Nwt Womens
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This poem is part of a series where I go on at short length with regards to logging in the Pacific North West, even involving a heap of aficionados of the Civil Rights Movement. I also talk when it comes to parenting and diverse other subjects, as I like to write regarding a wide potpourri of topics, fictive and non fictive. Please read and enjoy. In order to keep following the dictates of your sacred Working souls in chaos order – keeps the cash flow Through credit banks – and it must go ever forward As concentration camps are history not always aborted, The Northwest Territories are new, strange raw lands. I shake – reflect upon what this – aging peccary thence demands. I saw someone go up there with fourteen giant rusty chainsaws, People who take down trees through inebriation of concentration, And you know, if I could be up above, that is precisely what I’d do. Logging, logging, and eating feed in an unearthly paradise of Green distraction, constantly chanting, Move Forward, and Cut. As timber falls down, we listen silver wolves howling on the Horizon, There is a fallen once snowy mountain, and Dear God, there is it, The mountains with snow aplenty waiting to be climbed and loved, By overgrown boys who need recompense and work and a great deal of few girls, Driving trucks and taking all the work out from the Mexicans Who need to be driving oh gosh they’re already up there, spewing Coffee from brown hands and curling around the fingers of time. I can’t do all forms of work, as no one else ever can, too, and I Still long for the Life of Reilly – camping around the trees line! There is no more pretty smell for an instant than Evergreen, A smell worth the blades runs of crashing timber rapidly and without delay than I; Keep up with the men and boys and women, and log down dust. But now I may only craft the ripe fruits of poetry, sap and rust. |
