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?


Nine days rain

It rained for a day and it was fine,

One day to sleep all day like a swine.

It rained for two and that was okay

I had enough to read to keep the boredom away.

It rained for a week and I got upset

No work, no sport, my body would fret.

I would pace around the house very agitated.

“There’s work to be done, a week we’ve waited!”

After nine days, the sun came out,

Little was I to know, to signal a drought.

I ran out like a happy little goat

Grabbed my axe and unfastened my coat.

Swung the axe over my thick head

Winding up to strike, well-fueled and fed,

I chopped on a log and became fully soaked,

Especially now, having de-cloaked.

For nine days, the wood had drunk

And took its revenge when the axe-blade sunk.

Logs don’t laugh, but they do grin,

On the expense of this small Finn.

Wooden valentine’s heart

This valentine’s heart is made with love,

A chainsaw, axe, and loads of sweat.

The wood felt the same as I do with you,

Cold metal teeth biting, imminent threat.

As I worked, my mind was on your beauty,

And what to make for dinner, lentils or beans.

I hoped it would please you dearly, my love,

I don’t want to buy something beyond my means.

I hope you place it on the shelf as it deserves,

So I have an edge whenever we fight.

My wooden head like this heart can’t know,

But in my heart I know this is right.

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.

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.