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Hammer down, hammer down The clang and thunder all around. The man of words at a lost to say That this work kills him each day. It’s the proud man who doesn’t want to work, A duty none can ever hope to shirk. I’m a poet not a carpenter. But I still am a provider. To myself and some close by. And if I didn’t work well I’d have to lie, About who I am and what I believe, So I will until day turns to the eve. I feel the dust in my throat, Sawdust and dirt cover me a coat, A layer of effort and the toil. My hands blackened by motor oil. I can taste the dirt, feel particles on my teeth, Dropped my hammer on my head, just grief. I’m a poet not a carpenter. Throbbing pain sits on the edge of my spine, Shocked through feet to my head, As I hammer the boards of pine, Dragging my muscles harden to lead. Trigger ready on the nail gun Turns out shards fly back at you Hey no one ever said work would be fun, But it’ll take some getting used to. Don’t worry you’ll toughen up Crafter of words, now be a crafter of wood Shaking on the ladder you’re like a lil’ pup You’ll get better with time but hurry if you could. I’m a poet not a carpenter. The splinter stabbed into me on the side Of my finger, there was no blood only burning. It was big enough to see and so I tried To pull it out, pinching and turning My limb all about I couldn’t get it. So I work on with my friend Woody. You can keep going if you hurt a bit Would be different if I was all bloody? Regardless I can’t seem to grip The tools with my spiked hand Using my teeth I found I could rip, The splinter out where I stand. I’m a poet and a carpenter. But my hands have yet hardened Against the daily abrasive duty Cuts crack the surface skin Oozing blood, congealing thickly. Blobs dot across palm and nail Red lines stream on falange Grabbing water for my lunch pail I find some way to manage. Blood drips on to the steel The hardware I must drill down Blood, sweat and steel, and I feel That I can understand being proud. I am not just a poet or carpenter. Life is trail made by each their own. The curves and bends are mystery and a gift. For then path sees much more, the more than know. Finding your way through, the living soul be uplift. I am not a poet, I am not a carpenter, nor am I only man. I am, a being, a process of life Becoming in my lifespan.