peace.

Marie Elena, what a lovely poem!

J. Kuykendall

Marie Elena, If you have the time someday, you should check out my blog. I have a whole entry with pictures dedicated to spider webs.

www.lookingglassmoon.blogspot.com

J. Kuykendall

Relationship Building

“I love you”
“I understand”
And
“I’m sorry”
Are helpful,
But an embrace
To heal sorrow
A door opened
When hands are full
A repaired door
When you don’t know how
An elegant meal
Just because
Build trust and love
More than words
Ever will

Building a foundation

You tell me that
your house is not a home
without me
it's just a place to lay your head.

You tell me that
you're not tired of waking alone
Just tired of not waking
beside me

You tell me that construction
wears you out
but building the foundation
of our relationship intices you

You tell me of your dreams
building a house in the country
with a pond and a lab
With me beside you in a rocker on the dock

I tell you I am amazed.
I've never met anyone like you
and my love for you grows
everyday

Day 11 prompt: construct

Constructors

I watch as tiny specks begin
to form...
taking on the beauty
of an ant hill.

Diligently and meticulously
working together
they craft their home.

Winter is coming...
hurry fast.

WHY DON’T WE DO IT IN THE ROAD

Bring in the ‘dozers, the graders, the trenchers,
bring in the steam roller too,
we got us a crew and we’re paving the road,
the way those good road pavers do.

We’ve got a back hoe that can dig with ease,
and dump trucks to take out the slag,
and we have some road guys leaning on shovels
and carrying their lunch in a bag.

Loads of sand to level the grade
and stone to be packed down real tight,
top it with asphalt and you’ve got it made,
so you can get back home tonight.

We don’t build houses, that’s not what we do,
no plumbers, no framers, no how.
So while all these guys do it, here in the road,
I’ll be catching forty winks in the plow.

Sign of a Dead End

Only Moses knew
to part the sea
with water walls
and hold back
terror in his flight.

But last I checked,
he’s dead.

What chance have I
to build a path
that leads to you
with only tears
to guide
my way?

My trail
is left in tissues
from our bedroom
to the bath
where foaming bubbles
can not scrub
the scum
built up inside.

What chance have I?

Maintenance Issues

We constructed a marriage
a foundation of trust, walls of honesty
it’s roof commitment.
We consummated it with love
furnished it with dreams,
landscaped with hope,.

It weathered well
because each board was carefully placed,
each nail carefully driven,
yet over long cold winters,
hot, hot summers
and winds of time,
it began to show wear.

Still a comfort,
our place of refuge,
we let small repairs go undone,
blamed our age for lack of care.
Termites of selfishness chewed,
from daylight to dark unhampered.

How unbearable sad
only a shell remains.

The Nest

Based on a wall of
trust we built our
home, like cardinals
make their nests;
carefully,
methodically,
lovingly,
year upon year of
happy times,
births of children,
sickness and health.
Then a storm came
one night and destroyed
the bird’s nest and
our home was in piles
of sadness.

laurie k.

Tiny Builders

Birds are creative builders--
they take twigs, straw, string,
tufts of thread and grass,
anything that can be woven
together to make a cozy nest
for eggs. How do they know
where to find the stuff and
how do they construct it
with only beaks to entwine
the motley mixture into
something strong enough
to hold their offspring
until they learn to use wings
and fly away to construct
new nests?

Barbara Mayer

Mary, how does your economy grow?
“Quite contrary, it doesn’t. The system
is closed. A boom time is a point of view
appearing when you happen to be camped
where more of our finite resources flow

at a faster rate toward you. Examine
how lilies suck nutrients from the soil.
They bloom to beauty and we harvest them,
stealing their stores to adorn or doilies.
The currency of their decay may go…

who knows where? Silver bells and cockleshells,
mined, refined and recombined overseas
wind up here with baggage unweighable.
We don’t track where it comes from, where it goes,
or why.” Mary pours the wine and sums up:

“Ride bulls while you can, dear, with awareness
that elsewhere, or elsetimes, the bears leave less.”


DA

Construction


Did I begin with blocks,
pile them into lines,
that tumbled and rolled
before they stood,
jagged as the walls
of ruined castles,
or bombed cities?
Or first, a concept, a crayon
tracking random marks
across the walls
of brown paper
grocery bags,
from Highland Groceteria
down the street,
and round the corner
from my father’s new house?
Or was it a tunneled drift
in our back garden,
or an igloo built
of shovel-cut blocks,
piled in shrinking circles,
or that underground fort
where we sat and smoked,
in the field below
Seaman’s farm,
or in the jungle
of apple and plum trees
behind Paul McGuigan’s house?
Or the several houses since:
The rented basement,
the rented house in Montague,
Mr. Buchanan’s wee renovated house
on Lampert Lane, the contracted house
on Cambellton Ave ,
the cottage I built in Brudenell,
or the final renovated cottage
we bought, raised up, and rebuilt
beside this constant changing river
that is our glorious life.
Like ants we construct our worlds
and the world erodes,
turns them back to earth,
and we build again and again,
until time sounds the final horn.
There are no stars for what we build,
the real reward is in the act of building.

No Construction Zone Here

For him, the process of combining ideas into one congruous object of thought
was naught.

A TEDDY BEAR

In a child's storybook
from words on the page
you took shape in my head
A sketch flowed from my pen
The fabrics pulled from the shelf
Rummage through the drawers
pulling out lace, ribbon and thread
My daughter's worn out jeans
laid out with patterns traced
Scissors biting through the denim
Needle, thimble, pins
Sewing all the pieces
Stuffing for the head
Shoe button eyes, perle cotton nose
Stitched with care
Cotter pin and hardboard discs
To give you arms and legs
Finally a hand knitted sweater
to keep you warm, no fur you see
There you sit on my shelf
Sad face, waiting for someone
To take you home
My little teddy bear

J. Kuykendall

I Built A Bridge to Oregon

From Washington, DC. Impractical as it sounds,
I think the trend will soon catch on. I could see

a bridge spanning the skyline from Mexico City
to Denver or from Calgary to Rio de Janerio.

Two many bridges run like rivers over rivers.
Perhaps I’ll start an engineering school, teach

the little ones how to build suspension bridges
between the summits of inaccessible mountains.

I see us, just the two of us, walking hand-in-hand,
side-by-side with red-tails riding the ridge-line

drafts. You are picking at something stuck
to your grandmother’s jacket; I am up to no good

once again, crazed with my t-square, compass,
protractor, coupling the cables as we walk.

Brooklyn Bridge

There is a bridge to Brooklyn that spans five hundred miles.
There is no need to question its strength, for it cannot collapse.
There is a bridge to Brooklyn, constructed of tender material.
A bridge built with dreams, prayers, thoughts, heart, soul, tears.
Its foundation is a mother’s love: Tenderly armored. Unyielding. Resilient.
There is a bridge to Brooklyn.

The Master Builder

One day, when I was a wee, little kid,
I found where my brother’s Legos were hid.
He wasn’t around, so I made them my own
and, Voila! a master builder was grown.

My building reached up, beyond the skies,
or so it appeared to my five-year old eyes.
The master builder giggled with glee
at the hard plastic building in front of me.

But glory and fame would not be my prize.
I looked up to see anger in an eight-year old’s eyes.
My brother was mad that I’d taken his toys.
Thought the master builder, What’s the matter with boys?

Let go of my Legos! my brother roared,
then he knocked my building all over the floor.
The master builder started to weep,
but somehow managed to kick the creep.

He ran to my mother, as brothers will do,
to complain, once again, about young sister, Sue.
My mother, much to my brother’s chagrin,
helped the master builder create again.

With her help and her patience, the new building grew
to the heavens and higher, and that’s when I knew
though a son very often is Mom’s precious pearl,
master builder wins out when it’s Mom’s little girl!

Choices: Day 11: Construction

Last Minute Miracle

Fabric falls and folds in
tissue paper dreams
across the work table.

Scissors slice, sever piece from piece,
random angles with no apparent design.
Pins produce a fragile join.

Machine whirs. Needle plunges
in and through, directs thread to bind
these scraps into some cosmic order.

Labor flows. Practiced eye sees
progress, trusts the pattern,
but the untrained, the uninitiated,
those not in the know,
see nothing more than chaos, even failure.

Even though neckline is now
edged, sleeve scalloped, and
zipper allows access, still
the pieces lie disparate, not yet
functional. Quick glance misperception
does not register step-by-step assembling.

She bends to her machine,
trusts in her vision, perseveres,
patience unflagging, until
a long side seam, steadily
stitched, unites the elements,
allows the unskilled, the unbelieving
to see the dream now
realized, fluid, functional,
well-fitting, proof positive that
out of ragged bits and pieces,
wholeness can emerge.

Building My Future

Back in school
This time for the M.B.A.
The practical degree
Building upon learned
Life experience
Building up the B.A.
By adding a new letter
Hoping this will ensure
That steady job
Needed to buy our dream house
In the country
With a barn
Away from the noise and
Commotion of suburbia.

No Obstruction

His dramatic seduction
was a clever production
coupling his charming construction
with her resistance reduction.

BUILD ME UP, BUTTERCUP

You won't get away
with calling me buttercup.
I will not stand for it.
But hold me under your chin,
and we can sit down for what happens next.

Day 11 – Nov 11 – Remembrance Day

They helped build this country on drop at a time
Of the blood that was shed for our freedom
They went away from their homes
their loves and their lives and they fought
to give us a right and just life
Thanks can never be enough
So on this day when the country stands still
to honor these unknown fallen soldiers,
In my silent moment they are remembered
as the heroes of our countries freedom

Construct destruction.

Two people divided by one sentence spoken.
Each makes a different construction of it,
and thus both hearts are broken.

The Church Roof

With little sleep
Appointments to keep
We stopped in to tell them good bye
A few workers hurried
Some looking worried
As they kept an eye on the sky

It will be fine
We’ll get done in time
We’re trusting God and His care
We looked at each other
And then at our brother
We had not a minute to spare

No time to yammer
Get busy and hammer
So we stayed to help with the roof
They believed in God’s care
In us, it was there
In pudding, there is the proof

As we rode out of sight
In bright morning light
We were glad that we had stayed
We passed the church by
Which was now safe and dry
An answer to what they had prayed

REPLENSHING

An elaborate web-like
root system grows beneath
the surface of the soil.
Intricate support structure
lies hidden in obscurity.
Integral key of health is
held in the succulent origin
of the massive tree. There's
an understanding. Growth
knows with every cell of its
being that it could not, would
not thrive without the relation-
ship it maintains with its heart's
source. Thirst would remain,
bark would become parched,
withered; if the tree did not
abide in union. Resting and
trusting in its very roots.

Wicked Night

At night I meditate on transitions:
I use my rhythmic breathing to
join the clean sparse symmetry of
legend to the optical illusion of truth.

With Past on my right, Future left,
I hold the Now gently. Knowing that
grasping too tightly will choke possibility
too loosely, lets dreams wisp senselessly.

Is not this the fast I have chosen? To
loose the bands of diabolical shame, to
undo the heavy burdens borne too long
restore the years the locusts have eaten?

Without patching the broken drywall
Nor restoring defaced edifice. Privately
contracted, this is a ground up project
drawn on hitherto unimagined blueprint.

Dangerous logos of desires, snaking an
outline against the blur of known world
challenging that which has always been
with the cruel luscious lure of “why not?”

“Undescribable Accomplishment”

I wish you could see the design of my mind
Outdoor living, spread wide in a wink of time.

Made of strong cedar, a foundation for life
Unique fragrance of wood overlooking the site.

I could sit on the enveloping bench for hours
Two levels expand, beyond the screened porch

Redbud flowering, Japanese maple,
Stella d’ora, tulips, ajuga cradle

A birdbath, glimpsing the wildlife flutter
Life’s peaceful entry, while avoiding the clutter.

Smooth and sealed for the toddlers bare feet
Pass through window, easy service for eats

Lattice panels provide protection
Family arrive, view, offer detection

Celebrate the builder’s comprehension,
Our building and design, meshed without tension.

My dream, now complete!

Ninacarole
11/11/09

Beautifully put, Connie. :)

Constructing a story

One word, one note, one glance
And it’s started
I can’t stop, can’t breathe, can’t think
Till it’s recorded
Characters, places and speeches
Assemble
What a joy, what a time, what a time consuming obsession

MAXWELL’S SILVER HAMMER

Allan Maxwell did carpentery,
he felt he sat in good company,

forty three years of swinging the mallet
finally gave way to his retirement.

His claw hammer was put to rest
in the bottom of his wooden tool chest.

His saws, still finely honed and sharpened,
were covered and placed in a drawer on end.

His levels and miters, had served him precisely,
so he dusted them off and put them away nicely.

His aprons were folded, his pencils were pointed,
his rules and his measures with oils were anointed.

They held Max a party, all the guys were invited,
to give him a send off so he wouldn’t feel slighted.

And they gave an award to place on his wall,
a silver hammer, with inscription and all.

“Here’s to Max, Carpentry Master.
Nobody else could nail nails faster.

He framed with the best and taught
us all something, never for naught.

Doing any job, he never screwed up.
He nailed it every time!”

Allan Maxwell had been a carpenter,
just the same as his Lord, who Max

always referred to as
“Chairman of the Board”.

And sadly the day that they had Max interred,
his silver hammer got tucked away, it was inferred,

for at his right hand the hammer did lay
And now Maxwell is eternally swinging his hammer each day.

November now
is acting out
it should
it’s not appreciated
more wind than March
and bluer than October
November’s pretty, too
it blows leaves
like they paid
its chores by the hour
plans to make them
leaf mache
and mudpies
November’s bored
with being well-behaved
and wants to make something

Maureen, love your underlying message.

Marie, "a bridge built with dreams, prayers, thoughts, heart, soul, tears." beautifu, strong piece, even the visual of the bridge makes it strong, nice one.

Randi, "combining ideas into one congruous object of thought," really like how this is stated.

Walt, enjoyed "Butter-cup," sweet and visual. I see yellow under your chin, you must like butter, smiles!

Laurie, devestating, makes me remember just how fragile life can be.

Patricia, "...to build a path that leads to you with only tears to guide my way?...can not scrub the scum built up inside." this one touched me on a multitude of levels, thank you.

SaraV, "an embrace to heal sorrow..." a beautiful reminder that love is an action word.

Daniel, loving your brevity, powerful and very Tao.

Marie, loving yours, makes me think of the indestructable plans of perfect providence.

I just want to take up a line or two to say how much I'm enjoying this Robert. Everyone's work has been a joy to read! Happy writing to all!

Story Time

We have a hero
a genuine, honest-to-goodness hero
(except that she's a heroine)
who comes across a body
in her flat
in her bed
in her clothes
but she's not the killer
(even though the police treat her as
numero uno suspect-o).

Released on bail she has a week
to find the real killer
and a romantic interest
(let's call him Bill)
and overcome some obstacles
(another body? another killer? Bill himself)
and have a showdown
(in which she fails)
and pick herself up again
and fight for the truth
(stopping for tea at four)
until she prevails
and is changed by the experience
(or not)

and then we've built
a story

"Maxwell's Silver Hammer," Loving your underlying message as well, Walt.

Barbara, "November's bored with being well-behaved and wants to make something," I like the personality it holds.

Funny how I think about things for a long time, like wanting to write an 8 line pantoum, but put it on the shelf, deciding it can't be done. But today, it just kind of fell out of the subject matter. It may get longer in December when I get back to editing, but this will do for today's poem.

PROOF

I construct poems like Geometry proofs
each line makes a statement, has a reason
Start the poem with what you know, is given,
end with final words, what you want prove.

Each line makes a statement, has a reason
Start the poem with you know, is given.
End with final words, what you want to prove.
I construct poems like Geometry proofs.

Constructing a Poem

Ask for words,
That want to play,
Follow a bird,
Does it have something to say?
Sit looking out at the lake,
Pick up a pine cone,
Give it a shake.
Search for a phrase,
Through the morning mist,
Or evening haze.
Find a great title,
In a wave,
Must be a catchy image,
You can save.
Detect a unique written find,
That enables you,
To expand your mind.
Stare at a clock,
Be with time,
Put on a bright red sock,
Create an uplifting rhyme.
Go much deeper inside of you.
Discover anything, anything new.
Call up a friend,
Get a good story,
Just don't hit "send",
If it is going to be gory!
Try to be original.
Try to stand out.
No to pigeonhole,
Let go of the doubt.
Work with what,
Is sitting around.
Look at what is there,
Then turn it around.
Take a relationship,
See all the angles.
See the gem that it is,
Through all the dangles and jangles!
Remember your childhood,
The innocence, play and fun!
Comb through it all,
Until the parting is done.
Constructing a poem,
Brings you to life.
Go out there and show 'em . . .
All the beauty, wonder,
Excitement or strife.
Write of the confusion,
The battle for cash,
How endearing it can be,
To come across,
A hidden chocolate stash.
Be bold or be petty,
Be courageous or scared.
Be enticing,
With icing,
With your soul bared.
Go with your flow,
Write down what you know.
Come out of the cage,
And creatively construct,
Each page.
Bring us to where,
You sit and stare,
Reaching for your words,
Out of thin air.
We will applaud you,
And allow in your sun!
And just like you must be thinking now . . .

Good thing it is done!

Growing Pains


Water seeped in again,
mud-mess in the auditorium.
The temporary corridor,
too cold, too hot,
so difficult for those
too old to climb the steep incline
on their return walk home
after meal times.

Everyone impatient
for renovation’s finish,
except me.

I don’t care about the mud,
the heat, the climb,
the dust that never settles.

When this construction ends
there’ll be room for us
to move from a distant cottage
into a new apartment here
where we’ll walk in comfort
never to have to go outside
to make our way to dinner.

In time they’ll find
memory has erased
what was intolerable.

Marie Elena, that Brooklyn Bridge poem is the most real I've read from you...simply outstanding

A Natural Construction Site

Beaver . . .

Dam!!

I second (at least) that, Marie Elena: the bridge is wonderful

Deconstruction

A lie’s bitter
aftertaste cuts deep
into the throat—
Lies upon lies
burrow to the belly
and twist
sharply

until
internal
harmony
collapses on itself—
Nerves, organs fall,
a cascade of bones,
a pool of dust to kick.

Lies beget lies,
parading as love
and affection, and
kisses on lips—
just like when I
reach
for you.

But, You are always the one to build bridges exceptionally well at that. That one moves you up in poetic stature!

PLACES WE INHABIT
(Ariadne)

Steam-whistle from the train and the call of gulls,
that is our town by the ocean.
Iron and saltwater live in this house.
We built it so we could have rooms with a view,
watch the storms and keep our secrets in the basement.
Edges of everything freeze in the winter, and the ships
stay out of the harbor.

Once in a while, the ground shakes along the
fault lines, and we act like nothing is wrong,
chandeliers swaying and doorways shifted.
We occupy our time like everyday people should,
daytime jobs and dance class,
servants keeping this house in order, trimming the
hedge mazes and polishing the locks.
This facade is a work of art: hand-carved and intricate,
affix it to our heads and our hands,
let's play pretend the way we used to,

(like there are no stepbrothers you're ashamed of
whose weeping you can hear through the iron grate
raging against the walls and cracking the plaster)

like we are ordinary people. We bow and curtsy
to our neighbors, and when they ask where we live,
point to that mansion growing from the fissures in the rock.
Never had a family, really, so it seemed
prudent to build one. Look how happy we all are.
No skeletons in the closet,
no disfigurements hiding under the foundations;
shameless, magnanimous, we are upper middle class,
carefully arranged ikebana people
impassive as the windless sea

and the fiction of an only child is one
whose steps we will navigate until it becomes the truth:
waltzes and stories are made through repetition,
and we are master architects of status and symbol,
nouveau riche, a quiet aristocracy

(and the ground is not straining to swallow us up
and a house raised in tears and chains is not a prison
despite what one may think.)

It is exciting and sometimes overwhelming to be in the company of such fine poets. Your polished words leave me hungering for more and I stand amazed you craft so quickly. Thank you for sharing your worlds.

Powerful Joseph!

IN CORPORE SANO

The Huron band revered the site
atop the hill with a brook
at its base. Settlers claimed it.
One built on it, experimented,
made discoveries, created history.
Fire and war won it; the brook
was buried. The new structure
housed the ill, the weary.
Time used it as a museum
followed by emptiness, disuse.
One more time a razing, then
a raising of an edifice honoring
the spirits of the hill, focused
on healing, personal dignity,
respect. No more destruction.
Expansion. Addition. Open-wide
doors for those having no other way
to turn. Build more on that
well-planned, sound, tested foundation.
Renovate. Enlarge. Reach out.
Honor the sense of the healing powers
the natives knew were here. Recognize
and revere the strength of this space.
Make it one that will endure.

W

LEGACY

Before old Casavecchia died
he gathered his three sons
around his death chair,
outstretched a trembling,
bony hand, which the oldest son
clasped gently.

The second son rested his hand
upon his brother's while
the hand of the youngest son
quivering like a frightened bird
sat atop them all.

"Four hands high from old father
to youngest son," spoke the old man.
(Barely could they hear him)
"Four stories high
this home we built with hands."

Then smiling, satisfied,
old Casavecchia died
but that house still stands.

#

Building

My confession is – I don’t like being taught. I want to know. Although - I do enjoy being in the classroom as long as I am not required to participate. Note taker. List maker. I am one of those who goes back and constructs a one page theory out of an hour long seminar, to shape it into what I would teach. That’s why I cringe at the thought of personal trainers or even the more placid yoga instructors. They have done something I have never been able to do – be fit. I first watched videos. Then I took a few classes but now I buy books and work out cards so I can pattern my own routine. I don’t want to lay on the floor doing some other move while everyone else does a shoulder stand that I would choke myself if I tried to do – my double chin constricting my esophagus. I’m building my own workout where I stretch and strain to my own internal rhythm. My capstone is to be covered in sweat when I end in the lotus position.

CONSTRUCTING A FOOTPRINT

A summer camp full of kids, minus
one small boy. Campers and counselors leaving
their footprints in all directions.
So many scuffs in the dust,
which could belong to a missing boy?

Take the mother quietly aside.
She’s lost as a ewe with a stillborn lamb.
What did Jamie have on his feet? Old sneakers,
wavy pattern on the sole, worn smooth;
waves of wind on a sandy shore.

Take aside the father. Speak as if
you know each trail like the lifeline on your
hand. Where did he last see Jamie?
Search the ground for wind-waves – here,
by the lake – wandering the sand.

The Love Song of the Master Builder

I will build a universe
.stars, meteors, planets and comets all
whirling and colliding with one another

You will be my sun
You will sit in the very center of all things
And all things will move in order around you

They will travel together in perfect harmony
You will teach new love songs to the stars
The unseen rhythm that accompanies the planets
Will be your gift to me.

Hi All,

Not posting yet. Just want to say that you all did a fabulous job on yesterday's prompt.
I look forward to catching up on more reading for each day. Great to be a part of this
terrific, talented group of people.

Foundations

Some people marry for the wrong reason
perhaps is sex,
which quickly falls out of season
creating way too many an ex

But, we have built marriage
starting from the foundation
through the baby carriage
until our home reached a familial destination

Sure we’ve had some tough times
weathered those ripples
felt we wanted to change our minds
through pain that often cripples

In the end,
we have found a strength
in one another, more than a friend
willing to go any length

Now fifteen years gone by
our foundation stronger than ever before
with only one reason why
as each day passes, we only love each other more. . .

©Ralph J. Fitcher, November 11, 2009, poem about my wife and I constructing our life together.

Construction to Last

Start with two people in love as the base.
Pour in a concrete mixture of
hope, respect, conflict and resolution.
To this foundation, add children, in any shape or size,
leaving room for additional conflict and resolution,
high levels of stress and unmeasured devotion.
Build a monument of memories
to last beyond a lifetime.

Constructed Poems

As the month becomes the middle
As the poems flow from pens so swift
I see humble reality of my inadequacy
As I construct yet another poem

The desire is there the need is great
To share the words that fill my head
I need to learn to read to grow
To study the forms which make poems flow

What better place to do this
Than in the company of this greatness
The poets who on a prompt can write
The thoughts in their poetic minds just right

For construct a poem is what I do
Like a carpenter with his hammer
I pound out my thoughts and hope
That some day I can really be a poet

"Of Nature or Of Science: or Maybe Of Human Beings"

It's said I was born
A clean slate--
Or maybe I was full
Just nobody could see

Was I built by communities?
Language is what makes me a human being

Some argue benevolence--
A great artist painted me

But some say personality
Was coagulated by outside forces in society

I have heard of predestination
Our job is to save man

Do I really have a purpose?
Or am I just in an evolutionary frying pan?

Many questions
Myriad answers
So conflicting
Can't we just be?

The only thing agreed on
Is we are complex creatures
We human beings

So I guess the real question is
Who gets credit
For the construction of you and me

A rather pithy argument
But quite understandable you see
Wouldn't it be great if
Human beings were constructed human beings?

Forget the credit to nature
Or even worse some all powerful being

I am in control
Of my destiny

So as we watch our bodies shrivel
Helplessly away
We are suddenly reminded
Maybe we don't have so much sway

Could there be a greater power
Stronger than we puny beings?

A creator even of nature
And all that we see

I know this great argument
Both sides certainly convincing

But my vote is for the Lord our God
Champion of every single human being

"Home"

A new home
a box with plain walls
we move our family in

The carpet is worn
the walls have holes
the yard is a barren mess.

But with love in our hearts
and joy in our step
we'll make this house a home.

WORKING CONSTRUCTION

When I was a kid,
I stripped
a roof in the summer,
peeled up
a linoleum floor
with a blow-torch,
and hauled brick
across an open yard.

I would work
like a man
just to eat
almond chicken
chow mein
at China Station
for lunch
with my dad.

At the end
of the day,
I swept up sawdust
with a push broom,
though the wooden handle
was too long for me
to manage
easily.

I would wait
for my dad
to notice
what I did
and approve
of me,
his first-born
child.

But one day
when I was eleven,
I looked up and my dad
was gone --
his skill-saw still
turning
on nothing
but air.

Jane Beal
sanctuarypoet.net

Home Ec

At fourteen I cut the pieces carefully
According to the directions
And stitched that hideous
Kettle cloth jumper
That I would not wear
It did not fit
Nothing much fit
When I was fourteen

The Love Song of the Master Builder

I will build a universe
.stars, meteors, planets and comets all
whirling and colliding with one another

You will be my sun
You will sit in the very center of all things
And all things will move in order around you

They will travel together in perfect harmony
You will teach new love songs to the stars
The unseen rhythm that accompanies the planets
Will be your gift to me.

Construction © Rich Atwater Nov 11, 2009

Bring out “the Erector Set”, it’s Christmas time again,
Roll out “the Tinker Toy” canister for little tots to play,
Time to put together all those colorful pieces that have been-
Stashed away in the closet of my memory, forever and a day.

Perhaps “a Lego Box” will help us now decide the ploy,
Shall it be a house, a tall skyscraper, maybe just a bridge,
To link the past of childhood days when we were just a girl, a boy,
And Toyland, “little girl and boy land”, were played in front the fridge.

On kitchen floor, or maybe in the living room beyond the couch,
Where construction began to build a future from our fabled dreams,
Then time moved on to take us to “the world” beyond our “kangaroo pouch”,
Wherein Donald Trump kept building “living Erector Sets” and “Tinker Toy reams”.

But you and I, as common folk, just built a home and family true, for happiness to grow,
Construction on the finer things that made a life of “time and circumstance” for both of us,
A band of children, gathered in our nest, with you as “mother pouch of kangaroo” to know,
That love encircles all about “the construction scenes of home-like atmosphere” with all the fuss.

So once again reflections on “the time and place of younger days” of fantasy and truth,
When Mom and Dad and all the kids where gathered round “the Christmas tree of life” at home,
And Tinker Toy, Erector Sets, and all those construction scenes became reality as one to soothe,
The mind with recognition that “the greatest work you will ever do is within the walls of your own home.”
=====================================================================

Poet’s Note:
In recognition of the spiritual reality expressed by Prophets, poet’s and philosophers that “the greatest work you will ever do is in the walls of your own home” (Harold B. Lee); and that “no success can compensate for failure in the home” (David O. McKay). (A keynote of LDS Mormon Christianity as expressed by its prophetic leaders with emphasis on “the Family” as paramount foundation for society. See: Proclamation on the Family, an LDS document—Salt Lake City, Utah 1995.

~The Wall~

I stand behind it
this self made wall I've put up
a fortress of stone

No one can see it
except the one who built it
as high as she could

It will keep me safe
at least I'd like to think so
as I lean on it

It is cold and grey
bleak as a long winters day
encircling me

I keep adding stones
one by one for each sorrow
trying to block the pain

If there is a storm
I will drown behind this wall
as the waters rise

Knowing this I try
to sometimes remove a stone
let my feelings flow

But the pain creeps in
so I block it up again
try to remain strong

I can't see the sun
can no longer feel the wind
I hear no music

Alone I sit here
not knowing what I can do
as my life slips by

As here I remain
imprisioned behind the wall
that's holding my heart

---

He said
the balloon was stable
thick-walled
blue and yellow
and red.

He said
the sensation was soothing
a cloud free-floating
above tiny figures
gazing up.

The view should take
our breath away.

The flame burst
we jumped back
then laughed.
The basket held five.
We climbed in cautiously
peered over the edge
as we rose
feeling reckless.

The second burst of flame
disturbed no one at first
no one jumped
until we were
too high.

CHANGE IS UBIQUITOUS
(C) Rich Atwater

A family of deer,
Seven to be exact,
Crossed my path on a walk through the woods today.

My dog and I
Observed with delight
As they wandered on their way.

The caterpillar, truck, and tractor men
Continued to grade away;
The wheels of progress were grinding on----
For change is ubiquitous they say!

The family of deer
Were hindered by
The freeway scene and more,

For the path they took
Led to no return
And the river's brink the only door.

And so it is with life you see
As we travel on our way,
For the road we take leads to no return----
For change is ubiquitous they say!

(Written overlooking the Potomac river on the Maryland
and Virginia border near my Oxon Hill home-1985 during the
freeway extension construction of I-95 near Wilson bridge.)

=================================================================

Thank you kindly Marie Elena for your comments yesterday in regards to poems on the subject of LOVE. "Your poetic name" and your comment will find a permanent place not only in my heart-felt thanks, but on the back cover of my new book to be published in 2010: Perpspectives on Life-- Volume II

I enjoyed your poem about the Spider in regards to Construction

Lots of other good poems out there too---I read them with interest. RMA

CONSTRUCTING A LANGUAGE TREE

[based on a letter by Elihu Burritt, 1839]

Begin with Greek and Latin, which gives you
French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese.
A foundation in Germanic will have you
doing yeoman’s work in German, Flemish,
Dutch, Old Norse, and the Scandinavian tongues.
The Celtic language group gives you Welsh,
Cornish, Breton, Manx. Now, Hebrew
leads you on to Syriac, Chaldaic, Arabic,
Samaritan, and Ethiopic. Moving eastward
to the Slavic family of tongues, Russian
opens the doors of a dozen more languages.
In time, you might progress to the Orient,
and find a key to that vast edifice.
See how easy it all is, when you consider
languages as the common hearth and heart-
speech among the family of Man.

THE COSTUME

The burgundy and white knee-length dress
With the white flowers had seen too many offices,
Too many cubicles
And too many numbers
Before its worn-out wearer
Fled to England for a better life.
I found it at a yard sale
Still clean and pretty,
And cut it a bit,
And embellished it with gold lame
And sequins
And chocolate brown chiffon-
As it twirls about as I move it across my table,
Slashing here and patching there,
It awaits its transformation
Twirling across the dance floor
On New Year's!

Bionic

I'd love to be a bionic woman.
Have all my dysfunctional parts
replaced with pistons and rods,

gears grinding gears to move me
around. Lasers for eyes, bone
crusher grip. Legs never would

grow tired. I'd like to keep my
voice, to whisper and shout, have
a normal conversation. But have

the ability to kick everyone's ass,
except my boyfriend, the bionic man.

Who-hoo! I posted while it was still under 100! (runs in circle, pumping hands a la Rockie!)

I find
that after
fifteen
years
me and you
is still
a work
in progress.

We poured
bone and
marrow
for the
foundation,
used our
heart strings
for the
mortar,
roofed
it over
with blood
and teeth
and promises
we did
not
yet

understand.

Now each
year we
build the
walls higher,
thicker;
word on
word,
memory on
memory,
brick on
brick.

“OBJECT OF THOUGHT”
By: Nikki Markle

Brain sparks catch
Fire, summoning
Vague memories of a
Once read sonnet, an
Annoyingly catchy jingle
From an old commercial, the
Way your lips kind of
Tingled after your first kiss,
A collision of the intangible,
Combining into an
Appreciable object
Of thought.

Going to Seed

When our young cousin K. C. died
we planted a tree in her memory.

Will you be the trees for me?
You are lovingly rooted to maturity,

no axe or weakening disease
to inhibit future seeds

from which you’ll build
a lush forest.

Catastrophe

On the floor of my office, he built a house
of Lego’s, an intricate structure
of multicolored blocks with a front door,
four windows, a roof and chimney.
Little Lego flowers graced the front porch.
I was amazed that a five-year-old could
construct a house so elaborate, even
before our hour session was over.
Then without warning, he picked it up
and smashed it to the floor, shattering
it to single bricks and L-shaped chunks.
He stamped on it to make the catastrophe
complete. "Why did you do that?" I asked.
"That’s wasn’t me", he replied,
"that was my mom and dad."

Day 11 – Construction

Skeleton crane
Buried in the sky
Steel bones
reaching higher, higher

Dog bones
clawed from the wreckage
dropped into a hole
Too broken to read

Girders like fingers
grasping the hand
no meat, only bones
rising from the ashes

Wood left to rot
Charred and bitter
from the fire of redemption
Steel crane
left standing

It rains
metal glistens
from the dew
Beautiful diamonds
To hide the view

Skeleton crane
silent and deadly
Carrying the bones
of what could have been

Bridgeview

The pedestrian bridge on Walnut was built
over the Tennessee
(1890)
to accommodate buggies and cars.
Trussed by steel
shamed by two lynchings
now walked by proud residents
photographed by tourists
adorned by festivals.

I drove on the bridge
when I got my license.
So narrow, I thought,
only one car at a time fits well.
I preferred Market Street, with four lanes.

Later, they built Olgiati, for the freeway,
then Veteran's, to ease the traffic.
The view from Walnut Street is best,
because I'm walking and can soak in
all the others
at my own pace.

Construction

In the living room of the apartment
we’re about to buy, we stand
with the contractor going over
demo, outlets, paint. The sellers’ realtor
sits in an overstuffed red armchair,
their housekeeper is wiping down
the kitchen, their baby napping
in the bedroom. Out of my mouth
comes, Wow, ass crack!, in the middle
of a sentence about track lighting, my eye
catching a man on the roof across the street
tending to a pipe, his wide rear hanging
out of his dark blue pants. All the men
in the room crack up and our contractor
ribs my husband about being just a little
too interested in the scene. And I think,
we’re all going to get along fine, as long
as his crew shows up with pants that fit.

Getting ready to write but first have to tell Marie Elena, from one mother's heart to another -- today's poem speaks volumes, and so very beautifully.

Communications Central

The young woman’s wobbly voice
said on the message machine
my stepson was in a hospital
states and time zones away.
She gave me a garbled number to call.

The nurse practitioner
at the remote hospital
then phoned with the news.
He’s dying fast, doesn’t know anyone,
nothing to do.

I dialed the first number,
then variations, came up blank.

His son needs to know.
I consulted the ragged slip
in my address book over the years.
Tried to reach an ex-wife,
came up blank.

I phoned his son’s embittered ex-wife,
she said he’d disappeared
but she’d look for a number.
Neither of us held much hope.

I guess I’ve hit a transparent wall,
good intentions get lost in space.
Those numbers built over the years
no longer link the family.

Fort Necessity

We wanted a hiding spot, a place
to drink the gin we'd stolen from our
fathers' liquor cabinets, a space
to stash the porno mags we'd dug out
of the bookstore dumpster. Our tools:
a post-hole digger, square shovel, pick,
garden spade, five gallon bucket. Fools
to try to carve out shelter from the thick
Louisiana red clay. It was
summer, when thoughts of boys always run
shirtless and sweaty, dream of the wash
of summer cloudburst, of pools and hunts
and explorations. Something small, snug
against the rain, our parents. We dug.

Construction Zone
(Shadorma)

Pave a road
from your heart to mine
blaze a trail
door to door
build a bridge that links our lives
then watch what happens

Landscape of a Life

Her paintbrush dots in a black sky
With holes large enough to swallow lies
She sweeps the page with a forgiving hue
Takes her anger down to a soft
Rush of reasonable
Color
Fills the emptiness
With a flourish of
Her fan brush
Her palette seems so limited after
All this time so
She smacks the page hard
With the darkness that the ground
Demands
She’s using her fattest brush
Fully loaded with the weight of
Dirty water
She feels the splash of calculated
Carelessness on her
Shirt and face
A smile escapes
This is the landscape of her
Life and it is always going to be
Under construction
It’s all good

Pyramid

Build
strong
one block
at a time
agonizingly
backs bent beneath overseer's lash.
Construct a wonder
for the world.
Giza.
Built
strong.

Little Home

When John and Meg first started out,
they had virtually nothing -
and this was in a day and age
when virtual reality was virtually unheard of.

But they persevered (and not just virtually)
and thanks to youth, and maybe ignorance,
made a construct for themselves -
their Dovecote - their home - a testament to love.

(with thanks to Louisa May Alcott)

Constructing a family

Start with a sheet of paper too large
to fill. Big wax crayons clutched
in a fat fist scribble great loops
of colour - green, blue, red -
take a line for a walk, see where
you head, limited only
by how far your wrist can bend,
your arm can stretch, your mind can know.

Now study each small part, concentrate
on how to shape those random whorls,
make sense of them. See here, a heart shape,
colour it in pink. And here a shape
like Mom and Dad - colour them lovingly,
fill them up, don’t stay inside the lines.

Jenny Doughty

A Marriage Built

A marriage built
on a foundation
of chemistry,
layered by laughter,
heart to hearts in darkness,
revolutions of differences in daylight.

A marriage strengthened
by resolve to accept
admiration of strengths
acceptance of differences
honing of goals
breakfast in bed.

Marcia McLees Bogaert

To Create
I think, therefore I am, I am therefore I grow, I grow therefore I dream
We dream, to wonder, to question and to form.
I live, I think, I am a positive influence.
My seed, my family, my love and my life,
Creation on earth, in a giving nature to build for the future,
Under construction

Tree House

Deepening her voice,
Wearing a dark red flannel shirt,
She mowed the lawn,

"No, Mom, it just isn't working."

Camping trips in the Sierras,
Sleeping by quiet lakes and gentle streams,
Waking at dawn to check for bears.

"No, Mom, it just isn't happening."

Bodysurfing Hawaiian waters,
Skiing higher peaks,
Trips to England to ride the train,
Through the countryside,
Underground at night,
Choosing which lines,
By color not design.

"No, Mom, it just isn't the same."

Looking out at the cherry tree,
In the backyard of his childhood,
Thinking maybe she shouldn't have asked,
His father to leave.

One more idea came to mind.
A tree house might just do the trick!

She knew a kind fix-it man,
Who would enjoy,
That kind of task.

Would take a few weeks,
With male energy,
Outside doing manly tasks.
And he could help.

Afternoon after afternoon,
He had the hammer,
Standing on the ladder,
Helping the guys,
Build his confidence.

He was included,
Feeling more like,
An adult,
Belonging to his backyard construction club,
With the cherry tree,
And mom
Looking on.

Finished . . . and he is so proud.

"Look what we did, Mom, we built this tree house."

His first friend that spent the night,
Was seen hanging outside the door,
On the other side,
Of the treehouse,
With him,
Tucked inside their two sleeping bags,
Only their heads peeking out.

"Hey, Mom, what are we?"

After a few guesses,
She gave up, still smiling.

"We are caterpillars, sleeping until we can fly."

She walked back inside,
Turning to nod,
Toward the boys,
That were warm inside . . . waiting,

She knew,
Without a doubt,
Creating that cherry treehouse,
She'd hit the nail on the head.

The Realtor

This is a fairy tale neighborhood
with new construction every week.
Let me show you some available homes.
Over here at unit 7019 is Mr. P. Pumpkin’s condo -
built for his wife after couple’s counseling.
Just around the corner is a multi-level high top.
Tongues are wagging that the octo-mom is bidding.
Two streets over is a fixer-upper triplex.
Two thirds had structural problems,
but the brick one at the end is solid.
Last on our tour is a charming gingerbread style.
We have no problem renting this sweet deal out
However, tenants keep skipping out over night.
Did I mention it has a wicked good stove?

I Built Me a Dream

I built me a dream made with pictures of you.
Such a beautiful dream with a beautiful home
Our smiling children at play in the yard
And you to hold near at the end of the day

So many things that were never to be
White picket fences couldn’t hold it all in.
But I held them so tightly as they drifted away
Paying every last penny and every last tear
For a handful of hopes that were never to be

Dreams built on others are like homes built on sand
The wind and water tends to sweep them away
And only the pictures and letters we shared
Remained like the wreckage of that tattered dream

Those dreams don’t go quiet as they come crashing down
The ghost of a dream is a terrible thing
It fills the world with a misty blur stealing color from the day
Whispering painful reminders in the lyrics of a song
With night fueled screams of anguish and regret
Leaving you in tear filled puddles on the floor

Then in that final moment with my soul nearly dead
I found the courage, or exhaustion, to let it all go
I rose from that moment a much stronger man
And learned that my dreams are best built on me

To Marie Elena and Walt . . .

Someone should take you out
For an ice cream or chocolate malt.

I just have to say,
Yesterday,
Your verbal ping pong lighthearted match,
Stirred up a batch of laughs.

It was a joy and delight,
A chuckle all night!

I would wonder now,
If there was not a peep.
But I have to ask you, Marie Elena . . .
Do you ever sleep?

Just wanted to thank you,
Both for all the fun repartee.
It was succinct . . . with a wink,
A new definition of "Word Play.

Dabbles of ink, spill onto page
where laughter 'n tears often engage
in ballet of words, finding release
scribbling thoughts for own inner peace

A rainbow of color, 'aft raging storm
jotting down words is poets heart song
doodles on paper, expressing true love
happiness, sorrow, life taking plunge

Running through pastures, clusters of rose
sweetness of Springtime, loves afterglow
family 'n friendships, held ever close
turmoil, injustice, small rays of hope

Ocean 'n mountains, passions delight
long winding roads, darkness in light
spillage from inkwell, revealing raw pain
seasonal etchings, Autumn's refrain

Demons 'n death echoing plight
evil, destruction, vampire's bite
dreaming 'n fantasy, dancing on mars
kisses 'neath moonlight, wishing 'pon stars

Angel's 'n fairies, white puffy clouds
drowning in teardrops, laughing out loud
carousels, rainbows, His Tapestry
flipping thru scrapbooks, fond memories

construction of poetry
on parchment display
deep inner thoughts
words carefully placed
look for his traces in word imagery
heart 'n soul scribbles finding release


November 11, 2009
(prompt - Construction)
(c) Rose Marie Streeter

DIG IT

No cavern, no canyon,
a couple of Clementine oranges,
and a shoe box of old newspaper clippings.
A headline declares, "A DAY OF INFAMY",
another "MAN WALKS ON MOON", a third
mourns, "PRESIDENT KENNEDY DEAD".
Other mementos also tucked inside.
A history build on the shoulders of
wide eyed dreams and sad eyed losses.
Constructions crews had unearthed
a make-shift time capsule, buried
in a shallow "grave" near their dig.
A lost treasure of a young man's
perception of importance stored
in corroded and mud caked cardboard.
Memory built upon memory. A foundation
most secure and strong. A history.

Building Bridges



Building bridges all of my life

From early childhood, I ran into strife.

Feuds with siblings, mother and dad

Tried to be good, often was bad.



Building bridges in years of the teen

Uncommon ground with lots of bad scenes

Problems with the law though never in jail

Would anyone bothered posting my bail



Building bridges of love between

Love at first sight, at least so it seemed

Ready made family,a girl and a boy

No regrets there, they still bring us joy



Building of bridges, ones fallen down

Marriage is over, love was not sound

No one to blame but each of us two

The children, innocent, what can we do?



Building of bridges may never end

From early childhood to new lifetime friend

Building bridges what more can I say

Master builders' still building today

Janet, On behalf of my counter part, thanks. We have formed a connection thanks to the Poetic Asides blog that is more straight person and jokester. We're interchangeable. Not bad for two relative strangers who've never met, but are better friends than most. It is a blast wordplaying off of Marie's jabs and she off my sarcasm. Glad you find us so amusing. That's a great payoff. And we get to hang with some very talented writers (yourself included) and share our own muse.

Construction on Route 40 has begun
I’ve read that it might take months to clear
the high ways of rocks from the big rock slide.

The financial impact on our county is something
I had not realized but it stands to reason
supplies can’t get through so they will have to go
hours out of their way when they take the detour.

Some rocks fell, that is what I thought. I did
not realize that some of the “rocks” were as
big a a house and hauling them away , repairing
the roads and preventing this from happening
again is not a small task.

Blueprint

While walking along the banks of a river,
I came across the strangest creature.
He was busy building a burrow
so I sat a spell and watched him dwell
along that river bank.

The creature had a snout like a duck,
and a tail like a beaver,
and seemed to be covered in hair.
On closer inspection I saw feet like an otter
and, OUCH! a venomous spike was down there!

I was too close, and he let me know
and the pain was very raw;
but I waited a bit and was rewarded
as I sit, with eggs being laid
in the nighttime shade.

By this time I was sweating
the pain was real bad,
but what an adventure I had!

I began to wonder…
an egg laying mammal, that’s part
duck, beaver and otter…
was this all part of God’s divine plan?
Or had the blueprint for construction
of this creature been mixed up in
the eternal ether?

I began to hallucinate
and was feeling rather ill,
while visions of elephants
with noses like pigs and
wings like an eagle flew around
in my swirling brain.

This is it! I thought,
God must have been stuck
with a venomous spike,
when he constructed
the Platypus.

Who'd ever imagine
That such little poems
Built in three little lines
Could carry such power
As yours did today

Daniel Paicopulos
Michelle Brenton
I lift my hat to you

Pig Housing

The means of construction
to house the three pigs
were distinct in nature
as plums are from figs.

The first pig used dry straw
to seal up his digs
The next pig used bundles
of flammable twigs.

The third pig was smarter
used bricks that were big,
to scare off the wolf
in sheep’s clothes and a wig.

Heart disease ran in his family. A sprinter that could finish the race well ahead of others. He dropped his father dead in his tracks a full decade before one would even consider it a possibility.

John believed whole heartedly that he could outrun him. At 50 he was the picture of health, trim and fit thanks to his daily run. He had shut the sprinter down, left him in the dust.

One more year and he would outlive his father.

He never saw it coming and was taken aback the day his legs just wouldn’t work. The natural rhythm gone, he was unable to walk and knew that his daily run was out of the question.

Later at the hospital he met the sprinter’s cousin, a contractor who specialized in building brain tumors. An overachiever like his cousin he worked quickly and finished the job early.

He may have outrun the sprinter but he couldn’t destroy the massive complex already under construction in his brain. John wouldn’t outlive his father after all.

Built by Hand

Board by board, brick by brick,
we built the house ourselves.
Day by day, year by year,
we built a home for our
two sons. Out back we buried
another, our first. You tallied
its cost to the penny, in all
no more than fifty dollars.

A half century later, we spent
twice as much on a tiered cake
to celebrate with our children,
their children, friends dear
as family, the life we built together.

The boys were grown and gone
when we had our new place built;
we leased the homeplace,
then let it go, finding excuses
at first to ride by, then later
to avoid the way past, unwilling
to see how little care they took
of the place we built by hand.

CONSTRUCTION

Two newly-weds
establish their home.
A daughter, then a son
join their little circle.
Before many years,
two more join the fun.
Soon, grandchildren arrive,
then more.
Forty-eight years later,
they’ve built a clan
of twenty-one.
Not a bad construction
for a lifetime.

I want to take a moment to thank all of you for this exhilarating poetic Journey. From Roberts skillful work putting this together for us to the wonderful poets who post here each day and help me to grow as a poet with their offerings. Thanks also to Marie Elena for her wonderful commentary and recaps and Walts colorful banter in addition to their marvelous poems. In short thank all of you for this journey we are sharing.

Construction

In every city
on many blocks
abandoned stock
is gutted
refitted with new fixtures
and floors,
parks cleaned of refuse,
and new schools gleam.
The For Sale signs are posted in windows,
and The Poor Need Not Apply
is written with invisible ink.

WOW! I’m checking in late, and found such wonderful surprises awaiting me.

First of all, Janne, your comment lifts my spirits. I look forward to checking out your blog.

Mr. Atwater, I am humbled and honored.

Thanks so much to all of you who complimented my Bridge poem. Frankly, I’m surprised that the sincerity and emotion come through. I feel deeply, but have difficulty relaying strong emotions in words. Most of you are superb at that, and I envy you. Short and silly are my strong suits. Oh well ... so be it.

Lastly, to Janet. (Lovely name, don’t you think, Walt?) The time you take to so creatively speak to us all out here is humbling and outstanding. Regarding your post to Walt and me, those who have been around since April PAD know the connection he and I have made here. The banter is great fun, and the support unparalleled. I ditto his response to you.

I SO wanted to read tonight, but my eyes are rebelling. Probably Janet's power of suggestion! ;) Good night to all you talented and impressive souls.

P.S. Since the doggone codes don't cooperate, I got to catch your comment, Tim. Thank you, and same to you. :)

P.P.S. This code is 4JERX. I didn't mean it! Honest! LOL

Flight of the Origami

Sadako folded six hundred
and forty-four, tucking her wish
in each valley and mountain,
along that long long neck
of the graceful crane.

I can’t fold even one.
Clumsy fingers stumble
on extra creases,
evidence of my missteps,
the sheet beyond repair. I started
on the wrong foot anyway,
too-thick paper expanding
where delicate tucks
should magically lift in wings.

Why do I always leap
from zero to sixty,
hoping to skip messy progress
and go straight to perfection?

I smooth and smooth,
determined to finish
even if my peaceful crane
looks chunky as a chicken.
No neck. Tiny, useless wings.
I set my crane by the window,
watch the light stream in.

Sometimes peace, progress,
come not in perfect flight
but in sweaty, wing-flapping
effort, dusty feet dragging,
all that work for one glorious
mid-air moment.

Construction

Expressing a thought
in seventeen syllables--
The joys of haiku.

Please Would You Build

I'd like you to build
a few new me's,
Lawd-amercy but with
just left brains please!
Make 'em with good
strong hands and back,
organisational skills to
keep me's on track.
This will take more than
hammer and nail,
find me's bionic parts
guaranteed not to fail,
re-cycled hearts that
know they were broken,
kewpie-doll lips with
no harsh words spoken.
Speed up the motors so
we's get more things done,
all of the made me's
with legs that can run.
Do not make them right brained
and able to dream,
or I'll lose me's on
every passing sunbeam!
Make me's with
all angles right.
Make me's that re-charge
meself every night.
Construct me's to be
indestructible,
there's no need to make
me's soft-touchable.
Please would you build
a few new me's--
and leave me to build
my dreams as I please.

"Constructing Disaster"

Learn to override
that nagging siren
of self-preservation

convince yourself
that against all probabilities
you’ll be the
one in a zillion
to pick the right numbers

laugh off everyone’s
well-intentioned
but erroneous warnings
like the old wives tales
that they are

let all your bills pile up
and then urinate on them,
especially those stamped
“FINAL NOTICE” or
“COLLECTIONS”

pay her lip service
when she says
“we need to talk”

don’t get that broken lock
on the door fixed
right away

don’t apologize
when you’re wrong,
you’ll only appear
weak

never slow down
long enough
to question
any of it

live blissfully
in the knowledge
that you can outrun
every consequence
of your actions.

Again,
To Marie Elena and Walt . . .

Please never halt,
That connection,
Verbal affection,
You share.

Thanks for the kind
And gentle compliments back!
Always a magical find,
Clearly you both have the knack.

Your words are a flowing calm,
Like a herbal healing balm.
And you can both turn on the charm,
Hitting the laughter alarm.

And as far as both your poems . . .
Keep getting out there to show 'em!! :)
Please . . . and keep us entertained with the tease!

Go forth and write that humorous prose,
You are appreciated by many, I suppose.
In the midst of so many themes,
We need your banter . . . maybe to extremes!

Are you asleep yet, Marie Elena??

Thank you both :)

Tim, you'll find this "journey" gets easier and more enjoyable as you go along. And you'll find your poetry taking new directions in what you'll learn by merely watching and reading. Your work is making strides in those directions. Stay on course and enjoy the ride. Thanks for your kindness. It is appreciated.

Janet, I personally find it amazing that Marie and I had made the connection we have. Don't tell her, but I think she's aces and has become the friend I look for when things start getting shaky. She has a calming influence, and a great way with words herself. My first "must read" on the sight (first of a list to long to mention now. Read: everybody and you're in there!) Thanks for you support as well.

Yes Marie, she has an outstanding name. Not that I need any reminders, but I see the name and I am inspired. Go figure. I am having a hard time thinking who the OTHER two jerx are after you and me.

Janet again, Marie in her remarks makes reference to a dear lady friend (read: love of my life) who had passed during the April PAD Challenge. Her name was Janet as well. The humorous poetry is actually almost over-compensating for her loss, which has inspired most of my work on here. Marie was one who kept me focused and encouraged my continuance in the face of my grief. She has been my rock and anchor. (OK Marie, my OTHER rock and anchor). I think that is why our connection is so prevalent. This "journey" as Tim refers to, would be nearly impossible without that.

Lorraine: Fun well done.
Buddah: Wisdom done fun.
(now my poor grammar and rhyme are all done.)


Janet, thank you again! You're a peach. :)

I'll be out most of the day, and my reading/commenting time will be nearly nil. :( You all have fun!

P.S. Coding has once again afforded me the opportunity to see another post pop up. This time it's yours, Walt. Now I have to go re-do my makeup before I head out the door. :(

But bless your heart anyway. ;)

Uh oh. There's '72 again. P72PD. Not sure what the letters mean, but I'm sure you will.

Kitchen

She’s had the pantry wall
knocked through,
new cooker, cupboards,
and vertical blinds
a dishwasher in honour
of our visit.
I can’t believe we all
used to fit in here
me and my sister squeezed
on a bench against the wall.
Watching a blackbird
hop along the garage roof.

contruction
changes the face
of my home town.
knowing I'm a
wanderer with
little right to
complain, I shrug
and move on
but the alienness
sticks and
trite axioms
flood my mind, then
a smile crosses
my face as I recall
a line from
Grosse Point Blank -
"you can never go home again,
but, I guess, you can shop there."

THE WORD
(Building Block of Poetry)

It starts with a word.
This one starts with it.
And as the words pile on and form sentences,
you find yourself stringing thoughts
together to say what your heart
and mind, had in mind.

So it begins. The idea that sprouts in your mind
centers around that one word.
It could be something that has touched your heart,
although you’re not sure what to do with it.
But you keep getting these thoughts
that fill your sentences

and these sentences
tell the world what’s on your mind,
even though you thought
it was unclear. You search for the right word
as a starting point, and it
starts to spew from your aching heart.

For you possess the eyes and heart
of a poet. And your metered sentences
make great strides to prove it.
You’re not sure what form is on your mind,
but the weight of your words
will lead you through that thought.

A HAIKU can express that thought
quite simply. A TRIOLET can express your heart.
An ODE can flow with praise worthy words,
and your PANTOUM keeps repeating sentences.
The VILLANELLE keeps the idea in your mind
until it finds need to expose it.

Such is the life of a poet. It
can cause you to expand your every thought,
adding the beauty that resides in your mind.
But if your mind is building a SESTINA, then your heart
better be in it to be able to pull off the right sentences,
exactly expressing with the same six words.

Poem construction? It starts with a word,
sometimes using rhyming sentences to flavor a thought.
Completely expressing your heart, as long as you don’t mind.

The Home of Araneus Diadematus
By: Meena Rose

The sun is setting,
I must begin working
On my web for hunting.

Good, there is a breeze;
A sticky thread, I will release
To be by blown away by the breeze.

If all is good,
My thread will stick for good,
On a solid piece of wood.

First bridge made.

Time to cross the bridge, I am afraid;
At first, I swayed;
Reinforcement lines have since been laid.

Sturdy path laid.

I produce a loose thread;
I attach it at the start and end;
There is nothing to dread.

Frame is now set.

My next task is forming a “Y”;
You might wonder why;
They will be the first three radii.

Frame is now fleshed out.

This is a large web;
Seventeen more radii to this cobweb;
I flow and I ebb, as I layout the rest of this web.

Construction lines are done.

Time for the circular thread;
I start off with non sticky thread;
From within to without instead.

First draft completed.

Time for the review;
I need to go through;
Make adjustments few.

Second draft completed.

I set out one last time without dread,
To apply sticky thread;
In place of the other thread.

Hunting web now completed.

Sorry, but I am intrigued by and drawn to read the work under the name Buddah Moskowitz. That has a poetry all its own. Great work Buddah Moskowitz!

Amanda, I am a closet origami artist and enjoyed "The Flight" very much. Nice piece.

LOX, your "multiplicity" rant was expressed quite well. Super.

Kate, when the six of us gathered at the old homestead prior to selling it after Dad died, we marveled at how a house so large that we thought could have been declared its own country, barely fit us in the space where Mom cooked and we ate. I felt the restraints through your words. Thanks for that memory.

Sally, I concur, "Not a bad construction for a lifetime." Good work here...and there!

Nancy, that is the second phase of what I experienced in disposing of our house. I hear tales of the total disregard for the blood, sweat and tears Mom and Dad put into our home, I haven't been by it in over two years. Love that piece.

SARAH'S HOUSE

In all of May and all of June, the men
from Andy's work on the house. Wielding tools
and banging —building a deck. Already the roof
has been fixed, windows replaced, house painted
from white to gray. And Sarah's sisters drop in
to say, "About time James got this place fixed up. Shame
the way he had y'all living." Then they mention
the broken furnace and how last winter the house
was so cold. That year Sarah told them, "Ain't nobody got
no money." But this year she tells them, "We been got that
furnace fixed," and with a smile now because she's proud
that her house finally looks like a home —on the outside at least.
And James is promising, next year, to get new tile in
the kitchen and fix the ceilings, redo both bathrooms, put in
working showers and toilets that flush properly.

He built her up so
When her eyes were closed he could
Tear her down again

Building on Sand

From ash and concrete
fragments of a former life
she builds a spirit shelter
words of self and psyche

refuge from this quarrel
of animus and anima
where two spirits cross paths
and purpose

her yesterdays an anchored weight
false cornerstone for dreams,

her foundation slant
built on the sand of promises

her building blocks false bricks
without straw

and she, the centre of this construct
cannot hold, her edges crumble

in the dust
ephemeral butterfly wings
and feathers


Carol A. Stephen
November 11, 2009
PAD Challenge poem

“The crusaders roughed up Istanbul”

The crusaders roughed up Istanbul
When it was still under Christian rule
Know who your friends are is my advice
Keep the doors locked to your paradise
Stay well inside the walls you have built
Make certain that no blood will be spilt
The labours of a thousand years
Can be wrecked in weeks by buccaneers
Such was Constantinople’s fate
When they opened up the city gate
To men adorned by the Holy Cross
Who sought to gain through another’s loss

Do you go to the 7-11
every 11/11 to buy
eleven devil’s food donuts, devil
riding your shoulder, whispering shoulds and whys
to drive your unwise annual venture

to the low-grade grease-and-sugar high;
and to come down you pound eleven beers
through your year-older, loop-the-loopy smile,
while pals yell, “Smile,” and shoot your beery leer
as you heave and haver, “This is heaven

having all my grooviest droogies here”—
and it’s (eleven) not even midnight
when a flashback floods your veins with last year
and you vaguely notice folks have ducked out
through bleary, weary, beatific eyes

that burn and blur and close in a blackout
for this anniversary night———or not?


DA

11 CONSTRUCTION

Watch this space!
One cell multiplying
Brain, spinal cord, heart

Pardon our dust!
Skin and nervous system built right here
Eyes, ears, mouth

New and improved human being!
Complete with circulatory system
Bones, muscles, limbs

Coming your way soon!
Heart-driven
Unique
Mammal,
A
New Life.

Fairy House

Down in the woods
Behind the fallen tree
Is a special house
Hiding there to see.

Its walls are made from sticks
Leaning in a cross
Grass fills in the spaces
Its roof is made from moss

Very very quietly
Sneak up and take a peek
Are the woodland fairies home?
Are they all asleep?

Want to see this magic house
Behind the fallen tree
Down in the woods,
Won't you come with me?

Constructed, knit together in the womb
Constructed wooden boxes in the tomb

Constructed tiny heartbeat of desire
Constructed small explosive steel and wire

Constructed fingers toes and opened eyes
Constructed broken lives and cruel surprise

Constructed tiny steps he learns to walk
Constructed words of anger, learn to talk

Constructed hopes and dreams and plans and then
Constructed broken lives and schemes of men

Constructed you my love, constructed him
Then two are none my love, destruction wins.

<span style="font-weight:bold;">My Home</span>

I will be living in an abandoned, unfinished construction -
building it out, started as his
(he, who has always been the nicest)

There are no walls - just a floor
and it needs to be pulled up
or at least sanded for days but the wood planks
are thick - though warped to follow the curve of the hill
the house seems to be almost
slipping on
- is this okay?
- a curved foundation?

but the wood could be beautiful
if sanded for days
the damaged skin - exposure
and abandon - lifted as sawdust

it will be nice to be helped

palm trees have grown up through the knots in places
and play with the electrical wires overhead
a wet wind strews the platform with fronds,
soaks my skin
and slats of rain begin to make the floor shine

he will live nearby
in his own place
- also under construction -
and will check on me from time to time.

perhaps it is not too late
to build a shelter.
the foundation could be beautiful
if sanded for days
then sealed and shined and called 'a start.'

Suspension

In disbelief,
she forges careful walls around herself
a fortress strong
in all the broken places.

Kindness comes
gently removes the heaviest bricks
and uses them
to build a bridge.

The Journey: Day Eleven: Construction poem


Family Construct

A woman and a man argue over the foundation—location, style, size.
But they compromise and begin, lay the groundwork, square up corners,
pour footings level and true.
The framework is complex, but they persevere—load-bearing walls,
stub walls, floor trusses designed to bear the weight of a future.
Sometimes, he builds, she picks up the detritus—scraps of lumber,
bent nails, stripped screws.
Sometimes, she assembles—glues, bolts, secures—he provides interim support.
They shingle, side, put up soffit, fascia, gutters.
They wire for sound, plumb for water, insulate, sheetrock,
tape, texture, paint, fit trim, install cabinets, hang doors, level appliances,
arrange furniture, fill cupboards . . .

They make a house a home.

One day, a woman passes by, likes what she sees, desires the property.
She isn’t a buyer, but a taker, seeks to devalue and snatch,
schemes and plots, bares her assets, flaunts, tempts, manipulates.
Infidelity alters landscape; years of upkeep, of building security, of good
household management slide to a precipice, to a reckoning.
The wife countersinks words to the taker: If you want what I have,
go build your own—don’t try to steal mine.
She shakes sawdust from her feet, and begins
to repair, wondering if restoration can ever be complete.

Tea and Tinker Toys

Her parents were quite adverse
to work, so not only was food scarce,
but there was no money to buy
toys. Instead of dolls or teddy bears, Lula played
with old pairs of stockings her mother had discarded
because of the runs she’d torn, while raging
on about this or that. Mostly, Lula sat
on the front porch and watched
the neighbor girl display
all kinds of kid fun as she set up
tea parties on her front lawn, or strolled
her plastic babies down the sidewalk.
This lucky girl had so many toys, the overflow was stored
in her father’s garage, which remained
open all the time, teasing
Lula as she sat outside - alone, longing…
One day, the neighbors piled into their blue Chevy and drove
away, not bothering to shut
their garage of wonders. Lula couldn’t stand
it any more and she quietly crept
across the patch of brown grass that separated
her broken-down home from its shiny sister and sneaked
into the small building that had tempted
her for far too long. She was stunned
at how many goodies were hiding
out in this place, and even though she knew
it was wrong, she grabbed whatever she could pick up quickly
and zoomed back to her house, where she crawled
into the space between her home and the ground. She spread out
the tea cup, two tinker toys, and a hobby horse she’d managed
to steal. With only two tinker pieces, she couldn’t build
anything, but she played tea party like this specialty drink was disappearing faster than segregation. She couldn’t ride the hobby horse while hiding
in an outside crawlspace, but she held it and stroked
its red mane and offered it her stolen cup, creating
a very small world of wonder, in the dirt.

He’d been in construction for years,
erecting impressive buildings
of concrete and steel
starting from nothing

Together, they built an empire,
beginning small, expanding slowly,
building a life, piece by piece
love, commitment, marriage, family

When the business went belly up
somehow, they survived
figured out together
how to begin again,
to rebuild from scratch.

For months after her death
he went about destroying
anthills and spider webs
just to watch them rebuild
hoping to remember how it was done

Be Mine

I constructed a valentine
card for you out of dark red

construction paper . A Heart-shaped,
one sided card— edge trimmed in white,

something close to lace. I wrote
"Be mine"— really wanting to write

Just "mine" because I thought
of you as such— mine! I should have

given it to you, should have done it
in the cafeteria when everyone else

would've been too busy eating to see
what red thing I was slipping under

your tray. Instead, I let February go
by, then March, then June was here

before I knew it. School out
for the summer. Wouldn't have made

much sense to give it to you then when
your mind was already on the McGarrah

girl and the way her summer shorts
inched up when she sat down on your stoop.

THE BLUEPRINT OF OUR MARRIAGE

We began with care, thoughtful
in our conversations over lunch,
words placed just so as we built
up to Friday night dinners, Saturday
movie dates, Sunday breakfasts.
Plans took shape. A sketch
of our first vacation was altered
to include rooms for the rest
of that summer. Then we poured
a foundation, constructed our futures
with skillfully crafted vows.
We invite the occasional lightning
strike, certain of our ability
to direct electricity to that place
where it creates life-giving heat.

This job
isn’t just
for any day laborer

The regulars
they line up tools
on the edge of the sink
with precision,
lean in with
critical eye

Laying foundation
is in the wrist

Too heavy
or indiscriminate,
you are left
in brittle mask,
kabuki with
unflattering tan

Too light
begets uneven
smudge,
certainly no place
to launch
1000 ships

Those on the job
long enough
look for the signature
in finish work

The rose of blush
arising from
cheek apples,
the lash that crests
like a tsunami
under impossibly
smoky lids

The pros
repeat the process daily,
show up bleary
leave bright eyed

No matter
they broke it all down,
soaped it all away
just the night before

Diva is in the details

What could I build?

A house?
The roof
would leak.

A car?
Square tires and
it won't start.

A fence?
The rabbits
would laugh

at my effort
on the way
to my garden.

I am fortunate
to live
in a world

of builders.
Their skill
is my luxury.

Autosuggestion

You are what you think
make sure your every thought is
strong, healthy, and whole

Manufacture

Your poured heart, with say in the design
tell them: reinforce sides, center,
concrete must set, withstanding:
catastrophe, quaking.
Rebar is crucial,
rise and fall of
surf’s pounding.
Molded
part.

He inspected my shifting foundation
said anchors would help-
checked my uneven footings
recommended more solid ground-
surveyed my surface structure
said less edge, more curve-
tested my interior layer
suggested insulation for warmth-
walked around my historic land
considered property well kept-
his permit's final note:
under re-construction--
handle her with care.

No Speeding In Construction Zones

No Speeding in a Construction Zone
I told him the fines were doubled
He liked that.
And he called me Ms. Constable
I peaked his interest
And told him there were dangerous curves ahead
He said he didn’t mind driving the speed limit
Unless of course, it did not matter
He felt like a child at play
But he was willing to obey my signals.

Visitor


It’s a rather odd Construction,
grey and shapeless on the floor
holding on with fearful suction
when I try to pull it free;
it’s expanding and contracting,
and almost interacting
with everyone who touches it—
except, it seems, with me.

It makes a hissing buzzing sound,
like bees are at the door,
but only when I’m not around.
(It thinks I cannot hear.)
It’s tried to irritate me,
annoy and aggravate me
by pretending to be comatose
whenever I am near.

I’ve heard an agonizing
and almost human groan
like some old mischief rising
from a low upholstered chair,
intent on some destruction—
but I couldn’t really tell
if it came from the Construction
or something else somewhere.

Plans are under way to shift my mode of being.
Taking my time to make it good, make it right,
is still bundled in the same small window
it took for Dad to die and for my brother and I
to make the drive back home again
to pack up the remainder of his life.

As I choose the 501c places that will get
God’s portion of my brother’s blessing,
shared because of close ties and Jesus Christ,
I can’t help but think of other families
where siblings fight over squatters’ rights
and go to court over beneficiary squabbles.

To travel across the country looking for a job
and a place to settle in for child rearing
seems countercultural when the breadwinner is
collecting unemployment for the ninth month in a row,
but this is how we will find the place where
my oldest son can go to school without trepidation.

This is the way we will fill the media gap,
telling people what things are really like
in all the places where they’ve never been
or can’t afford to vacation to--
places where the artists really are starving now
and even white collar workers are benefiting

from living in a country where as long as you
have an address to claim as your own,
identification to prove you are you,
and information about your release,
you can be well fed and try to get by
on what the rest of the world would call a fortune.

Home

If I ever build a house I'll paint it blue,
or green. Sea green. I'll build it beside a
river so it feels like I'm always moving.
I'll let ivy grow up the sides.
Two pink flamingos planted in the
front lawn to remind me to smile.
On second thought, no
flamingos. Yard statuary gives
the impression that I'm here to
stay.

Love under Construction


When we were young and hopeful
and well cared for by the love
of our parents, life was fun.

Life was quite eventful when we
played with our siblings board games
and we sometimes haven't won.


We were really well protected
by our parents' love and care,
there was love under construction
and love was everywhere.


Growing older sometimes grew resentful
because at times those who we fell for
didn't always love us back.

But life was still eventful when we
pursued with charm our loved ones
and sometimes lost our track.


We were really well connected
with those who gave us love and care,
there was love under construction
and love was everywhere.


When we grew up our house grew full,
we stood tall and cared when our loved
were making parents life hard fun.

Yes, life was quite eventful when we
played with our children board games
and they sometimes haven't won.


They were really well protected
by our parental love and care,
there was love under construction
and love was everywhere.


One day we weren't quite so careful
and hateful people who don't love and care
had constructed plans to subdue us, everyone.

Now life was really quite eventful when we
fought with all our might those enemies of man.
We didn't wanna loose THIS fight and won.


To keep really well protected
and to maintain our love and care,
make sure its love under construction
and love is everywhere.


© November 2009 by Martin Anthony Dorn

Cornerstone

Mem’ries set in motions of song blend as
From childhood on, snatches of rhythm
Catch the heart and lay indelible claim
To moments treasured in the hope they send us

Moments in time backed with storybook rhyme
Mom’s in the kitchen with Dinah strumming
Dad’s singing about the drummers drumming
Images in the mind’s eye playing with time

“Time marches on, time marches on;” singing
Makes mem’ries linger long after the song
A whisper of yesterdays so long gone
Wakened by bells of remembrance ringing

Young music rings within time, setting blocks
Of tunes filtering through an hourglass of sand
“You can’t build your house on the sandy land”
“The wise man built his house upon the rock”

“Oh, this rock is Jesus, yes, He’s the One” Reminiscent melodies build the faith
Keeping the soul in tune-amazing grace!
Return us in time to the Cornerstone.

Clod

They call me Golem and believe
that I have no verbs beyond “to be” and
“to have,” no reason, no mind, no heart for love.
But I have known of spreading
across the hot core of the world,
the seep of water into the veins
of my ore, the cold of the first cold air
as it carved my nostrils. I know the axis of
the world and can feel all the weight of
the dead child that I carry to the town square,
a silent plea for justice.

When He Turned Water into Wine
Was It Just Laziness?



Pruning shears are a must.
Also strong fences (a posthole
digger would be nice, otherwise
a shovel and a strong back to put them up.
Wire, the sturdy galvanized steel kind,
for vines to curl around, for ripe fruit
to hang from, a wire splicer and
fasteners, anchors, ratchets, springs,
spinning jenny, tamper and saw. All
this to build what eventually becomes
a place to taste the fruit of the vine,
a vineyard.

Our dream house

We searched the internet for our dream house
What we desired cost too much
So we settled on a fixer upper that we could afford
we a great view and potential

Our builder tore off the top floor
He added a master suite with a master bath and walk in closet
My husband got his media room
(it’s really just an office with three desk and a television
Not what we envisioned but it works.)
I sit on my large new front porch
and sip tea while I watch the birds
and write.
They've finished the construction
now we can’t afford to live
In our dream house anymore.

The housing bubble burst
And my husband lost his job
We’re searching the internet once again
For a fixer upper we can afford
And turn into
our dream house.

At Twilight

At twilight
She begins her work
Bulbous body, spindly legs
Spinning out the finest of threads
Intricately constructed
Into ever-changing patterns that
Catch the light but
Never truly reveal
The lady sitting
Patiently awaiting her prey

Tainted

They slathered me in it,
Parents, grandparents and scads
Of extended family piling on
A heavy base coat they believed a Titanic
Of unshakeable foundations.
Then each one added on
His or her own polish hue:
Navy blue Nana;
Grassy green Grandpa;
Magenta Mommy;
Sienna siblings;
Umber uncles;
Aubergine aunts;
Citrine cousins.
By the time they’d saturated
Me in the colors of their
Love, I’d ridden the rainbow
Spectrum to its gilded
Pot and back.
My top coating near dry yet
Still sticky, death brushed in and smudged
Their meticulous manicure.

Tom’s House

This is the house that Tom built
This is the timber frame that Tom used
Providing a high level of insulation
And energy efficiency
This is the roof made of Welsh slate
(Cheaper slates are available from Argentina
But the distance they would travel
Would enlarge Tom’s carbon footprint)
These are the walls externally clad with chestnut clapboard
Sustainable and indigenous
This is the wool insulation that Tom used
Four times the price of what is
Usually imported for New Zealand
These are the windows that Tom put in
Made of argon filled energy efficient solar glass units
This is the air source heat pump that operates in
Mush the same way as a fridge or a
Air conditioning unit – only in reverse.
Four times more efficient than the
Most efficient condensing boiler!
This is the multi fuel stove that Tom has installed
For eevery tree cut down he plants another
So the carbon released from the felled tree
Will be absorbed by another
This is the toilet that Tom installed
Collecting and harvesting rainwater
This is the wind turbines that will generate
Clean and renewable energy with
No harmful emissions and can help reduce
A significant proportion of the Tom’s CO2 emissions.
This is the award that Tom was given
For his Eco-friendly house
This is his wife standing beside him in the photo
She divorced him last year and lives
In a large semi detached bungalow in Leeds
Away from the rainwater toilet

On the art of building the building of art


Bartholomew Foggerty, the brilliant weasel
Was contemplating the canvas upon on his easel
He thought the time had come to crank
Up the tempo for the canvas was blank
He was in a quandary as to what to do
The gallery commission came out of the blue
Bartholomew had once painted a building
(No! Not from the floor up to the ceiling)
He’d painted a mural on an unused wall
Using a scaffold as he’s not very tall
Now he’d received a simple instruction
To paint the new gallery after construction
The building was finished and could be seen
From the outside, new shiny and clean
To avoid spending time out in the cold
After all he was now rather old
He’d taken photos as an aide memoir
And he’d been staring at them for over an hour
The architect had outdone himself
But had retired due to ill health
The building was of the finest he’d seen
But still the canvas remained new and clean
Next to the gallery stood an oak tree
And he thought: That’s a good place to start for me
So he painted the oak and then carried on
Painting the sky and bright yellow sun
Now in between I just have to fit
The gallery itself, bit by bit
He started as ever in the middle
And his elbow flew like playing a fiddle
He soon had reached the sides and the top
And decided that he should stop
He wanted to consider the lower half
Then of a sudden he began to laugh
Soon the bottom was complete
And with a tiny mural replete
The mural was signed B.F. (Weasel)
As was the canvas upon the easel
He stepped back and sighed out loud
Of this work he was quite proud
The painting was taken to its place of pride
In the gallery, just inside
The front door for all to see
Which filled his heart full of glee
Imagine his shock and even his shame
When the gallery held him to blame
For a mass of graffiti on the walls
Just where in the painting the mural falls
But unlike the mural this was not art
Nor was it commissioned by any part
Bart was summoned to change the painting
The gallery bosses were there waiting
So in place of the mural he painted a sign
“No graffiti or suffer a fine!”


Iain

SHORTEST CONSTRUCTION POEM EVER

Word by word
she builds her refuge
of lies.

My mother built her own cabin when she was 34
I guess I mean she bought the lumber, the nails, the shingles
And linoleum tiles. She bought a double sink of white porcelain
And her father put it all together just as he had their house back
In ’23 minus the heating ducts and plumbing.
My father, then fiancé, helped, mostly hammering the shingles
And laying the linoleum squares which, my mother would point out
To us twenty years later, still had tarry black adhesive coming up
In the cracks between. . Your father couldn’t nail a ruler straight,
I don’t know what made me think he could lay a floor.
I would like to hear more of the story of that summer of ‘57
When my parents smiled as they knelt next to one another
On the unfinished floor of the twenty by twenty foot cabin
Building a future together that seemed like shelter.

Cones, flags, and signs dot
the streets, a sign of never-
ending construction.

D.I.Y.

The plans were spread out on the deck
The day was bright and clear
I had the tools, I had the wood
What was there to fear?

“It’s just a shed,” I had brightly scoffed
To the man at the hardware store.
I waved my hand at his offer of help,
As I strode boldly out the door.

“I don’t need help,” I mumbled low
“To build a garden shed.
“I’ve bought a kit and I’ve got a brain,
“I could do this on my head.”

So I started in, on that fateful day,
To build a little shelter,
Somewhere to keep my gardening tools
Instead of just helter-skelter.

Before too long, it became quite clear
That something didn’t tally
The shed looked like might have been
Designed by Salvador Dali.

Two walls leaned east, a third more south
The fourth was a foot too short.
The floor heaved like a mountain range
It lacked a firm support.

The shed I built was not much use
It didn’t last ‘til spring.
Two feet of snow, one winter night.
collapsed the stupid thing.

November Poetry Challenge day ll Construction or deconstruction

Taking Down Christmas

Veterans’ Day and already my daughter is talking about
What lights she wants to wind around the palm trees,
And whether colored lights or white would be best.
I sigh because I know it’s the same old story.
Everyone wants to put Christmas up, decorate
The lovely but fake evergreen tree in the living room,
Or even make the run to one of the Christmas tree lots staffed
By trailer-living, scant-toothed, families from the Carolinas to buy
A ten foot high live blue spruce for our two story family room,
And everyone wants to place the shiny bulbs, tinsel, and years
Of accumulated special ornaments on the trees “just right,”
And they do. But, as I found out long ago, after Christmas is over,
No one, I mean no one, wants to strip the lights off the trees,
Outside and in, pack up the ornaments and give the live,
But really dead, tree its drag-to the-curb funeral.

Secrets Sealed

Men slick hot tar on top of Planned Parenthood
as they tidy up cracks for the winter.
I smell the stink from a block away
and wonder if it is my guilt.
At the clinic, above us the scrape
of the men and their work worries me.
Do they know what might be inside of me?

“Not Pregnant” reads the official report
as I am released into the tar-tainted
autumn day. My feet stick as the men laugh
and don’t see me.

Building Community

Gathering wheel barrows of sand, water and clay
Lashing wood and reeds to create walls and roofing
Laughter and song wrap around the workers
Like prayer shawls around the shoulders of believers
One by one, they come to help, to add their sweat
To join the small band of allies.
Slowly, trust is built – each smiling face adds
To the growing assemblage of Gogos, children and villagers
Slowly, the community center rises into the clear blue
African sky, testament to a people who have never
Forgotten how to open their hearts to others.

Tied Up in a Bow

Defying gravity, great swirls
Of pristine stainless steel
The colour of glacial ice
Freshly calved, then gathered
And wound in and around, over
And under, before seemingly
Hung magically, suspended
In mid-air, larger than life
Wide-grain ribbons
Tied up with glass and white
Enamel. Avant-garde art?
Almost.
The new entrance to the
Provincial Art Gallery.
Bravo

:Building castles:

Form your castle in the hollow
of your hand. Let the design soar,
come to bear, then sink your tongue
into the sand, taste the very tint
of its bare scope until you feel the deep
shape of sky wrenched from the belly
of your soul. Strike, loose the scale
of what heals the bend in the ocean,
let the sullen cloud tear and ache, and open
wide to mend the bulbous wound
with your own secret hue.

A Construction Poem about what it takes to make a poem.The sections should be side by side but the formatting changed when I entered the poem here.

Q&A: The Pastry Test or,
How to Construct A Poem


Q. What are the four basic ingredients of a pie crust?
A. flour/salt/shortening/water

Q. What are the four basic ingredients of a poem?
A. Beautiful words/ beautiful thoughts/ beautiful images/
beautiful writing

Q. What are the ingredients' functions in a pie?
A. tenderness/ flavor/ shortening power/ dampening

Q. What are the functions of all this beauty in a poem?
A. tenderness / flavor/ concision / control

Q. What do you do to a pie crust before you bake it?
A. Refrigerate it.

Q. What should you do to a poem before you finish it?
A. Take a cold hard look at it.

Q. What will make a pie crust brown?
A. too much heat, too much baking

Q. What will make a poem brown?
A. over thinking/ lack of feeling/ sentimentality

Q. How can you stop a pie crust from shrinking?
A. weigh the crust down, don’t stretch it

Q. How can you stop a poem from being pointless?
A. Have a real subject, keep it trim.

Q. Why do we cut holes in the top crust?
A. To let steam escape during so the pie won’t be soggy.

Q. Why should we leave white space in a poem?
A. To allow room for contemplation so ideas are not lost.

Become a Crane

Some people are the cranes,
Some are the bulldozers,
Crane people lift you up,
attaching self worth, esteem,
empathy, compassion,
Bulldozers tear you down,
ripping away all of the above,
so nothing is left
but your foundation,
hopefully it is made of
something strong,
impermeable,
you can always start over,
when another crane person
shows up on the doorstep,
The best idea however, is
to become a crane person yourself,
Then no wrecking ball can touch you.

ROADWORK

Road construction has begun
Seems the work is never done
It's on all the highways and byways
And fills up all the summer days.
A pothole here and a pothole there
Seems there are potholes everywhere
Fixing bridges, repaving roads
Trucks blocking the way with their heavy loads.
There's a line of cars behind you
There's a line of cars ahead too
Drivers are getting annoyed
And good will is definitely void.
There is road rage as fists appear
Honking horns and many sneers
"I'm late for work!"
As you look at the time
As yet fifty more cars join the line.
You know the work needs to be done
As you curse another hole (the hole won)
Get out to fix your flat tire (and find you don't have a spare)
Then you curse the men because of the road's non-repair.
The work being done is a necessary evil (it's true)
The workers are doing this for me and you
And we know this but we still complain
Why can't they do this without it being a pain?

Construction

Plane curling shades of meaning.
Sand rough edges.
Tighten conjunction bolts.
Rip-saw a window.
Put in pipes to carry
flavor, texture,
sound and sight.
Now savor the unpainted poem


Refinery at Curacao

Towers terrorize the sky-
flaming dragons-
drawing the wary eye,
sparking the weary mind
to wonder what evil
lurks below
spewing its fury
into the innocent air

Water soaked beaver
Gnawing down stately old trees
To form into dams.

construction poem
by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

a simple carpenter,
it took him awhile to draw up blueprints
in which to construct the perfect poem.
he wanted to tell her how he felt each
time she pulled up to the site in her F-350,
show her the redwood stains
in his close-grained heart.

there were nouns to fabricate
verbs to shape and define,
adverbs to backfill with
as well as pronouns to lay out
like stringers straight into his arms.
there were translations to consider
and interpretations to infer,
meanings and compositions to drive
like pilings into troubled waters.
there were sentence structures
to bevel and shim, and
punctuation marks yet to rough-in,
but with love, marine-grade
all the way, how could he lose?!

there was still the matter of a
bridge in disrepair if he were
going to even attempt to make it
all the way to her front porch.
i-beams here would prove costly
but might advance his plans
much further along than timber
in the end, so gritting teeth
and building codes be damned,
he budgeted it all in.

he knew he had his job cut out if
he were going to prove his rebar strong
enough to handle her bearing walls,
for he ached for more than just some
biscuit-joint relationship, and felt sure
she‘d never settle for less than soffits.
it’d take some planning,
it’d take some balls, but somehow
this simple carpenter would find
a way to prove to management
their lives, the perfect countersink.


© 2009 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder

Construction Destruction

To rebuild a future
Families are destroyed
One by one the rules were met
One by one the family’s dreams were spent
On the empire of scent.
One hand held sway iron soft
Crushing strength and as Matilda watched
Her dreams crumbled and she two put family
Always family first.
And the family crumbled under control
Left till the scent of roses and parrots
Were left at the table.

mkm

WOULDN'T IT BE BETTER

Why do we cherish
pebbles of hatred and resentment,
filling our pockets and
nurturing our hurts until
pebbles become boulders?

What makes us choose,
instead of releasing the
pain, to build a wall
with it,
comforting ourselves with
righteousness?

When do we realize
that we can't see
anything but the wall,
the fruit of years of construction,
and that we have
succeeded
in closing the world out
and ourselves in?

Wouldn't it be so much better
to use the pebbles
to make us laugh,
sending them skipping as if
across smooth water
and letting them sink
out of sight
while the ripples dissipate?

A Confusing Construction

Just one quantum of energy
can turn itself to any purpose
any of the myriad forms we know about
gases, liquids, solids, waves or spirits
you, me, him, her, them over there, us
anywhere in the known universe
so how does it know which form to make
if thinking is that every single quantum is the same
that potential to form different things
cannot come from within
and if everything is made of quanta
cannot come from without

Oh! I am a confusing construction
without some sort of ?od

One by one, the bricks are laid
As the skeleton of the building
Is revealed, like the bones
Found by archeologists

This room will hold a kitchen
Where big pots of porridge
Will be cooked by the women
Who watch the children run by

This room will be the classroom
A place of learning because
Education is power, a power
Too long denied those here

This room is for gathering
To talk about solutions to
The challenges faced daily
To listen to dreams and hopes

One by one, the bricks are laid
As the skeleton of the building
Grows, like the embryo
Found within life itself

Hearts Foundation

A firm foundation is needed from the start
To hold up the walls built to protect the heart
Choices made dictate
How the floor plan shall be laid
And from everyone you meet
Their gifts can be displayed
Construction nearly finished
But never truly done
Room can be made
Comfortably for more than one
Open the door with a grin
So love can move in

Word Walls

Use your poems
To escape and to heal
From the pain
Of your broken home.
The words and the tears,
Heartbreak and anger,
Store it all on the page.
Close the lid and move on.
Poem by poem,
Brick by brick,
Build a rocky fortress
To defend your soul
From the straight aimed
Arrows and darts.