Best Carvers Poems
Sand carvers paintings
engulfed in magic circles
mandala symbols
(My very first attempt at haiku)
Skeletal garden stalks rattle, shivering,
long leaved arms rustle in the wind,
bony fingers snap in rhythm
to October’s haunting song;
they gather as shadowy hillside wraiths,
spectral companions for Ichabod Crane.
Summer shudders,
scattering abundant harvest corn,
thick as hoar frost,
squirreled away in darkened dens by scurrying rodents,
tasty treats against winter’s frigid tricks.
Wet days drip from the eaves,
hardening in lengthening icy fingers
that pry slippery edges from shortening days.
The pumpkin fields,
beaten chocolate brownie cakes,
sweetened with light snow,
have surrendered fat orange fruits
to carvers’ knives for spicy pies and jack-o-lanterns.
Autumn bridges fire and ice,
a zesty-sweet season splice.
© September 15, 2015
The life in the wood will be revealed by the wood carver.
Chipped away with chisel and mallet; wood displays its secrets.
Wood carvers release the spirits trapped within the wood.
A Sitka Sunset
Mute wind chimes on the Totem Trail
Ring through purple mists in
Platinum testimony to evergreens adorned in dusk
And leftovers from raindrops splashing from totem beaks,
Cedar poles rise from dense fogs
Of myths and warriors and family lore
Shrouding thunderbirds in legends as day retreats.
Life cycles carved in family crests on tribal poles,
Guardians of the lodge with ancient ancestry
In pounding drums of blue-violet
Borrowed from aurora’s glistening breath -
Neon rose from realms of the faithful midnight sun.
Wide eyed, the trickster’s face looks
Upon long violet hours of summer nightfall,
A borealis golden glow on still waters
Recalls the carvers awl and plane
Tools that capture crystal enchantment
Like newborn waves from Orca’s fluke.
Eagle, bear and beaver, with sentient eyes,
Bathed in fragile rose of a waxing strawberry moon,
Follow long sunbeams wending through forest trails
In twilight colored prisms
For silent storytellers,
Prophetic voices chant through days of midnight
And frail twilights
On the Totem’s Trail as sunset rises.
5-24-23
Contest: Sitka Alaska Sunset
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
In Alaskan folktales the Raven is the trickster
Thunderbirds, bears, orcas, beavers, eagles are prominent on totem poles made of cedar.
In Sitka there is a park displaying totem poles.
If you have a dragon, a great furnace he makes.
belching his fire can heat your entire place.
But, there is one problem, non initially foreseen;
you see dragons, like people, have their own dreams.
We’ve hired a new dragon and now I will tell,
the story of a dragon, who did very well.
So well in fact, that fame took him away
and we were left freezing, on a very cold day.
Most dragons hibernate in warm weather, you see;
but ours was an insomniac; he just couldn’t sleep.
Dreams of grandeur kept him awake;
his imagination soared; his ideas were just great.
He asked for his own blank journal and pen;
he filled it up quickly and asked us again, to
provide him with another and in them he stored,
hundreds of poems and sketches galore.
One day I went downstairs and imagine my shock;
he had hammer and chisel and was carving a rock!
He smiled as he chiseled and then moved away
and I’d been immortalized in marble, that day.
Oh he was so proud; his smile how it beamed
and he asked if I’d get him a bowl of ice cream.
He’d worked up a sweat, as stone carvers do
and then he asked if we had any nail glue.
He’d broken some claws while carving his rock;
Fortunately, we had our supply fully stocked.
He was patched up and really enjoyed his ice cream;
into his journal he recorded more things.
He filled volumes of journals and more
and then made notes on our walls and even on doors.
Well, we just couldn’t keep it all quiet, you see;
so the media got wind of his talent and dreams.
They camped on our lawn and he gave interviews;
would you believe it, the next thing we knew was that,
he could also sing and play guitar; had offers from producers
and publishers; someone gave him a car!
It was pretty clear he’d not be held back;
he gave us his car and went in to pack.
A limo was waiting to drive him away;
we all shed huge tears during that long, last day.
He referred an old friend for our heating needs
and headed for Hollywood; big producers to see.
Well, that was that, we felt he’d moved on,
but we soon discovered that we were wrong.
To be Continued...
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
A blue sky meant a sunny day.
Our eyes with merry would dance
Thinking of another day in a cave;
A fascinating world compared
To the insipid one we lived.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
A team of young spirited we were
Roam and explore deeper the
Womb of Mother Nature, we dare.
Our first project we mounted
Which “Save the caves” we called.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
First time my knees were jelly,
On sight of a dark gaping mouth
Waiting in the bush to engulf life.
Turned back I did to run as fast.
But mates pulled me back, by force.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
Romance in the air, stories got weaved;
Studying life of cave swiftlet was it,
Identifying fauna and flora was it,
Paint flowed, guitars vibrated, cameras clicked
Whilst meeting were some hearts in secret.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
The dark deep tunnel getting darker
And the mud stickier; all excited we were.
Droplets, ice cold, poked our faces
From fissures in rocky roof, craftwork
Of nature’s carvers; fascinated we gazed.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
The caves’ beauty we set to restore;
Scraps in loads we met, grotesque
Craftwork of human; underground water
We met, smelling of chemical pungent.
Awaken did we, the sleeping authorities.
One day our mission was accomplished
And the caves found back their beauty.
5/08/16
Contest: Caves
(We worked on "Saves the caves" project in 1992 and were offered a shield in recognition - I dedicate this poem to all friends who made it a success)
CHOP SHOP
The Villages at Carver ate
Four tires and a steering wheel
Their hunger pangs would not abate
So they acquired plans to steal
A screwdriver
And a wrench too
A steel hammer
Golf carts unscrew
The Villages at Carver hide
Its many parts in a chop shop
As golfers exercise their stride
Wiping balled sweat until they drop
On dapper lawn
For evil’s spawned
From dusk to dawn
Behind closed doors
The Villages at Carver search
For splintered wood and tools of trade
Amidst the oak and pine and birch
The hidden door reveals a blade
Village gone mad
Carvers past sad
Pitchforks take stand
Revenge at last
The Villages at Carver mass
Drawing a crowd to view a home
Overlooking manicured grass
A course with four golf wheels and chrome
6/27/2017
To make his jack-o-lantern,
My husband wields a knife
And carves a slightly scary face
To make it come to life.
It isn’t sketched or plotted;
Just some time is all he needs
And before he’s even finished,
I have roasted all the seeds.
My son’s approach is different
For the face is deftly planned,
The features poked out gently
With some special tools at hand.
And his jack-o-lantern’s friendly
Since his kids are 3 and 1;
But both pumpkins were terrific,
With both carvers having fun.
Though my husband’s has a candle
And my son’s a phony flame,
Each will flicker Halloween-like
To the family’s great acclaim.
The life in the wood will be revealed by the wood carver.
Chipped away with chisel and mallet; wood displays its secrets.
Wood carvers release the spirits trapped within the wood.
The nobility, the priesthood,
The common, the slaves
A life's journey fixed,
Elected for life or
Passed from father to son.
Omens, divinations,
Predictions, reading future
They were skilled mathematicians,
Historians, keepers of knowledge
Recorded details in codices.
Books of fig bark paper
Mayans wrote, kept count
Of Sun's path, tracked Venus
With surprising Accuracy,
Marked zenith twined with beliefs
Hard workers ate well,
Worshiped their many gods
In willing exuberance
Artisans, carvers,
Traded true, cities grew
Peaceful obsidian warriors
Extravagant kings and queens
Fell to their own intelligence
Wrath of gods unfurled red-carpet
For death and destruction
Nothing to eat, nothing to carve,
Nothing to record, nothing to trade,
Nothing to fight, none left to please god
Nothing to sacrifice, simply collapsed.
They weren't spared, would we be?
With chisels, carvers
Chip away bits and pieces
Sinewy fibre;
What emerges from the wood
Is the essence of its soul.
Thanks to the poets who love my words
Meaning in their eggs fly like birds
The snake may suckle slurping in delight
But give them time to be feathered by light
We brotherhood carvers in the tongue
Let your muse break joy this time to live among
The unslithered past of printed page
Lying against the shell of rage.
I sing truth, and truth is my balm in the night
Long after honor has winged her flight
Away from the rough cliffs of barren minds
We poet will be the pole star of all true sign.
A thousand fair suitors all stab at your heart,
those poets of movement and jockeys of art.
The high-volume vendors who hustle romance,
splashing their canvas with color and dance.
The blasters of trumpets, gold banners unfurled,
they offer lush gardens in glistening worlds;
yes, bearers of torches and carvers of stone
who whisper their sonnets and surrender their thrones.
There in your doorway, no shadow is cast,
no lingering voices, no ghosts from the past.
Just a cluster of walls and a window of pain
collecting the heartaches like droplets of rain.
Still I stand before you with palms to the sky,
no gold in my pocket, no position high;
and all I can offer where words have no place
is a heart that is true and this love that awaits.
Why would one ask,
If the carving of a mask
Is, indeed, a task
When to simply this question ask
Is itself a task?
Mask carvers in their job bask,
Their wine glasses beside a cask,
Their African salad in their flask,
Their own faces a beatific Mask…
Sweet styles of reducing the heat
From a long sitting on a seat,
A surer method of catching ones breath
Man’s enacting of the lion’s stealth.
A declaration of love etches
itself deep into a bed of soft sandstone.
The kind that's hastily scratched on
with nothing more than a stone
found on the nearby ground.
The letters are shaky, imperfect
but the heart that binds them is true.
Some initials are old, some much younger
yet all possess the flair of emotion that their carvers had.
Inevitably, they will be washed away
by wind or by water, nothing lasts,
not even the wall which they are etched onto
but in the moment, there was love.