Mark Heathcote

Gold Star - 28,719 Points (22/03/66 / Manchester)

The Carpenter's Hands - Poem by Mark Heathcote

The carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
He carves & smooth's it to fit a tawdry groove
A dovetail joint he shares with you. And, you approve.

But still you complain his soul; it has a splintered-
Stairwell, where nothing ever is newly charted.
You say he gazes with knotted eyes spiralling outward
Into a space of stars, sawdust sutured.

His carpenter's hands are bleeding blood
His forefathers' arms cradled in a love-of-dust
He is now at a distance from the sharp end of the plane.
If only he could, uproot, uncouple one carriage of this thought train
Derail the distance in that discontentment, love, once again.

But still you complain; his work has no honesty?
Or shame, she cries like a gull, whose ocean has no-sea-wave.
His hearts a house made of sandalwood
Is but flotsam; is but some malnourished driftwood.

A splintered
-stairwell, where-nothing-ever is ever newly sculptured.

Topic(s) of this poem: poem

Comments about The Carpenter's Hands by Mark Heathcote

  • Akhtar Jawad (8/17/2015 6:28:00 AM)

    A nice poem, it touched the heart................................. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Poem Edited: Sunday, January 21, 2018

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