Best Carve Poems
The darkness has passed and the morning has come
The birds sing hello to the day
But you lay there'til you and the pain become one
Willing all but your sorrow away
.
What happened the girl full of wonder and awe
Who dared steal your thunder away
Who took all the dreams and the visions you saw
And coloured them empty and grey
.
Don't let your tomorrows
be written in stone
The past has a will of its own
See through the lies all the clear crystal skies
And the future's not written in stone
.
You've given me hope and a chance to believe
And the wonderof living again
The Stars hurt my eyes now the darkness can grieve
For the loss of one more of its friends
.
The reason's been blowing too long in the wind
The answers too vague to define
We've all had a past and all sinners have sinned
Your sorrow's as ageless as time
.
Don't let your tomorrows
Be written in stone
The past has a will of its own
See through the lies all the clear crystal skies
And the futures not written in stone
A graveyard stands upon the hill;
its tombstones smoothed beneath the tide
of nature's forces beating hard;
I pass and hear the buried cry.
"Reverse the trend, relentless grown,
that would erase our names for aye;
for who grants thought to silent stones
and corpses claimed in nameless graves?
We yet would speak, if you inquire,
if you draw near with ear and heart .
We speak of dreams left unfulfilled;
we sing our song which but in part
was heard before our souls were claimed.
Oh, who will hear what we would tell
with our last link with life consumed,
when dust with dust is mingled well?
We have a vision unattained
by you who still are flesh and bone;
if you our secrets wish to shard,
dare carve us deeper in the stone."
©Faye Lanham Gibson, 1987
This poem was inspired by a very old cemetery behind my home.
The tombstones were worn so badly that the names could hardly
be discerned.
Shortening my breath everyday
Ease, don't carve me into stone
I'm not quiet ready
These insecurities in me,
I swear there killing me
So please don't judge me
Just give me a minute
Time to reflect
On the things I've done
All I regret
Please don't set me into this mould yet
I see this eternity as a catastrophe
A never ending cycle of hurt
Constantly seeking me out
Chipping away at my head, pulling at my scalp
Ease, don't carve me into stone I beg
I'm not sure if I can do it
Loose myself to something as this
I felt the flutter
A butterfly under the skin
This decision will determine everything
But a life as this in my hands
With all the bad things I 've done
How can I decide the fate of a human
As I'll never be particular in weather
you should have tea for breakfast or cider
Eating pudding before your food hasn't been a problem for me
I have no right in saying what's best for this life
I'm a dribbling mess most of the time
Why do people not take these things into consideration
before reproducing
This act could determine all of eternity
Like a spider web deciding how many birds will hatch
Everything is connected
This child could be, when it's grown inside of me
The balance between good and evil
As thoughts of responsibility consume me
And motherhood looms
Ease don't carve me into stone
Don't know if I'll make it alone
I sat on the vine way up high
What a beautiful day I sigh
Soon came Farmer’s wife
With a carving knife
Now I’m a spicy pumpkin pie
If I knew how to carve a scrimshaw
I would carve the world’s prettiest scene
I would carve out a catfish jumping out of a lake
After I carved a frog sitting on a lily pad
I would carve one on a dinosaur’s bone
And the other on a whale’s tooth
If he would let me
There once was a pumpkin named Jack
Who left home and never looked back
He faced a great harm
Once leaving the farm
Now fights off the Carver’s attack
I sat serenely on the vine
The sun on my rind sublime
Came the farmer’s wife
with a carving knife
I’ll nevermore feel the sun shine
MASTER ARTIST
What an artist uses to shape and smooth his sculpture
Is what God will use to mold and carve our character
The artist takes his time to design or pattern perfectly
So in the end a splendid replica we see
Man can never be his shining best unless
His Master's hands guide him to complete success
And since our bodies, minds and hearts are His
We can expect the very best there is
So let our Creator make you sound and right
For you are precious in His holy sight
The resulting replica is bound to be
A special prize that will last eternally
Copyright, Kathryn Search
She was a little toddler,
Rotund with baby flesh,
All over,
Eyes shining in anticipation and excitement,
She was the one I had,
Her mother had died in child birth years ago,
My little one was reared in my manly care,
Though it was at best bare,
Leaving me sad,
All that I saw since was red,
And felt less good than bad,
I often lay morose and down,
I lit up only when she was shown,
Often it was she who came to my bed,
Caressing me with those little palms,
Rubbing those ruddy cheeks against mine hot ones,
Looking deep in her blue eyes,
Made me feel that I had deep sea dive with a sigh,
All days were alike for me-sad and forlorn,
But she was discovering and frolicking like a latest born,
Today she came,
While I was still mentally lame,
She had a secretive look,
As if she had something on brook,
She coyly smiled,
Lighting me for a little while,
And left, yes simply left,
She would come to me every fifteen minutes,
But now she was gone for an hour,
I weakly lifted and walked to her room,
There it all looked mire than ever in need of broom,
There she was in a corner on the carpet,
With pumpkin flesh all over the floor,
And on her face, hands, legs as if in a messy gore,
She had a knife in her hand,
And she was stooping on a murdered pumpkin,
As I called her she looked up,
She had long forgotten about her sup,
Her eyes met mine,
An energy flashed into me,
Her innocence and joi de vivre went up livid,
And I could remember this day quite vivid,
It was this day years ago when her mother had flown,
Leaving my baby and me on my own,
But now the mother came alive in her baby,
And was saying ,"dead I may be",
Rise up and make her life,
Look at her preen,
And help her carve for Halloween.
The ground is hard, the day is long;
The earth unyielding, the spade no prong:
The laborer sweats,
His brow heaves a sigh;
The Heavens shimmer,
Dressed in parched skies.
Dreams are raw, open blisters;
His back near breaks as he twists her.
To carve a Temple
From unhewn Rock,
Flesh needs Defy
Fate's cruel Clock.
Free the spirit from the stone and the wood.
With chisel and mallet carve
whatever it tells you.
Stiff wings
Of the sooty tern
Carve the edge of this corral sea
Then, you free fall but never touching land
Glide, tumble and soar above the white sand
Still, your wings carved the sea
i could use
some wood
right now to
whittle and
carve
a rugged, slow
carve
one i know well
one you taught me
a couple springs ago
we were carving away
at lust
at seduction
which led
to love
we both thought
of stopping
and stared at the
mess we made
of each other
you looked bad
said i carved into
something no one
else ever
found
but i looked
far worse
most of me was carved
away
you went down to dust
i think you
liked it though
you said it reminded you
of sand
of wind
of nothingness
of freedom
and
of running
away
I hear the alarm and I think what? Not already! I have been up and down all night.
My usual pattern, I am used to it in many ways, because nighttime is my quiet, creative, thinking time.
I started fully enjoying the middle of the night when my children were small,
because it was the only time I could carve out for myself.
When they were freshly stork-deposited, I woke at every creak, peep, gurgle, and cough.
A whisper had me imagining a giant bull snake slithering toward the nursery.
I would swiftly be outside their door, turning the knob with the slowness
Of wallpaper breathing, and I could hear that too.
I would tiptoe in, trying not to wake them
And watch them sleeping with their
Darling little mouths, agape, drool
Spilling onto their lamb-designed sheets.
Now they are grown, and the grandchildren
Do not visit during the week so this is not
My three a.m. reason for being awake.
Like a jumping jack ma, I jump up at three,
Almost every night, thinking perhaps the
quiet of the house has awakened me.
Listening, but hearing nothing else,
It is the only guess I have.
Nothing can be done about this.
My body has convinced my brain
that three a.m. has always been the best time for me.
So here I am, awake, pen ready, staring at a lined page.
Ready to start.
I glance at the clock.
It is not three.
It is two.
WHAT?
They sat one across from the other
Neither could move closer nor further
She winked at Jack
And he winked back
Their unrequited love asunder