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?

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Chopping block

We’re all waiting for our turn on the block,

My family is gone and I can hear the clock.

The executioner chops us up one by one

We’re waiting in a pile, burned by the sun.

We scream for mercy but the hangman can’t hear

The pitch of our screams too high for his ear.

I see an opening and I flee, I flee!

Stumble on the bodies of the mass around me.

The hangman sees me and chooses me next

I can’t resist, it’s like I were hexed.

Sets me on the block, prepares his ax,

I pass out and my body does relax.

The hangman chops and I am no more,

Next one to the block, an endless chore.

 

In the head of the hangman at that time:

“Oak is hard, my ax is past its prime.”

 

One gets funny ideas when chopping firewood, as there’s quite a lot of time to think while axing stuff.

Timber florist

Stealing wood from the government forest,

Feeling like a timber florist.

In the middle of nowhere with no one to see

I won’t be caught when I work like a bee.

Hey Mr. Oak, meet Mr. Chainsaw.

He’s a nice guy with only one flaw.

He’ll cut you up into pieces by the foot

Later: meet Mr. Oven, turn into soot.

Stealing wood from government land,

So I won’t freeze my toe or hand

When I sit one the sofa in March,

Under my roof, an oaken arch.

An oaky ok

Trees are pretty fun and diverse in the activities they can perform.

 

If a tree says yes to what you say

Can you call it an okay ok?

 

If it rolls away when you take it to church

Can you call that a birchy lurch?

 

If it adds up all the way until nine

Can you call it a piney plus sign?

 

If it bleeds a delicious mousse?

Can you call it a sprucey juice?

 

If it’s chopped into very fine hash

Can you call it an ashy mash?

 

If it takes wing and gets all airy

Can you call it a cherry fairy?

 

If it protects your head from the realm

Can you call it an elmy helm?

 

If it starts to sing like one with fur

Can you call it a fir-y purr.

 

If it pretends to do work that’s vicar-y

Can you call that hickory trickery?

 

If it’s routine food since the times papal

Can you call it a maple staple?

 

If it’s the one that is the first feeder.

Can you call it the cedar leader?

 

If it thinks that trolls are jolly

Can you call that a holly folly?

 

If all it ever does is nothing but do good

Can you call it a redwood Robin Hood?

 

If it’s under the head of a cute armadillo

Can you call it a willowy pillow?

 

If it’s made to stuff that you can chew

Can you call it a tasty yew stew?