Woodillac

My shed is equipped with tools and power,

My secret, personal hickory tower.

I’m there more than unconscious in bed,

Creating with my hands is my mental bread.

Converting branches into spatulas and spoons,

Stumps into chairs with inlays of moons.

I listen to the wood, it tells me what to do,

Or at least gives me an opaque, grainy clue.

Sometimes simple, like a spatula from birch,

Or a bit harder, an oaken observatory perch.

This last project, though, it got me confused,

When racking my brain, I think it got bruised.

A car you can drive? Excuse me P. O. Wood?

Shouldn’t it be metal? I think it should.

But it couldn’t hurt, and I like the work,

Now I have a car but I’m going berserk.

I have to decide on how to name the bloody thing.

Woodillac? R.M.S. Teak-tanic. The Oax-wing?

Hickory trickery

I bought what I thought was a chair.

Beautiful hickory, exquisite and rare.

The man who sold it, Fleet-Foot Sal,

Next to the factory by the canal.

Sal said it was made by his very own dad,

Who, I heard, went just a bit mad.

I took the chair home as a proud owner,

Admired its luster and down-to-earth toner.

Preparing to use it for the first time,

I baked oat cookies with a hint of lime.

While I was busy, kneading away,

The chair stirred slightly, let out a neigh,

Escope through the window without a trace,

While I was busy, stuffing my face.

Half of the dough made it into the oven,

And while they were there roasting in their coven,

Anticipating, I went back,

Saw what happened, let out a small quack.

So that’s what they meant with a crazy carpenter,

Shouldn’t have trusted the Cheat You Center.

Oh my sweet thing, my pretty hickory,

I was caught by Sal’s standard trickery.

Lionel Hammer

I bet lions would make great carpenters if you could get them to concentrate.

 

Lionel hammer is a carpenter and he’s mostly made of lion.

When he does his carpentry, he measures every ion.

Lionel doesn’t need a saw or a carpenter’s knife.

He has his claws so apical, he has used them his whole life.

Any image intricate, any shape or form,

Lionel does it quick and well, and well above the norm.

Hammer is all he requires, and perhaps some nails.

Seeing one, you would agree, gods live in his works’ details.

The kids like Lionel quite a bit, the sawdust in his mane.

It makes him fuzzier than before when he uses a plane.

He uses his tail to hold the planks however he requires

Or like a tool belt on his back, it can hold a pair of pliers.

Lionel has a special day for his friends and closest kin.

A little show for everyone to make them gasp and grin.

He has a tree that he’s picked out and cut off every branch,

Peeled the bark and left it up somewhere on his ranch.

The crowd comes round the chosen tree, Lionel takes off his vest

He climbs up and finds the top the tree hugging his chest.

He dances down with his claws while scratching all the way.

Shaping wood and making art with a splinter spray.

At first it took some hours for him to finish the whole log,

Nowadays it take three winks, it’s not even a slog.

When he’s done, they have a pole with a stunning scene:

It’s the sea with coral reefs, a shark and a sardine.

The log is felled and given to whoever most desires,

As long as it’s used for something else than feeding blazes, fires.

Lionel thinks it’s just great fun, the fruit is also pretty.

He dons his vest and walks back home while humming a short ditty.